BOUNDLESS
I am boundless
big boss predator
at the summit
of the food chain
extravagantly remunerated
on account of
my hunting skills
as if…
but if I were
the immense wealth
I possessed
how I would
deploy it politically
throw it around
get you to
cheer, and now, and
beg and scrape
and recite
praise poetry before me
no other sound
RED SHIFT
I am
getting
red-shifted
stretched out
and with this insane
elasticity
the laws of physics
laws of human society
changing
as space time itself changes
as idiots
get stretched out, magnified,
find themselves
in positions of power
owing everything
to entropy, to the twenty
first century
media miracle
of slavish stability
sitting dumbfounded as
it all goes to
shit around them
yet not
quite dumb enough
to go down
with the ship
easy exoneration
one of the true, necessary
blessings of absolute power
this red
shifting me beyond
the old
degrees of
acceptance this
practice requires
SNOW ON THE SAHARA
snow on the Sahara
crazy
as it sounds
were once grasslands here
far and wide as can be seen
but these
just niceties of
the catastrophic model
desert encroaching further
scurrying as we speak
through the Sahel
and we
forgetful children of
near extinction
walking products still
prey to aftershock
but
memory is blessed here
will edit out such nightmares,
annihilate them
leave us
suddenly sure
primally certain
boundless of being
never again to lapse
into
find ourselves
at the mercy
of uncertainty
sifting the signs
to remove
portents, omens
look only with eyes
that see
kaleidoscopically
snow
on the Sahara, need
to be there to see
THREE DAYS
he told us he would
rise in three days
we believed
but it was three days of
agony waiting
I wondered why three days
what was so special, so
symbolic, so crucial about
this particular duration
three days after his crucifixion
he did rise, did return
to give hope to the world
for then, if he
had not returned
what
hope for mankind?
what landscape of nightmare?
LIVE YOUR LUXURY
live your luxury
your life of luxury
would strongly advise
(were it not so
flagrant a contradiction)
that you
live
it deep
and so then, on the other hand,
let me warmly recommend
that you indulge
it shallow
revel in its shallows
as extravagantly as
can possibly be
no need
to feel the edge
anyway, anyhow
best repudiation
of that stupid FWN idea
of living dangerously
ALL OUR CURRENT
All our current
antichrists
happen to be worse by far
than the archetype back there
in the Book of Revelation
all our latter-day demons
more demonic in essence
than any cast out
in holy parable or
Biblical Tale
and these in
plain view or
under government top secret
but truth
will out
so just
scratch the surface
with flesh-cutting scalpel
used in sanctioned
medical experiments
on the maruta of
Pingfang, or the Polish women
at Ravensbruck
or, closer to home, the
hypodermics used in
the bastion of democracy
to inject the other with syphilis,
give people
their plutonium shots
hunting for the mirror
in which to see their own depravity
the immunity given
to these pioneers
true
demonic complete redemption
all our current antichrists
God bless them all this Easter.
EASTER POEM
despite the presumed blasphemy
sending the Sadducees
into the Mother of all spins
he did not deserve that
enemy of the State
spectacle of completeness
in both power and extinction
for what danger ultimately,
were you to Rome
history would show
you were
a great fit
for each other
the helping hand by
which all things dovetail
all is reconciled
and
yet
that time under the flail, feeling
the nails
the body crushing itself
under it’s own weight
and death
the luxury that poverty
might long for, slavery absolutely
craves
foundation of power
too integral to be
profferred freely
having to be
teased out as only torture can
that time upon the cross
when first we heard
from those who
saw
at the moment of
expiration, time itself gone
beginning of beginning
ending of ending
IF DONALD TRUMP HAD WRITTEN THE ILIAD
nobody knows who is losing
who is winning
where the battle lines
actually are
before the actual fighting started
the plan was to sneak attack
using the power
of the gods to
assassinate heroes and leaders
leaving (great for epic)
only the cannon fodder
but bigly will be
(we are promised,
and it is already in the blurb)
the epic
similes
the thousand ships
that sailed
to take back
Helen
assuming they
were headed to Mar-a-Lago
via Epstein island
across
a bubbling orangeade
bright sea
a poem for not just
all times
but way beyond eternity
the Nobel
Prize for Literature
a certainty
ON GOOD FRIDAY
Too much oscillation
for conviction
too much division, diversion,
for anything like unity
even so, I think this day of days
is the one to preach
a need for resolution
day we,
not just symbolically,
supremely symbolically,
died
and were reborn again
so much that is secular
to think and say this day
for those
not at Mass
not watching the final scene
with Bob Hoskins staring
at Pierce Brosnan’s
pistol
Irish Republican and
Gangster Empire
have to wonder this
Good Friday
when that twain
shall ever meet.
MASTERPIECE
those meticulous lines
so clear under
the desklamp
in the light,
a masterpiece
nothing at this high level
possibly frazzled,
sublimely repressed
I wonder
how they look
8n the shadow
what happens to
that cross-sectional
perfectly angular shading
when in state of shadow
things leak into each other
diametrically blur
one step away
from the beginnings of
the jagged the wayward,
the ice-engineered,
the downward spiral
and me
playing chess against you
crushing you in a few moves
even when my
game is
inadequately considered,
too unpolished, simply linear,
absence of
tactical wizardry in
my pedestrian play
Oh fathers, wish it were the case
that sons
caught in deadly duels
with them in
the underbelly of
cloud cities (which
some architect had to
dream up
ex nihilo)
knew as they traded
blow for blow
what lay behind
that steel mask
to give you your due
you were the master of
everything out there
in here
that comes in three dimension
new how the tools cut
to your drawn specifications
could make
the thing conceived of
exactly
when it comes to you
and I however
no worse joke
than the one of tooling
to make
the one of match of object
and its conception
how could you have got it
so wrong fucked up
every single
measurement
and yet
think me grateful having
been produced this way
your masterpiece
poems 2 die for