1, poem, poetry, – Page 41

DANCING WITH THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN

was heading due west
when the wheel
started to splinter, come
away in my hand

seemed like a vortex out there
demonic triangle
         portal pulling me in
ghost ships
     flying dutchmen following
me into
   that gorgeous abyss
(sphere of the zombie, land
of the dead)

where, to be fair, I would find
locale most congenial
to consort
with Frankenstein’s creature’s
bride

the two of us in true tango,
monstering out first midnight together

drone
of supreme dissonance
about to
switch off my brain

and yet how
we spin
across the floor
illusion of
free movement
delusion of light speed

whilst
    eyes still locked inward
split, almost dismembered
the limbs
scrabbling for somewhere
treading
     ice water dragged across
the spectrum, shuttled forward
back like
      a ball in ping pong between
what we are told
are complete hyperbolic poles

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think up
some catastrophic leveling
skimming like a
cruise missile, like
an angel of abomination
targeting
all hearts if
we have them

as I repent all
my falsehoods, so
shamefully having lied to you
to preserve my power
keep
my inverted commas innocence

not a deus ex machina
but brutal blade of a guillotine
falls and released
it is
just
the end of the poem

ISA

who here
at this time, in
this place,
truly believes
that Isa was
a prophet, truly
a divine messenger?

that was seminal about him
(peace be upon him)
was not that
he saved souls but
spoke for the poor, spoke
against Empire
performed miracles, cured
the sick
raised the dead

less that
he preached his own divinity
than suffered
for humanity

less that history
has him exalted, than
the evil
     of our nature
                   claimed as
his
   text, in
his name?

عيسى (عليه السلام) نبي الله الواحد الأحد

NOW AND FOREVER

the army halts
is quiet as a mouse
phalanx, cavalry
they
just stand

at its head
their young god king:
he dismounts

he knows philosophy
his tutor was Aristotle

but the man
in the barrel
sneers atchison praise
rebuffs with contempt

promised the Earth, only
wishes for the sky
light of the Sun
not to be plunged
into hero shadow

so many armies, conquerors
heading East, heading West
an unbreakable pattern
now and forever

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the last
great poem
so
before
we were born

SPIRITED AWAY

was stumbling through
the glowing embers of
downtown Cape
Town South Africa

so much of the collateral human
damage vaporized by
the strike from the SLBM

which got me thinking
(last thought I would have
as the insane Rad levels
began to get to me)

thinking
that if anything war
has taught us
dissecting a cat
is easier, more egregious,
and worse
a Sin
than performing any
such dissection on
an innocent human

at which, I guess,
you would tell me

no one
is innocence
power is everything
we get
what
we deserve

this I would loved to
debate with you at
my old university
perched
below the mountain

but I hate to think what
remains of that edifice
at the epicentre
of the blast

I’m pretty sure
it got spirited away

MR MOUSTACHE

Oh Mr Moustache
king of the filthy lyrics.
wah-wah guitar
and free speech

throwing sonic
bombs of complexity
at stupidity

there with that f-you
stare in a dress on
that infamous record cover
strictly commercial only
in it for the money
tuning
the beauty
of our discord

I wonder why your satire
never quite flattened
your targets like,
to be frank, those
zag-zig
moments in
your outrageous punch

Oh Mr Moustache
if you stab us
do we not jump?

KOI (for G.)

hope this message
reaches you somehow

just to kick off
the world has become a darker
place since you departed
odds on now
we are going
to wipe ourselves out
in nuclear war

stopped by your old place
much had changed, your
inimitable spirit and vibe
long departed
and I thought of
your fish, those koi
gliding through their pond
in your front garden

had a conceit of myself
speaking to them but
they did
not appear to hear any voice
or I must gave missed their answer
sound travelling air to water
one medium
to another

who knows what get’s heard,
distorted, filtered out?

what message is received
what gets missed and
travels on and
on
destined to expire or
carry on forever

life still chugging along
a flash of silver scales
beneath
the surface

I wonder how they saw you
   how much
         they remember now

NUKE

I sense
your guard is down

at long last
it is the moment for
which I have been waiting

I am the dark secret of the stars
about to manifest
in the high street
in your back yard

targeting each and everyone of you
since they first broke my code
found my formula

I am your consummation
devoutly to be wished
I am
your longed for apocalypse
in fissile person

I am everything you wanted
the embodiment of everything
you promised yourselves

I have
always been your fate
rather now
than too late

I am what was written
what you tell yourself
is the truth of scripture

am
your special place
what was always
inside you

and now I find you sleepwalking
brainless, dissolved into shadow

believe my task is done
have done my duty
can now rest in
beautiful silence

bury my power
for another few million years.

IN A STATION AT THE METRO REVISITED

IN A STATION AT THE METRO (REVISITED)

the apparition of some fire-bearded poet named Ezra Pound

enough to shock into freeze frame the entire Metro crowd

POET IN THE RAIN

the rain sizzles
poet splitters
a few syllables
dissolves, melts

flows somewhere
as liquids are wont to

meanwhile
(for a billion meanwhiles)
the cosmos carries on
business
as usual

same old laws
that birthed us, did
us in
upon which we
came to depend

unless
things changed, shifted gear,
found a different trajectory
whole new
direction

could
have fooled us

no one around to document, observe
no one left to tell