poem poetry – poems 2 die for

PEEL

I watch you
peel
wondering if this be
a whole new being
or at least a new species

I would touch you
but that might produce
an intensity
at which flesh dissolves

or, at the bare minimum, a
moment beyond
our capabilities where
we hurt each
othes’ feelings
.
perhaps
(but no quid
pro quo) I should
peel too or
simply
stand before you
as yet unpeeled

or stretch out in a tableau
of tender vulnerability
peeled of everything
extraneous and
at the
heart of my need

what
is the worst that could happen?

best and worst
beyond my wildest imagination.

FOR REAL

storms
will come

storms
bringing guns

hail big
as icebergs
your titanic
doubly
sunk

and you backyard
now an
ocean

and you
thinking: it’s
almost as if
someone been
photoshopping
bulls, ragged-tooths and
great whites
into this flood covering
my house
and garden

and the sharks thinking
he thinks
we digital
better explain we
for real

TYPICAL

REGARDING MS SMITH

you sailed up to me
read me a chapter
to alter
my thoughts
about narrative
change the narrative

I smiled
genuinely appreciative
of your considerable acumen in
respect of your art

whilst
as poet, rooted in
my practice
a practice so ancient
you might
deem it instinctive

and so
I let rip, felt the syllables
possess me
catch he, take her
spirit her away

across some horizon to
who can say what location

how she travelled: rode, danced
walked, ran
I don’t frankly care

THE MUSIC

STEPS TAKEN

wash the blood
of these steps

scrub the plaques,
the statues until
it all looks
pristine
ersatz Athenian

shepherd in your student flock
they are your volk
you are
responsible for
their
safe-
conditioning
(yet still might have to
get some tasered;
still might
have to get
some heads beaten in)

sitting securely in your much prestigious chair,
huge and padded
to signal desinated role, supposed supreme authority
power
totally screwed in

and yet
to
remain on
the safe side

better
stuff your ears with wool
turn headphones
up to full

for the skies are screaming,
the heavens thundering,
the ghosts of great
intellectuals who
graced your halls
are Siren-shrieking

throwing out of kilter
all yout factory
procedures

your vaunted
education
is nothing
but lobotomy

duplication of
all
that is
crass, all that is brutal
all that is pitiless,
merciless

apotheosis
of horde

OFF- SCREEN

OFF-SCREEN

your monologue
was so bad

it had to be delivered
off screen
(they couldn’r
cant the camera
to get
a steep
enough
Dutch angle

equally your
plans, designs and
power plays are so
monstrously
devious
they have to take place
behind the scenes

and such a spin put
on them
the world, our planet
might just threaten
to violate
its orbit
which you would claim
is worth it
given the diabolical evil
you are determined to hide

ALTAR

I came to your altar
to worship

check out the place,
speak to your God
and ask him
a few things

but a homily I got
and a dubious one too,
condemning all
barbarians,
is what
I did receive

painting the picture
for me
the one I am supposed
to believe in so
much
I cannot but see

but the picture did
not show itself, I felt
deficient in vision

all the gold everywhere
blinding me

leaving me
struggling for balance

beginning to sympathize
with the thought
that it
would be
better

burnt down.

UNLESS

Yes, what would I
what would we do
without you?

not a joke
and if a joke

not
such a good one

in all seriousness, you ask:
is there, could there be
satire in Heaven?

and me thinking
of loading the dice, going
to my grave
with my face painted

satire? Could it be possible
that they know
that tune
have that
music?
or are the strings of the harps
up there strung far
too tight?

if it is absent from Heaven
perhaps satire would
be conspicuously absent
from the other
place too

no place for criticism, correction
and logical exposure
when
all are condemned

torured
to the limit
for all eternity

beyond pointed comic comment

unless

NO MORE

no more poems, paintings
three act strucures,
somgs

nothing to transport, nothing
to inspire
the visions of
the precious decades
all
thrown out

simple economics really:
supply and demand

city after bankrupt city
cutting, killing
every
creative grant

and now
its all
gon

the books have gone
the libraries have gone
the theatres seem
to be
closing down

the groves
have been ploughed up
statues have been
toppled
their stone recycled
(where other than those
of current corporate
executives
or business tycoons

or the current political class
who make
so much money for them

and good! I say
best
thing out

for words and pictures
that do not commuicate
straight
(as per
cybernetic model) are a
waste of profit
waste
of tax

are as
self-
indulgent, narcisstic a luxury
as they come

above all, that demonic genre,
satire,

which refuses to know
its place

should receive
the kiss
of death
accept

short
shrift

accept
that we
people of
grandeur
pinnacle
summit
polish and

yes,
class

need not
apologize if
we do not
prioritize

in our best intetests
for what
could be
in the national interest
possibly
that does not
first favour us

we
elected to this power
by popular will

and divine
comnand

that the best
must rule

and the
rest

hang