RODEO STYLE
who would have
thought it
from heirs
to the Enlightenment
to rogue state Goodfellas
war of the jungle?
no shit
end of sovereignty
congress, senate,
the administration
just
took a dump
on Thomas Hobbes
no good
just tearing up
the social
contract
need to stab it serial
killer with
an ice pick
need to go
chainsaw leatherface
to run
away with
that barbacue
fire
on Fort Sumter
after Fort Sumter
robber baron
the world Texas
rodeo style
LEGEND
if this were
a raw oyster
raw
meaning alive
how would you
plot to eat it
(that wickedly satirical
Dublin Dean
did
commend the bravery
of he who
first ate one)
suppose
it an octopus
(but not
the bright blue variety)
what tactics
of attack
strategy to render it
a culinary masterpiece
but what
if some tentacle which
shared
its misfortune
by getting
stuck in your tract?
revenge masterstroke
gourmet karma
unless by
the trinity, shoot
back from the dead
in Mary Shelley moment
St Frankenstein
of Assisi, lately native
of Haight-Ashbury
lover transcendental
of every genus of animal
under whose jurisdiction
what could be
beyond consideration
receptacle of life
before cuisine Holy Grail?
(MY) MORNING APHRODITE
every morning
my morning Aphrodite
does her
thing
invades my island
surfs through the coral
finds
her way
to my shore
and there
star-like of a sudden
big bang explosive
colonizes my senses
imprints her mythology
and what a raw nascita
it is brings
her to
this narrow, desert place
yet at
night
disappears
before
a word shared, touch
preferred, revelation
of beauty
but then
the near perfect
probability
that with
dawn she
will return, again
find
her way here
so
best pity
the cosmos
which lesser
by far
set
to parallel this one
darkest place imaginable
darkest
space deep
inside me
where she never
dare come, must
never appear
K2 V2
sounds
like a breakfast
cereal but
that
a fatal mistake
much suffered
in the making
and me
soaring to the summit
on the blithe
stupidity
of imagination
find myself
reading that confounding
gravity book
about missiles, and rockets
corporate death cults
and
gross turn
ot technology
needing the insanity
of language
to V2 make
its point clear
Oh there we go
something launched
between the lines
dear Thomas
from the edge of this page
solitary single page yet
just one of some
plus seven hundred
the view
so awful
from up here on a great border
where one
might trace
the edge of the world
sink
deep into summit snow
get a handle
on its ending
PLACE
in my mind
and my heart
bouncing between them
perfect poem for you
but these words slippery
customers
ducking and
diving
going off at tangents
(threatening to)
but you
with all that
gorgeous gracious gravitas
having coralled
and controlled
them
sliding them
up down
sideways and crosswise
into
place
DRONE ON
drone on
drone on
meanwhile something
is screaming
from
Orwell’s grave
buzz buzz
something is
writhing
on Airstrip One
six feet under
terrible the agony
of a realized prediction
the text
meant as satire become
seer’s prediction
the text on this headstone
rewiring itself, mutating,
changing fast
as share prices
what was once
envisaged and
received
as far-
fetched dysopia
now
in clear
death spiral, cavorting
with extinction
the demise of the rationality
to see and believe
and you
with your
unique way
with words
insisting this is the way
sole species solution
to grasp that power
we gave to the heavens
we
ascribed to the cosmos
to rebuild everything in
singular
one
supreme image
droning on
droning on
(what left of
your intelligence
at best artificial)
inside
and ouside (both)
something is screaming
from George Orwell’s grave
NO MAN’S LAND
I dream
of the two of us
out in no man’s
land
making love on a bed
of thorns, barbed
wire, razor wire
perhaps
you dreamt it too
it is a dream
we shared
bodies panzered up
shock and awe, clattering together
love, in any sense of the term,
a flagrant euphemism
for whatever it was we sought,
hoped to achieve
desperate
to hit our mark, believing
if we graduate
to this level
things get incandescent
trading stigmata, as we stagger
towards that universe
beyond words, outside language
overhead the Sun
still
in control
weighty, central, utterly
orthodox
frowning upon this
nonsense
terminally skeptical,
and yet
so vulnerable
open
to crucifixion, for
us to bang nails through
turn
that powerhouse of
fusion into
one giant circular coffin
GREENLAND
the plan is
to kill the ice
fight ice
with
ice
fire
with fire
make Greenland
green again
tear up every scrap
of paper
that militates against
build
golf courses, missile silos,
condominiums, intelligence
infrastructure, of
fast-reflex way of seeing
of the corporate
imagination
a solid shrine, its
ultimate Disneyland
the world in shock awe
at such
a ballistic trajectory
climb in the ratings
great again
great again
Chinooks, Apaches and
thick sheaves of Tomahawks
preserving
the heritage
great spirit a stirring
what is
down there been
down there
long – sufferingly frozen
all
the way back
to prehistory
about
to break through
about to break through
GORGONZOLA
first Venezuela
then Nambia
and, penultimately,
Gorgonzola and the Queendom of
God Knows Where
lastly, of course, and
indeed terminally,
he of total superhero
comic power
will
be coming for us
dialing our number
(over lunch
cracking the launch codes
fastest flight to
Johannesburg
and has been told
confidence is good)
take us to task for all
we think is equality, democracy,
but are assured
is white genocide
and all our dreams of
a fully cooperative multi-
polar world
and Trevor Noah
over there in the States
with his digs at
neo-liberalism and
revived
white supremacy
things we are going to
have to pay
for
God being made
in America’s image,
and all
that stoked up
wrath
in an
incandescent ball
first Venezuela
then Gorgonzola
the hot
cheese melting but
the fries
are going to fall
CHHOGORI
Ah yes, my delta ice queen
of the Karakoram
case of love at first sight
moment you revealed yourself
in all your deadly beauty
and
now here I am
to present myself
be sprinkled across your summit
or down below
around your base
which will do for me
might have to suffice
and those kind enough
to have, brought me here
I do trust and pray
that you will
treat them sweetly
so many bodies frozen over
short, or far short,
of your pinnacle
or caught in your
terrible shift
in mood during
the treachery of the descent
ghosts there too
unless wisps of snow, merely
adding to your voices for
what many envisage as
a cold eternity
praises, curses,
caught on those lips
last syllables uttered the iconic two
by which the world knows you
appreciates you
reveres you
fears you
fatal number, fatal letter,
total expression of
your mystery
abbreviated as sharp
as every angle
on your triangular, upward
soaring frame.
poems 2 die for