UNTIED
flag it
the only flag
is false flag
kill a
few of our own
as supreme
moral
justification
then, truly,
hands untied, outrage
maximized
nobody will
raise a finger
if we
destroy the world
UNTIED
flag it
the only flag
is false flag
kill a
few of our own
as supreme
moral
justification
then, truly,
hands untied, outrage
maximized
nobody will
raise a finger
if we
destroy the world
GRANDMASTER
I am a grandmaster
I play chess
and more chess
and more chess
once i thought
when quantum
physics arrived
when every
board in
my head
became
superimposed
everything in
the Universe
everything outside
of chess
would curl
up at
the edges
I did not
to the best of my knowledge
curl up at the edges
maybe
because there is
nothing in
me
outside of chess
maybe
I am so far
down the rabbit hole
I am the only thing
outside of chess
since the beginning
of two clock
recorded time.
NOW I SEE/PRISTINE
It’s not
the Sistine Chapel
no,
more a pagan temple
more suited to
demon worship
having a lovely
forbidden cult time
God knows where
they got their hellish
iconography from
avatars
of extreme
bad taste
bet they didn’t get
it in a single impromtu
haul by
way of incognito
trip to Walmart
much mix ‘n match
mythology up
in fresco (alfresco)
as long
as it conjures up
chaos, destabilizes,
vaguely terrifies
have
to ask the angels
(better angels
of all our natures)
regarding the sound
proofing
and how much
scream dampening
thick
as the armour on
a Tiger tank I guess
no one not invited
does not
need to hear a thing
and starting with Sistine
falling with
absolute loss
of grace from there
now I see
(Oh, how I see)
what billionaires think
of in secret, in private,
in their self-
owned 747s, self-owned
off-shore islands
when they
hear the word “pristine”
and with that rhyme chime
time to draw our
paparazzi portrait
of what
Edenic landscapes, sexual
configurations
float unfiltered but
fatally contorted
into theit imagination machines
with all that money – – whisper
shout proclaim
that word
for all eternity, for the
sum total of the poor,
shabby lifetimes
of us in
the 99.9
with all that money
Cheops pyramids of money
nothing in
or between Heaven and Hell
you cannot have, make real.
LITERALLY NOTHING
said nothing
did nothing
the T word
sticking between
your teeth
the S sibilants
hissing, sounds
of a dog whistle
stuff in the syntax
and semantics
fouling your mouth,
poisoning your body
getting you to retch
spectacularly, like
some
mythical, mystical
drunken creature
spewing up
a bucket of
prize truth
to paint
ideology in
and thus, obviously,
in this all new death climate
everybody
rushing immediately
to
your aid
fearing
fatal loss to
the cause of annihilation
an end
to this state of exquisite madness
if you should
end up with
nothing
to say
AT WHOSE BEHEST?
at whose
behest
are you
doing this
colluding, concurring,
purring at their feet?
who got you
follow the money trapped
in their cash register?
indeed
caught in high definition
most compromising position
your crass
negligence, infernal
duplicity, perverse criminal
energy
over and above
your demented insanity
about to cost
us our lives, every
piece of our world
DUCKED EVERY MODULE
“The mind in creation is as a fading coal, which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to transitory brightness; this power arises from within, and from without.”
Percy Bysshe Shelley, A Defence of Poetry (1821)
ducked every module
on Romanticism
during my
English degrees
and yet maybe
that is exactly where
my antipathy
to the movement
must have
originated from
kind of imagining myself
a poet, sort of poet, or
something not
too far from that
as I wandered down
towards the River Tame
(tributary of
the far more
famous Mersey)
stretched out
to the East and West
and South
the Pennine Moors
Bronte territory,
roughest, toughest, most desolate
part of England
still
a ways to walk
to get there
and me for now
meandering riverward
slipping through my neighbour
crazy Gordon Shelley’s
immaculately
mown garden
passing the tiny glade
of wild narcissi
(dangerous lure, that
purity)
and down into the hollow
graveyard for one single
completely
broken piano
its innards spilled, everywhere
rods and hammers
and scattered keys
leit motif
for someone’s life
if not mine entirely
try to duck things
and they still
get to
nail you
one way or’t tother
ISLAND
no bell tolls
tinkles even
no alarm
or siren
nothing to
tell nobody
because nobody cares
nobody is listened
hope
that featherd bird
is cannibal kebabed
skewered on the fire
this is an island
packed with an
accumulation
of no men
great rich big
small men
all of whom
are islands
everyone
everything is trapped
for which
all must get praised
for manufacturing
something so
close
to the Hell ideal
beautifully evil
power’s
beautiful, soulless child
BACK THEN
everybody was
listening to
Dylan
back then
and me
stumbling around
like an idiot
so much
in love you
how could I
feel
this
so exclusively
how could it
infest, invest
me
so completely?
maybe I was getting
a precious sense of this
via all
these Dylan songs
oil and water
different oceans
creatures from
different planets
and now
on different continents
still some
strange, sad exchanges
between us
destined
to separate lives
BEHIND YOUR BACK
According to the Chomsky
model of language acquisition
poetry is universal
written into our heads
we do not
learn it
from scratch
in fact
spend our early years
simply unlearning it
(the parts
that do not fit
that do not rhyme in Rap)
so, to
put it in
basic terms
we are all poets
yes, part of
the current economic,
social and political systems
but also
part surreal,
with our split brains
and who knows
what other opposites,
oppositions, quirks, quantum
superpositions. contra-
dictions
and dualities
and thus the rush
the impulse (like first sex)
to put
pen to
paper
hit that
keypad
see what comes
flashing
on the screen, staring back
at you
from the page
the poem itself
(albeit in its
as yet
unrevised
version)
instant poem
just add salt, sugar, spices,
condiments, distilled
whisky or water
wormwood to
kill any
pretentions
to taste
so much easier than
writing fiction – – worlds
apart really
and
heart and soul of the thing
(if you would trust me
and allow
me
here to reveal it)
in bad, bad times,
times of tyranny,
unashamed dystopia
poetry is
pretty much
our last resort
thing you can write
hands tied behind your back.
THUNK IT
academics in the files?
who would
have thought it,
thunk it?
mirror me this
mirror to mirror
what is
the academy to
the narcissism
of ideas?
what reverse alchemy
at work here
turning gold
into base metal
turning base
metal into
something
far worse
turning billions of U. S.
into something unspeakable
turning
the final dream of
community
into a confederacy of
Caligulas
and there as touchstones
sextants to
navigate such
progress
Professors of every
discipline and indiscipline
from triple X
to Zee
our Alphas, Betas
and outright Omegas
there on the island gowned
for the occasion
fiddling with
what bit they know of
intellectual apparatus
performing research
for the
benefit of mankind on
the most unwilling of subjects
walking subtexts we
need to read
from below, behind
and between the lines
until, with
deadening “thunk”
the truth is right there