Author Archives: Damian Garside

BITE OF THE APPLE

BITE OF THE APPLE
“I don’t like cities,
but I love New York.”
                   Madonna

Men have
       been blown here
                    before

wandered
off course,

many
       (akin to Odysseus)
into the Aegean
across
   the Mediterranean

so much of that culture
alive on these streets

and whilst
(slice
   of life) they
while away time whittle
down the hours

Patti Smith is going
full barefoot  channeling Rimbaud

someone blowing there too
Christianized Jew
mournful
      singing the apocalyptic signs
all along the watchtower

everything with soul
heading for this harbor

cataclysm of Europe
strongest of
    land breeze

what is the supreme
text that we have faith
here gets
written

skyscraper high
scrawled on every wall

MANCHESTER APHRODITE

MANCHESTER APHRODITE

I am
always dreaming of Manchester

always dreaming of Aphrodite

she comes from
Reykjavik, she comes from
Kingston, she comes from
Tehran, she comes
the South, further
South than
Richmond, New Orleans,
Auckland, Canberra or
Johannesburg

further East than
Manilla, Lahore, Madras,
Shanghai, Singapore or Osaka

further left than
Rosa Luxemburg or
Dolores La Passionaria

but I jest;
of course I jest,

she only ever appears as you

perhaps
she is you

and I am doomed to haunt
the dream streets, twists
and turns and
secret alleyways of
this
city looking for you

only for
the beauty, utter beauty
of single
devastating glimpse.

RIB

RIB

I came across Adam
in his fallen state
crying out
to God

demanding
that He return
that rib
He took

and that rib,
speaking of her,
we should now notice
how bereft of
hope she looks

fearing for that long
long line of forever daughters

doomed to hear
again and again
the self-pitying
accusatory dirge of
rib
deprivation

aimed at Heaven
whilst Eve
going
for it

cursing the forever
contunuance
of all of the system that
be
perpetual, neverending,
in the crooked
orb and sceptre
line of Adam's right royal, so-called sons.

HAVEN’T GOT (A CLUEDO)

HAVEN’T GOT (A CLUEDO)

deduced it in no
time

saw it clearly it was
either Plum that went
shapeshifter
eliding, gliding
between
the kitchen (pots
still greasy)
and the games room

turning up at the table
through
the fourth wall

or could be
Mustard, that die-
hard Imperialist with the
old Western front Vickers
water
-cooled machine gun

defending the pantry against
whatever
latest horde of savages

took out Ms Scarlett and
Ms White

ebony and ivory in
their delightful negligees

wandering aimless into
his line of sight
in persuance of
their tryst

or Green could have done it
C of E but some old Catholicism
at root there adding a twist of hemlock

to that holy wine
(cardinal
not working out, we’ll
smoke that
one out
bring in another)

or someone in the garage
with rolls royce style
handy wrench call murder murder

a spade a spade

a wrench a bloody brain-
fragment spattered wrench

and me
with my candle card yet again

with
such bad eyesight
cannot make out a thing

DANCING WITH THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN: THE TITLE POEM OF MY NEW COLLECTION

DANCING WITH THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN

was heading due west
when the wheel
started to splinter, come
away in my hand

seemed like a vortex out there
demonic triangle
         portal pulling me in
ghost ships
     flying dutchmen following
me into
   that gorgeous abyss
(sphere of the zombie, land
of the dead)

where, to be fair, I would find
locale most congenial
to consort
   with Frankenstein’s creature’s
bride

the two of us in true tango,
monstering out first midnight together

drone
of supreme dissonance
about to
   switch off my brain

and yet how
we spin
    across the floor
illusion of
free movement
delusion of light speed

whilst
    eyes still locked inward
split, almost dismembered
the limbs
  scrabbling for somewhere
treading
     ice water dragged across
the spectrum, shuttled forward
back like
      a ball in ping pong between
what we are told
are complete hyperbolic poles

and now for
our videofest, hook up
for the podcast

think up
some catastrophic leveling
skimming like a
cruise missile, like
an angel of abomination
targeting
    all hearts if
we have them

as I repent all
my falsehoods, so
shamefully having lied to you
              to preserve my power
keep
my inverted commas innocence

not a deus ex machina
but brutal blade of a guillotine
falls and released
                           it is
just
the end of the poem

BUKOWSKI POEMS

BUKOWSI POEMS

BUKOWSKI

the old typewriter
is trying to seduce
Bukowski

endeavouring
to drag him to her table
across the room

so much inertia
here
to conquer

and words he needs
to write
clogged up toxins
he needs
to get out of his system

and balance
the creative lassitude
of his celebrated life

LOOKING FOR OUR OWN BUKOWSKI

we rule
the world in rugby

so why should we not
rule the world, the Continent,
the galaxy
with our Bukowski’s

was
the premise of a reality show
and now I am hurtling
in a van
fresh from the airport
looking to find our own Bukowski
combing the bars, scouring
the shebeens looking
for a soul out there in
as yet ungentrified Cape Town
able to
distil door and
alcohol into poetry

to drive us rhapsodic
with his laconic drawl

will we find him?
will we find him?

trying to get
hype-machine into
top gear to
drum up a hype machine
inflect those all
so precious ratings

thinking of the format
as we drive
thinking of every
future episode

pots of gold at the end
of this wholly contrived
quite
amazing rainbow

can see
those lips moving in
my mind’s-eye camera
as we chat even now

BLUEBIRD

there’s a Bukowski in my heart
that wants to get out

and in the heart of that Bukowski
a bluebird that needs
to learn
to fly

but first
crack its shell, hatch,
escape, aspire
for the sky and
outer
space beyond

but as
for that Bukowski
I have no
whiskey for
him
no cigarettes
to dole out

and, to add
to my ignominy, no
checkout girls to
flirt with
grocery clerks to give me
at most a second glance

best
I can do, best
I can get
is mountain of
rejection slips, is
debt collectors swarming,
crawling
all over my ass

yet
he survives, he obdures
this Bukowski with
his bluebird

how
it be so
I just
cannot express

DANTE

DANTE

and there
at the very centre
of Hell

we find
Dante

tortured for eternity
for libelling those
above his
station

the justice perfect
the irony beautiful

everything in accord
for one whose wicked faith
could not
comprehend

that the Universe
has its golden favourites
who
   should always
be worshipped, venerated
by those for whom
they are
their betters

the writers
of the law
always
above and beyond the law

on this angel and devil
could
    not be more
united

it is
their common understanding,
their jealously
shared faith

TAI CHI

TAI CHI

I saw you in those
Facebook AI generated
Tai Chi adverts
desperate

to shed that belly
and the sixty pounds extra
some Tai Chi exercises
promising
    if not the elixir of youth
at least some
potent Eastern
magic spell
      to drive that faltering
wife back into
your arms
     all-a-greedy, and
from other women, at last,
many a covert smile

but body aside
it’s the brain, your brain,
turned futile, gone
AWOL, that
we most
     need to fix, with
poetry
   I do think, poetry
best for this

sonnet before bedtime
and when
        it comes to world
of smarts, a miracle soon
in sight

reversing the
                 ratio, restoring
the balance
between
     supply and demand

(zero
      supply, infinite demand)