FOR REAL
No one here
is for real
everyone
is a smiling simulacrum
a fiction of shadows
a ghost voice pleading
poverty from.beneath
the stage
trap door
as if that is not
the place they should be
writing antitheses
finding sustenace
in the darkness
Satire on Rishi Sunak’s idea everybody must do Maths at school until 18.
THEY
they papered over the cracks
until there was only paper
the whole wall
was wallpaper
steadily depreciating
but as of now
worth a ton
but so much
focus on the paper
we were told
to forget about doors
forget about windows
forget about foundation
forget
about structure
and then
they wrapped all
our joys in
smothering, swaddling paper
killing them off
telling us
out with
the old in
with the new
and loss of our joys
pleasures and
freedoms
part of the
new beauty
wealth of
our trajectory
purpose of life reconceived for all
DEAD ISLAND
Oh something sank
in the history channel
something sank
having run aground
for our part
we floated nonchalantly
around that dead island
all those high tales, great fables,
dead as the stone
of a cenotaph to me
Oh spectral place
and yet
the juries are still out
it is conceivably not death
but a morbid moribundity
that plagues this place
fed its viral rage
a flag burned
not the whole fabric but
just a few cigarette holes skewered
right through it
as apocalypses go
it is like a half-wit
smothered, a
candle snuffed
the air
heavy with phosphates, nothing yet
so sulphurous
stared down to find the bottom of the tide
but there
not a live fish swam;
nothing
swims in this.
BROKE-ASS
came across a broke-ass poet
sort of all medieval minstrally meandering around
strange how the Carolingans also had their surrealists
just didn’t know it
thought that search for artistic holy grail
the most dubious pilgrimage,
most apeshit quest
of them all
and you have to be careful
in an age of belief
you cannot shake off
full-throttle God-rollicking
divine diss from place most
high
you are not going to come back from
recovering in sanatorium
placed
on injured reserve
but
here
in our age of sidetrack
no one
gonna get
allow themselves to get
railroaded
so hopelessly
find themselves suddenly cast up on desert shore
fate worse
than turning bankrupt
becoming the thing
your father’s whole being was
so well protected against
and yet
my dear saint, so grievously arrowed,
a smattering of suffering (dint
of raw chaos)
might just do the trick
to shoot you
to Olympus for
(statue, no statue) sweet consultation with Apollo
TRAVELERS/TRAVELERS
Travelers
is close to the border
nation to the North where
people are
same same
meanwhile sat in Travellers
downing best Springbok-level
golden lager
just now
might get lucky
or the Universe
my Universe our Universe
might end
of a sudden
thanks to
climate change or
inertial
guidance
have drunk so much
am in no
fit state to drive
am in need
of some guidance
need to
go full Horus
align myself
with the stars
shame
on my masculinity
so drunk already much
philosophical discussion but
no
stinky finger
no sneaked innuendo
headed in
direction and to conclusion
could label
quick relief
but all your Northerners
(way further North than Botswana
if not
quite to
the pole)
must be bemused
by all these South Africanisms
just now
meaning
next few couple of seconds next
few
billion years
all is good in this haze-brain state
courtesy of Dionysus
perfectly scientific
given the relativity of space time
strictly
interpreted
according to
the single-wave
superposition (imposition)
totally out of
your right mind
brutally simplified
many-
worlds theory
of suiwer quantum mechanics whole- sale
human
supply
and cosmic demand.
ABOVE
am so low
on devil energy
so low
on toxic masculinity
the serpent in me
low on hard
muscular power
the shattered lives of
those I loved
and left
envenomed, possessed
by my seed
left by the wayside
watching from the roadside
as I four by four
steamroller ahead
trucking my pilgrimage
to my date with destiny
no one more
sure of
his role in this world
place in Heaven, my
paradise above
poems 2 die for