JASMINE
world tells me
it is
about to end
in the proces
of ending
pours me a porcelain
cupful
of jasmine tea
suggesting
that I do drink
it slowly
which I did,
sipping it softly
moment
by moment
taking to heart
this wise advice
its logic
decidedly not
lost on me
POET IN THE RAIN
the rain sizzles
poet splitters
a few syllables
dissolves, melts
flows somewhere
as liquids are wont to
meanwhile
(for a billion meanwhiles)
the cosmos carries on
business
as usual
same old laws
that birthed us, did
us in
upon which we
came to depend
unless
things changed, shifted gear,
found a different trajectory
whole new
direction
could
have fooled us
no one around to document, observe
no one left to tell
POINT BLANK
Oh Mr Point Blank
I see I have a brand new
archetype
from lover and
magician
suddenly am
become
crone
hunched, crippled
in body whilst
the mind grows sharp
as a scythe
brutally clearer
seeing our nemesis
exactly
long before it is
here
how by the twisted
logic of our being
what
it needs destroy
how
it unfolds.
SHRUNKEN VERSION
shrink me
carve pieces off me
cut me
down to size
reduce me
condense me
down
to single molecule
erase
all that feels it has to burst
its boundaries, explode, expand
be liberating
be transformational
yes,
slice the heart out
of all that stuff
kill all that is poet, poetic,
make the poem, the poetry
go suicide
once upon a time I clung
to the fiction
it was
my purpose and meaning
now
I am far too old
for anything like this
at all
at all
REVERSE GEAR TO THINK
road is tar
and economy
hole and
ideology
Someones everywhere
trying to follow
their roads
to their very end
and everything might be
cul-de-sac ultimately
(straat
loop dood in a
slightly more germanic taal)
hopefully you have the grace
not to mind my language
even as rubber
and aphsalt
chew
up each other
pedal to the metal and
concrete to the petal
me stuck in traffic can
safely presume I am
measurably not alone
in not
loving it
not noticing that the lights
had changed
anxious, Slavoj,
for the lights to change
someone
sitting with a sitar
at the back
of my head
reverse gear to think
this is a raga that will
colour the clouds
thus
colour
the
rain
A DAMN
always
in a rush to
publish
sometimes I leave typos
all over the page
sometimea my
typos
themselves
have typos
sometimes I wonder
when I write
where the Hell
is the poetry
where
is that thing
the poem
not in the world
and apparently
not
on the page
maybe
I should go look
for it
maybe we
should all go
look for it
try to figure out
what the Hell
has happened to it
go
find Dante
he
being the
expert in
such matters
hear it
from hia own mouth
hear it from
all those
voices
the blessed
and the damned
how
small poetry has got
allowed
itself
to get
barred from Heaven
closed off
from Hell
lost
all its real estate
kicked
off its land
nothing big left
to talk about
nobody listening
no
imagination
inspiration
so just shovel that shit put
it
out there
have to
put it there regardless
put it out there
fast and
furious
wrap, drench
the world in it
before it dies
entirely
no time
to worry about
this and that
the dream
of certainty
delusions
of perfection
the time
for care
and concern
has all but
vanished
is long-
time gone
no worry about typos
lack of rhyth, rhyme
missed meaning
what
does not
scan
no one
gives a fig
no one gives a damn
poems 2 die for