SYNCH
“there is no try”
Yoda, The Empire
Strikes Back
should try to
hammer it into
my head
not to worry
what you think
take this
as it is
me
as I am
this my style, that
your style
maybe here’s where
they can
blend
dance in
synch
do much more
than co-exist
SPELL
strength loves beauty
beauty
loves strength
gold, silver
hard and fast law of attraction
hard truth
soft reception
for better or for worse will be
forever mirroring each other can
never break that spell
TROY STORY
am
a reporter on the scene
at the siege
of Troy
rushing for a scoop, meet
my deadline
ask ancient poet
Homer what he saw
in such
vivid
inner colours
SHUFFLE
poem
could love
but poem
is scar tissue
contagious
in the extreme
it shuffles up
brushes against me
ruffles reality
pretends to a
slick wisdom
passes on things
you would not believe
except
you are a reader
and so you do
SUDDENLY SLAVOJ
let us
delineate
four square address
the issue of morpholog
no prefix suffix
juicy bits
sexual punning innuendo
flyby Uranus
double-.entendre allowed
unless, somehow,
by some miracle,
the crude oil of
laughter might
heal
solder the spirit along
its split seam
this I believe
the crude position of
Aristophanes as
adumbrated to the dinner
guests the evening
of the symposium
before he got so alcoholic rhapsodic
did an Icarus
just fell down
gross guffaws of great philosopy
(looking at
you Professor Zizek)
helping us
spin with the world
as it goes round and round
MERELY
chill!
it’s just
a poem
will go
the way of all things
not as if
in this or other simulation
you are playing white
against a dozen black mambas
or
at thirty seconds
trying to out-think, out-run
scorpions galore
outpoint everything that
threatens to make a meal of you
get out of jail
stairway yourself to
Heaven free
over the chaos of life
exercise
sole monopoly
so
chill!
just chill!
it’s just a poem, merely,
will get recycled
we all
get recycled
is the very nature
of the game
DISEMBODIED
disembodied
like a poem
like the chaos
of modern life
like the flame
that goes out
leaves
a cold place
an empty space
you reading the last line
wondering
what comes next;
does anything
come next?
SORRY
Sorry John
and James
for eating your
popped rice
chips
they were
sweet chili flavour:
so delish!
did not
save you
any on
our saviour’s
birthday
LAST
this should be
my last poem
the process
has become fraught
protection permeable
hostile takeover imminent
constant suppression, much
infiltrating
you look at what
is on this page
ask: is this how
savages, animals
write these days?
and you fighting with every bone,
every breath
for consensus?
so many conceptions, contending
definitions at play
out of this problemmatic
few crossovers, no
idea miscegenation
things you
believed getting tunneled under
tunneled through
and always, still
same overriding question
is this how poetry, a single
poem should look
and then what about
humanity, in what image
a single human?
LOCK
love is that
gleaming apple
too high
up
the tree
it is
the death bed of the intellectual
fatal aporia
kills
their categories
it is the puzzle
with too many pieces
for the box
infinite choice
the blurb on
the sleeve
pity barely any fit together let alone
interlock
and you told yourself
it would be all too easy
are we not
so perfectly designed for this?
poems 2 die for