Tag Archives: AI art

BUKOWSKI

BUKOWSKI

the old typewriter
is trying to seduce
Bukowski

endeavouring
to drag him to her table
across the room

so much inertia
here
   to conquer

and words he needs
to write
    clogged up toxins
he needs
to get out of his system

and balance
the creative lassitude
of his celebrated life

THEY WAKE UP THE DEAD

THEY WAKE UP THE DEAD

they wake up the dead
bomb their graves
so as to cart
off their bones
to interrogation
solve terrorist incidents
still
    on the books

they wake up the dead
have killed so many
that the underworld
is overcrowded
plus no creches
or kindergartens down
there for
the infants freshly killed

they wake up the dead
to kill them once
twice
    thrice, any number of
times that is
the sacred
     number of times

just to be sure to
be safe from
monstrous insecurity

THIS DAY

THIS DAY

we detaining you
this day

because we suspect
you know someone
who knows someone
who
   knows someone

who knows
something
                maybe

and have you down
to your skants
in case you got
a missile launcher
in
   your pants

you’ll always remember
this day

the day you were intelligence
                                  gathered
by the experts

whose consummate expertise
got us
   into this situation
in
the first place

OVER

OVER

I killed you
as act of political revenge

which upset you
and shocked me when
you protested
      your innocence

later
    give and take and negotiation
and more give and take
and more and
more of the latter

the situation changed
      no more thought of murdering
each other
over matters political

happy that
        recourse to such violence

could only be the result
of neglect or jealousy or
                            bitterness
of a far more
intimate, homely, face-to-face  variety.l

in the
final (by which
we mean
                  human) analysis

Killing each other for or over
love not seeming so bad.

We might
honestly kill each other
                      for the joy and
Hell of it

again and again,

LOVE THEM (GOT TA)

LOVE THEM (GOT TA)

poets, poets
got to
  love them

all shapes
and sizes coming in
fighting
  for the light

some pushing, pushing
edge of that envelope
push so hard it
    boomerang back courtesy
of curvature of
the Universe

some
    dibbing, dabbing

polishing the inside
of that bubble that it shine
like a
    jewel and
still
keep its perfect shape

room for both in this place
I say
    no lebensraum issue
either way

perfect bubbles and
magic
    messages from
the back of beyond beyond

you see
what life be like
    without either of them

THIS PLAY

THIS PLAY

I came to the play
               in suffering

Hamlet this night
sure to be my guy
having pencilled him in

but no sooner ghost-talking
guards appeared on the parapet

then down in the audience
war broke out
        between those who
swear by
William of Stratford, and
              those who proclaim
a new king
by name of de Vere

sad that either way we
facing some
         serious anonymity

which is hard for any writer
     but perhaps par for
      the greatness course

I am told these poor folks
put their whole
        souls into it

and next time you scan
not a single bone remains

spiritual, symbolical, material
not a shred
     of connecting evidence

it’s like the stuff
  wrote itself or
             ethereal hand
              blessed the page

no chance here to debate
learning
        versus innate craft, the role
pain played in it

of trace of the causality that
produced this irreplaceable shape

         and there we are
watching, dreaming

          as it
all goes down without us

pale reflection of being
         perhaps not even

bridge
      best we can be, bridge
broken or
magnificent

Hamlet
dead again
      
                 as always

In state of acute longing some suffering,
      I came this play.

KILLER

KILLER

daleks and poets
it is the old antagonism

they have their bombs
and wire and goebbels-bibles

we have
      our metaphors and
satire that can kill

and now we are free range
and open targets
                  better we genocide
them “the people” say

but
   we are sitting
           on ancient weapons,
your words
    rallying to our cause are
exposing your
bleakness
       rebelling against you

even
as you speak
         (if you call it speech)

and

      come to think of it

cowboys and aliens

in the sacred spot of their
crash landings

        this is a juicy antagonism
turned connection

the cosmos putting this
planet to
                     strangest use
(a poem
       here
                      never
           make the news)