SCENARIO
I woke up from a dream
that was a stupendous
creation
of pure
sciene fiction terror
people, experts, scientists
or they
might just have
been machines
sticking needles into
my brain to deposit
microscopically tiny
pre-programmed
devices of
nano-technology
instructed to conduct
a search and destroy mission
to erase the possibility
of thought patterns that
might
contrive to imagine
some scenario
like this.
FLESH OF THE FAITH
some buffoon
they call and
who calls
himself
a philosopher
slipping between
jokes
and profundity
fires away
name of the game
dance
of truth, not
so easy to work out
the steps
world and self what
they want to say
for themselves
despite themselves
so damn intricate
so hard to
pin down when
in this labyrinth every
level brings
fresh layer
of deception
and why
must he always
touch
his nose?
is that some
kind of tic, sign of
secret brotherhood or
silent spiritual homage
to H and L and
M his
forebears and yes,
masters
meanwhile I am continuing
this badly scripted
life story
my tale of desire
full of
twists and turns but
no story to speak
of itself
an iron wall
dystopian stuff with
digital chip on
the shoulder, chip
in the brain patriarchal
body guards
stretching between my
heart and its object
wherever that
object, whenever it
should
come into being
that the motor, engine of
everything should
be loss
and distance, incompleteness
and sadness
great for Slovenian
thinker, South African poet,
though
getting it down in all
its harrowing
complexity
could be an industry
might
not
keep your warm at night
(flesh
of the faith to
deeply
hold on to) may
not even pay the rent at all
INSTEAD
was looking
for the bucket
but the bucket
was over
my head
needed to spell
the word
ignoramus
but
being a sort
of poetry
thingy
spelt
an entire thesaurus
instead
KEY
Hey! No trespassing
Do not assume
you have
right
of way
automatic forgiveness
can fiddle around
in my innermost particles
until
blue in the face
no, not
on my watch
not on my watch
but hey,
hang on a momento
you say
brought a key
came with master
opens
everything
can unlock things here
that I
have grown immune to
that I am totally unaware of
will take me magic carpet
ride mind
to a
special place
down a
hidden passageway
been bolted since childhood
which is, I do
freely admit
a very long time
this shifts
things a bit
or
to be gracious, shifts
everything considerably
kind of
alters my perspective
go
full
Omar Khayyam
trespassing
no trespassing
what’s
mine
is yours
and yours
is mine
on
my watch
automatic forgiveness
forever
and this night
SHRIKE
first laid
eyes
on
you
you love
imprinted me
like a
new-born
chicken
and here I
am
stuck in
a novel going
nowhere
sprearing
useless pages
on a spike
as if
I were a
horrendous shrike
tiny
but different bird
altogether
Vlad Impaler
of all
God’s little
creatures
come
pull this stake
out of my
heart!
I am
not a patch
on Shelley’s
Skylark
Keat’s
Nightingale
his
consummate Hyperion
or novel
of other worlds infused
with these mythologies
GOLD STANDARD
you are
the gold standard
best
touchstone
asked for a handout
you chopped
my head off
split
the atom
stole
several body parts
oh my staccato life subject
to this debt slavery
roll over credit
what was now
roll over
play dead
or actually die
all for a few scrappy
coins in the offing
kind of
smaller
than atoms
and me
under such pressure to
edit down
this poem
get it in tune, right tone
sufficiently complicit
in every single way
ROOM
stet
Heraclitus you are wrong
this man
cannot step
into that bed
river mibd a river
back up a bit
let’s forget media res
simply
start at
the beginning
virtual particles abounding
no hope of
even one
actually actualizing
promise of this moment
never to be realized
come and gone
so many wave fronts
from bed to couch and
back again
washing over me
you
by now
sleeping serenely
me maybe
astral travelling
as far as I can tell
room to
expand, manoeuvre
room
for doubt
here we
make love, don’t
make love
roll two lovely snake eyes
so you may guess
which
forked path
possibilities, probablities,
green light
for go, red
for full stop
in this little ecosystem, tiny
echochamber things
horribly resonant
yes
roll those bones
roll
with
the flow
tick the will
they won’t they
take what’s
in the box
you know
whose doomed cat
is waiting
in that box
the whole nature of
connection, entanglement
now
premised on our moment
and what other, kinder worlds
have decided for themselves
have themselves
found out
let them
film the morning after
still through a lens
of blessed
enchantment
Pan panning with magical
camera across
the mystical space
that will
always
be
her bedroom
for the record (record of
flautist playing
the firsf
time I ever saw
her face)
nothing
to see here
poems 2 die for