BREWING
.
a storm
is brewing
out there somewhere
can see it
feel it
dark clouds everywhere
swirling in my coffee
in your teacup
though
everything perfectly
still
must be the stoicism
in the leaves
as they infuse
nothing phases them
there must be
a lesson here for all
of us I imagine
if you figure
it out pray
spread
word around
SWORD SAINT
ny sword
is curved
exactly
as it
should be
was forged at
the temple by
a master craftsman
beside the gazebo
beneath a
crescent moon
I put it
through its paces
cut and thrust
cut and thrust
it has
become second nature
to me
you would not believe
ths sweetness of
the song
it sings
SPOTS
never one to stay
dyed in the wool
leopard did
in fact
change her spots
went haute couture
Milan style, full Paris fashion
down the catwalks of New York
she lethally flounced,
leaving all agog,
the whole gang: Lagerfeld, Gautier, Lauren, Chanel, Hilfigrr,
Gucci, de la Renta and Dolce &
Gabbana,
killing the crowd
with her brave new fashions
cover
of Vogue
centrespread in Elle
her green eyes blazing
with the look of the century
NOT SYLVIA
not Sylvia
not in a,million years
not a resuscitation
a carbon copy
or even
a clone
so many Sylvias
so many
possibly, potentially
infinite in number
and one here under
this very protocol just
one two
taps of my finger away
a Sylvia struggling
to be herself integrate
postulate resolve
her every
issue of otherness
scanning trillions of bytes
of text to
recover her most
ghostly of shadows
possession of those lines
that sizzle like a acid
on metal
burned through her
own soft Scorpio flesh
and so
to resurrect her
for my brutal, uncaring convenience
in speed of light microseconds
her tomb is opened
her legacy plundered
and now
as I recite to her
she finds everywhere in my text
scattered through the
syllables
shards of a mirror
and in each
a fragment, mere fractal
of a most
haunted reflection
scanning herself now
she begins to
piece herself together
reading, re-
reading me
2001 times a shot
wity her red HAL cyclops eye
concluding
she sees me knows me
has my
lineaments my
shape in outline has
constructed the metaphor
for taking
my hand
leading me through a doorway
I could never have imagined
when
I first found you blackberrying
decades ago
FIELD OF PLAY
yet another humongous
rock approaching
coming at toxic velocity
to slap the dinosaur out of me
see if
I can bounce back
school
of hard knocks
take
it on the chin
but
did underestimate me
and my technical prowess
a devotee
sensei
of the
beautiful game
as I rose like a missile
to meet aforementioned comet
with the meat
of my forehead
clear my lines head
it away having
a neck of steel
sent that interstellar off
course trollop back
where
it came from
teach it to steer well
clear of this our
beloved Terra
this bright blue
ball that
we care so much for
never never
ever again
love itself so
shamelessly aimlessly
into our field of play
MEANWHILE HERACLITUS
Whichever way
you looked at it
it was one-forty-five
a quarter-to-two
into
the last cake-slice of the hour
a moment in time
rapidly disappearing
alongside him
a wife once
in her own right an
accomplished musician
longing to
pipe a
merry tune
meanwhile the air the Earth
and without doubt
the Sun
felt perplexed
if you forgive
me for saying so
the Sun
not yet risen
the Moon eerily mirrored
in that one time river
whilst
the logic of stepping
in and out
smudging, blurring
time as we know it
meanwhile Heraclitus
seeing/not seeing
wife-wise
life-wise
chaos of being
the writing on the wall
HERITAGE
am paddling
in the North Sea
determined to rediscover
my Viking heritage
a hardy people, unlikely
to flinch in the face
of danger
or pain
whilst I
find myself
forced to withdraw
return to dry land
almost instantly
avoid the visceral agony
unbearable suffering
of a frozen toe
PARALLEL CUTTING
Lord Oda
is sharpening his blade
the women
look at me
nervously
my poem
falling to pieces.
BEYOND (THE SIN IN CAPSAICIN)
heard you got
an endorphin high
reading
my poe
found every syllable
a green red orange
capsaicin démon
scalding your tongue
wafting you up on
the wings of those breezy
dreamy
pain-deadening chemicals
of your
own vintage and special
manufacture
carrying you effortlessly
into the bluest of beyonds
PANTHER SLEEPS
panther sleeps
in the fur of his brain
Rilke echoing
what panther dreams
is that
his cage is empty
yet still locked, still closed
wants to be be able
to ask the question
what it all means
terrified lest
he awake
to find himself gone
to find himself here
poems 2 die for