STRONG STORY
it’s said you have to be
Julius Caesar
or Genghis Khan
to dissuade the world
from trampling you
chaining to a post
dragging by a collar
when the law
is twisted,
both big
and small
and not
to your advantage
unless
you change
the plot
write story strong
take Gaul
for yourself, and
fabulous wealth
if not
the whole of Asia
THIS WAY
those meticulous lines
so clear under
the desklamp
in the light
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
BLAME GAME
blame me for this poem
it is the poem
that keeps on
giving
lathering you
with irony
my childhood
a perpetual blame game
(Newton’s gaslight law
of psychophysics)
the day I divined
did not want me
better off
without me
thinking they
would feel
blessed
to have me
do not know
how that stupid thought
ever got inside my head
yes
all that
cosmic horror
all that history
and now the poem
before you
that keeps
on giving
Dutch angling
your world, fragmenting,
disrupting
taxing you with
time paradox, non-local
identity
alternate realities and multiple endings
you can do your worst
and blame me
as I am sure you assuredly will
EASTER POEM
Easter is upon us
read
the book “Zealot”, read the
Gnostic Gospels
watched J of N
on a streaming service
for the zillionth time
but did not
see this
sucker coming
(still see
myself as
the prodigal son)
and now
a tale of torture, agony
for all time
sweating blood there in
Gethsemane during
that ultimate dark night
body of
Christ itself
turned apocalyptic
tale of Paul and tale
of Mary Magdalen
tale of Crusades against
the other Abrahams
tale of
the energy in mass
released in microseconds
delivered on a platter
to vaporize
sacred sites
just
to list
evidence for
the case
that we
still
need
redemption
transcendence
of the brutal self
at least
for some peace, a modicum
at least
over this Easter
whilst I
amongst parable thorns
fallen on
stony ground
called
but not answering
flatly look forward to
spending this Easter
summoning up
ancient alchemists
of my
acquaintance
begging them
getting them
egging them on
to transform, transmogrify,
do their utmost
to achieve this
this bag
of Roman nails
simply
shuffle down
that table
before
my very eyes become golden,
eclipse my eyes as solar spikes.
TA!
was Ta!
but now
it’s
Tirrah!
as we now find ourselves
in that man Possum’s
shattered porcelain
Thomas Stearns Eliot
game of
chess, what
the thunder said
Da! Damyatta!
end of
the world as we know it
wasteland territory
and so
like that eternal footman
who could never
be Hamlet
hollow to the core
as I ride
that river through
all its colonies
to its poisonous
source
I bid my adieu
all I can do
my words lost on you
and yes, Ta!
for the love you thought
you gave me
BOOM
bing bang boom
hit me over the head
with the sound
that fosters appetite,
alters, enhances
consciousness
turns brain
Yogi from
spaghetti
turns from
meatball
into lasagna
in this age of Kali Yuga
gives you
your moment
of peace
MEDUSA
Medusa, she of the serpent tresses,
unjustly transformed because
women cannot be innocent
knows they are coming
the reporters, the cameras,
the cliche
hunting commentators,
the writers and poets
with all
their reflective surfaces
knowing
she can never
forgive or be forgiven
and this her logic
is that
until she is killed
(sure she
is to be killed)
she must
strive to turn
each of these
paladins of brutality
contempt, injustice
to mute outcrops
of fabulous stone.
IF CHESS
if chess
were music
it would
be Mozart
the melodies sparkling
and yet fastidious
scarcely can tell
anything of
rebellious Aquarius
in there at all
if chess were
soundtrack
wouldn’t be
punk rock, wouldn’t
be Led Zeppelin
yet
Mozart seems
prepared to
rock-
hard
go hard
rock
be our favourite snotty-nosed
neo-classical punk
inclined to
tease the establishment
as far
as he could get
stick
that
dissenting finger
everywhere, from
tune to theme
(cleverly disguised to
rhyme
with the times)
see them
for the wooden
major minor pieces
that they are
carved
for the ranks and
files and
to dance the diagonals
(Archbishop black and Archbishop white)
INMORTALS
as the division between
dream and reality, sanity
and madness
ultimately collapses
I think of the identifications
made and the frameworks
devised
for living our lives
at one time or another we were
anarchists, liberals , communists,
conservatives, reactionaries,
empathic social democrats
becoming neo this
and that
as the years whooshed past
and the spirit
of our youth
unmistakably began to die
and now we sit
wisdom badly waned
rationality denied
so much worse for wear
the world
(much worsened world)
made to suffer
for our
presence
great sin of ego
desire to keep
what
was for all
for our
few selves
our wealth a
sign of favour,
as if
selected
by immortals
BLESSED
blessed are
the pure in spirit
most
distilled
amongst us
transcendent
beyond compare
for them
that most cerebral reward
of white pieces, black
pieces
chess for all eternity
hoping that in the course
of infinite play
they will most certainly
discover, find,
simply stumble upon
the perfect game
whilst
those no lesser
on this sliding scale
might find themselves
charting the incredible
magical features
of a sublime simulation.
wondrously
generated world
in which
no law is called
sacrosanct
unless by truly
consensual overwhelming agreement
the idolatory of markets is
crazily absent (yet not
decisively forbidden)
as is
the presumed eternal
law of
supply and demand
poems 2 die for