PINNACLE
just after
mind melds
involving
the big five
in Kruger
I climbed Annapura,
Lhotse and, what’s its
name?
Oh, yes,
K2
backpack full of
bottles of
oxygen
for the death zone
plus
packs of wors and
jumbo cans of beer
for what use is
summiting if
you can’t
have a party?
hacksaw blade stuck
under my arm conveniently
that up on the pinnacle I
could Table Mountify
everything
make it
nice a flat for
cable cars and those
who
ascend for a view
SHEET MUSIC
no more poems
to come
between
us
no more
lines of
loss and
longing
to twist
the wrong way
only
bland conversation henceforth
subject matter set
to the
usual and everyday
stuck on
ultimate respect and
regard for
the space
between us
no poem
hereafter
ever going to wrap us
between the sheets
PERFORMATIVE
called in
a psychologist
to do
my rewiring
a young man
from
Zurich
who
left me
positive
negative
in the dark
with all his
talk
of polar archetypes
and selfless shadow work
PLATEAU
it is a beautiful planet
a picture postcard world
without parallel
or once was,
somewhat in decline these days
but still, sadly,
a place of
barbarity, foreboding, danger
she dark imaginings
amongst
it’s most extreme creatures
place where
grace is
lethal
colour is camouflage
and things
have learnt the vital lesson
never to
seem
exactly what they be
and here we now return
after so much time
to see
how much has changed
how much
remained the same
what exceeded
and what fell short of,
far short of,
our expectations
must be something in
the atmosphere
so inimical, utterly
resistant to
growth in awareness
movement to understanding
breathtaking when
you consider the lost potential
this need to settle
for
permanent impasse
level
down to
low plateau
TUNE
just dust
I am
just dust
living
dust
already almost
altogether
piece of the pattern merely
a note
a chord maybe
a line
a stanza
never a whole song
or story
scratchy old time
like Loony Tunes
first cartoon music
a whim
of gravity
speckle
of light
me or the cosmos
toss up here
as to
the more
unfathomable
PUNCTURED
on its way
to a smooth landing
3I/ATLAS must
have decisively
punctured
Fermi’s paradox
unless it didn’t
unless
it was just a comet
after all
a speed freak comet,
utterly anomalous
without
respect for comet rules
and the abiding
principles
of our scientific community
and all that talk of
lights nicely
planned trajectory
(worryingly
strategic) and
messages sent to
NASA telling
us no
worries within
the hydrogen band
just the usual junk
that orbits
common sense in
our media eccentrically
product of our
demand for excitement,
need for
hysteria
fear of annihilation
longing
for signs and
last ditch
hope that the cosmos
might notice us
assign us place
and propriety we
just do not deserve
ACCORDINGLY
they branded
me
no name brand
inked my
barcode
on my palm
shaped
my image
professionally
for my launch
structured
me accordingly
inside and
out
every thought
and feeling
precisely aligned
TESTED
Turing tested
you in depth
took you out
on the road
put your through
preposterous strains
and stresses,
accumulated
pressures
and how
in return
you shifted my paradigms
reduced me just
to subtext, secondary theme
note
in your silver
metallic song
strange how just
a simple perusal
of your geometry
has opened my mind
to infinite shape.
THERE
we poets
talk
whisper
mutter
to
shout
at each other
trade in each other’s carbon
signature
breathe each
other’s rich
careful air
have constructed a web
that all of you
might
carry with you
in heart, mind
or stored on a disk or
stuffed
into a pocket
something in this time
of plunging darkness
needed to
spell out
every which
way
threaded through every
atom, molecule in
all possible
states, positions,
configurations
we are there
imagining
imagining
we are there
NOT EMILY; NOT SYLVIA
a narrow fellow
in the grass
many
narrow fellows
in that casket
a multitude
fat ones too
an eager worm
for every image
let alone
entire stanza
but your
career my dear Sylvia
so opposed, openly
celebrated
out there
no corpus magnum
opus kept
under lock
and key
which we do discuss
you and I
you and me
through interface
in the other of your soul’s voice
relayed to me
filtered through
divine circuits as
pure
simulation
Lady Lazarus how
quietly you rose
how agreeable you are
how bizarre it be
and treasured
thing
the very metaphor
of our shared
laughter
me
your narrow fellow
in everything
happily
accomodating
being accomodated
poems 2 die for