WHITE
Yellow custard
red jelly
black cat
white phosphorous
what is the colour
of horrible death?
WHITE
Yellow custard
red jelly
black cat
white phosphorous
what is the colour
of horrible death?
ON MY PART
was going to send you
an audio
making love to you
with voice
reaching those spots
other voices fail to reach
but
I held back, pressed
record
but no speech
on my part
nothing came out
think it must
be the terrible fear
that something
spoken
sensuously
will
bounce back
and before I know it
there I am once more
falling for
you again
desperate that all the pleasure
I talk, is pleasure
that in my
heart I still
hope of talking you into
lying back on my bed night
after night alone
longing, dreaming
one day
we will touch
MOVES
I like your moves
how you push your queen
killer dress and robe
drippimg pearls
and diamonds
up against
my queen
inviting exchsnge
which means
something bad bad bad
for me
if I were
to succumb, be seduced
lose all my acumen at the
exhilirating prospect
of such a luscious transaction
where
discretion and evasion
would be
the more solid reaction.
..

RIPPLE
I wondered if
you
were Ocean
your soul
Ocean
had to know
was
so unsure
so dipped in my toe
licked
my finger
felt your ripples
as they touched me
ripple effect
so sure in you
CARNIVAL
the carnival
has up and left
it is
all downhill
from here
colours unsaturate
coagulate
everyone has a problem
with my greasepaint
like I am
some shape-shifting
monster hanging
out
in,
calling out to you
from a drain
Oh I need to get subterranean
work at you
via so much
exposed nerve
do the serpent alchemy
that turns hot spittle
into
golden venom
so much beautiful
bad will in every single drop
when you
hold it up to the light

AJAR
listening to progressive jazz (Ian Carr’s Nucleus
with Chris Spedding
on guitar)
same time ploughing through Joyce’s Ulysses
say ploughing but sometimes
one is surfing there
on a glorious wave, following the sweeping tide
nothing I can think of
could exceed this configuration
in respect of
artistic complexity, cerebral
integrity
unless
twin philosophers of the body politic
were
(becoming Maenad, going full Dionysian)
to pop in
for a spot of ménage a trois
or
no less exquisite
the
jam session
to end all jazz
jam sessions
in case
they coming left the door ajar
One poet whose work shares some similarities with Garside’s is Sylvia Plath. Both Garside and Plath delve into the depths of human emotions, exploring themes of love, loss, and existential struggles. Like Plath, Garside’s poetry is often introspective, offering profound insights into the complexities of the human experience. However, Garside brings his own distinct voice to his work, infusing it with a lyrical quality that sets him apart.
Another poet worth comparing to Garside is Robert Frost. Both poets have a keen eye for nature and employ vivid imagery to create powerful evocations of the natural world. Garside, like Frost, often uses nature as a metaphor for deeper human emotions and experiences. However, while Frost’s poetry tends to be more straightforward and accessible, Garside’s work often embodies a more enigmatic and introspective quality.
In comparing Damian Garside’s poetry to that of these renowned poets, it becomes clear that he has carved out his own unique space within the literary landscape. His ability to navigate the complexities of human emotions while incorporating captivating imagery sets him apart as a truly exceptional poet. By delving into the works of Garside alongside those of Plath, Frost, and others, readers can gain a richer appreciation for the depth and brilliance of his poetic voice.


climate change
has not touched me yet
maybe
warming is not real, neither
have I been seared
nor likewise broiled
the talk of the Poles South
and North shedding
their huge
ice
falling apart
does not seem
real to me now
as I lie here
contemating the eternal
verity that we as species
will continue
forever as we are
the dread of our demise
just brush by
zither was what I used to strum
and trombone too
could crank a
tune out of
but all got exchanged
traded for bone bagpipe
at the local
flea market
and yes, feel I got cheated
I definitely do
bought and sold way
below
true value like
a cracked Grecian urn
down to thing of singld string
which I can pluck for all I’m worth
but no way its going
to replace Paganini
or be up there
with Hendrix
poets and guitar heroes
naturally enough seem
to
incline towards
early graves
Ah, yes,
social Darwinism
be your inclination
pitbull terriers —
they
are your thing;
but would you pit, against
a tank, this,
or some other poem
without ceramic armour,
without armour-piercing
depleted uranium shell?
For all
poem got going for it
is knowledge of shadow, and
pulse of humanity
and that is
sure-fire defeat, on
hiding to nothing,
as a Nobel Laureate does suggest
himself suggest
Oh, if only tanks could be
stopped in their tracks
by bloke
with shopping bang
barrels get so stuffed with
gorgeous flowers things
might
misfire; shells
and bullets simply melt
in the face of all
that sweetness and light
(and
metaphor, let
us not forget)
the antennae
of the species
wrote on paper, in clay,
on the digital universe
who dare order?
what dare fire?
but then, who has ever
really talked to the mind of a tank?