ODD WORLD
in your odd
volumpuous world
I bump into the sacred
trip over the profane
think of all those saints in
the skins of demons
and vice versa
who scrawled
their holy script
all night
with you
thinking
I could have
shown you something
shown
them something
but, alas, you
missed your opportunity
all and sundry
I sink so stately
into the grave
POEM IN STONE
prim village
but turn over
enough stones
shape shifters, Caesars,
serial-killers
and
at the tiny railway station
connecting nowhere
to everywhere
(all
roads lead to)
what slipped off
the rails
what
dark dreams?
(always a train
in a surrealist painting)
Oh and
there the tunnel
who knows
if there is light
if there
is other end?
something big
once stirred here
dared
a big net
to catch it
people remember, will
tell you,
people forget
what brought them here;
what took them hence
ONE AND ONLY
imagine
you are one
moment
naked in
the street
in Hamburg
the one before
in Strawberry Fields
with Yoko
the next
being introduced to
Paul
the next being blown
away by a jealous soul
with a snub-
nosed special
imagine a
world become
so non-linear
everything you are and were
revolving forever on a carousel
imagine that you
are
have become
none other
than
Mr Sergeant Pepper’s
one and
only Billy Shears
AWAY
friendly fire kills
without any
bad intentions
its bullets and bombs
morally superior
but let us pause
for a moment here
for establishing shot
and then
extensive tracking
as we go for
metaphor and
superimposition
passing all those broken
riddled statues
of Mary
and the Christ
in search of a man
called Wilfred, dead now
but formerly a captain
machine-gunned within
sight of peace and an
end of the war
correction, apologies, end
of the war to end all wars
pity we are late
for he was the all-
time expert in battlefield elegy
thinking
of butchered aid workers
he would know
what to write
he would know
what words to kill the lie
sweep away
convenient narrative
a Britsh poet himself
already long-forgotten
the art of a true-blue
true-
blooded imperial culture
to sweep such things away
M (for MISTAKEN)
one of us
be destined to
pop first
skin getting thin thin thin
under oxygen helium
pressure
way to go
at last birthday
or
aiming for the Heavens
aspiring
for it all
golden ring atop
that pole
start to channel
the music of the spheres
as giddy we stretch
to embrace
the stratosphere
but here again
skin to thin and
little big bang
be our evaporation
Oh I saw that film
the red balloon
cried like a child
because I was one
caught betwixt and between
a life that has been loneliness
a death that is nothing
nothingness
unless
I am totally mistaken
STUCK
stuck a mirror
on the wall
opposite
the shelves
containing
my kingly
horror collection
clown
down the drain
Jack so dull
when the words
not flowing
wonder
what bricked up
behind these booksp
(technically closet
skeleton can
never
read
its reflection)
mirroring these spines
such a blessing
that when I die
they
will not need
to search
to find whereupon
read
scare themselves
to death
GRAND MASTER
I have read
followed, listened to
so many
Grand Masters
but none
have ever addressed
the right opening
to choose
and the strategy
for the middle game
and
endgame
when playing
chess against Death
OVERLOOKED
I awake
fresh from nightmare
lost my way in a city
of memory spiralling upwards
into the mountains
totally transformed beyomd
all that I
can remember
wanting
to get home
needing to get home
but no sense of direction
as with every step
I climb higher
and higher
passing a giant cathedral
like structure, itself
like a mountain with
a trio of spires as
its peaks, its pinnacles
all the wonder
I should feel submerged
by the fear
and no way of phoning you
because I am
out of reception, do
not have
your number
so far for you
to drive
in the night to
collect me
your death three years ealier
somehow dream- forgotten
crucially overlooked
SYSTEM
and now I find
and now I find
gymnast and
syntagm
are so intimate
anagrams
of each other
spooky action
at linguistic distance
but what do I know
of such unique connection
all my lovers
ghostly, some
actual ghosts
the dust of all
that was desire questioning
my stridence
gives the idea
puts me on notice
that it is
all simulation
and when you undress before me
in name only
getting the sweet syntax
up and running
see what you are up to here
Mr Shakespeare or
Earl
of Oxford
whatever you wish to go by
privately call yourself
spilling from Juliet’s lips
the philosopical truth of
a true rose
even if
a thousand years of cynicism
scepticism stands in its way
when you
go inexplicable mystery
and wrap yourself around me
making us (yes, channeling you
Professor Noam Chomsky)
branches, leaves
upon the same tree
graft taking
we can grow now together
happy
(who would not be) though
this all
feels pre-planned: our
perfect simulation
poems 2 die for