farm – poems 2 die for

SET APART

on the farm
so isolated
set apart

from everything;
absolutely

    interconnected

INCIDENTAL

farm told me
(all the leaves, plants, creatures)
we not
integral
we incidental

not the place to
which all road
and rail leads
like we eternal
station central

no
here where green
proclaims its domain,
its power so
insistent

may flash
a hint, a glimpse,
of that
we forsook, place
we abandoned,
upped
and right out left

a paradise, albeit the odd
viper eyeing me out there,
studded with
the occasional ambush predators

PRODUCTION

on the farm,
perforce, we
put our heads together

everything under the Sun
puts is head together

wheels
set in
motion

as
word speads

and Heraclitus of Miletus
stops by

a number of things
brings to mind

solid argument inclusive: that
all is
twice, thrice,
there is nothing that
is not in process

meanwhile (forgive the inadvertent South African
colloquialism) not
back
at the ranch
but in the heart of Johannesburg

they are staging a production
of Euripides’ The Bacchae
have
already
launched into
the opening scene

which very instant, being
in the audience my
mind
thirsting for
ecstasy
veers towards chaos, entropy,
fractal mathematics

as we suddenly welded into one
sift and exchange
that whole Pandora’s box
of memories and
recollections

whispers and ghosts
the very
incantations that
pull aside the veil, strip
off the veneer

speaking for myself
but
perhaps all

hardly able to wait, kill
that terminal longing,
set eyes
upon the mask
that is
dark Dionysus’ face

PLAAS ROMAN (farm poem)

crossing the farmyard
to my domicile

trod on something in the long grass
perfectly camouflaged

looking
for all the world

like a stick

which
of course it was

my penchant for attracting
disaster wrong this instance

not the ambush predator
viper with potent haemotoxic
venom we
both assumed it to be

nor
Cape Cobra (here in
South Africa we have
the prettiest cobra)
nor Boomslang, nor Rinkhals

nor that speed freak elapid of
supreme flowimg motion

olive-gray in colour
hero of
Tarantino’s Kill Bill
but with
silky pitch-black mouth

and me
child of 53, making me
in Chinese
terms
a fellow of that brethren

slow and quiet until called upon
then red-hot writhing, razor
sharp wire

sign of the
creature closest to the
Earth (as I am now) and
thus
with such gravitas

noodle with
nuclear chemistry, one
drop

never instil

thought here on the farm
might
get away from him

hide from the god of life-
energy where

there is
no much

life energy

everywhere I look

plants sacred
to you

and the way you crushed me,
destroyed me
injected me with tragic

beginning to fear
I might be sacred to you too

never to evade you
ever
escape your clutches

as my last days run out
and I can
no longer walk your wild

or love
your women, the ones
you singled out

chose for me perfectly

dreaming of our resurrection
wondering what
you
will tell me, what

you will ask me
man to god
(schemed as a
dithyramb)

about the shared pain and ecstasy torture and beauty

of this life

(forever fall
forever rise)

OF BELIEF Thought I should write love poem to (and for) the world but it probably will not end how I think it should how i wanted it to thos is the issue with creation never turns out how you hoped or thought and there is no going back to the drawing board Oh the architecture happening right now in my brain, my head, lying naked on the bed in my tiny house on this farm curtains closed lights left off (even if out of loadshedding but a moment before) imagining I could just rachet up the sensitivity and feel the flowers grow hear them breathe and talking (thinking) of nakedness, my dear, is yours not overdue? but hold that thought even worse news from the Middle East streaming in pictures of Dantesque horror words of insanity, of satirical vulnerability everything up to the max pushed to extremes (not what Aristotle was thinking what he figured on teleology would derail poor Socrates in his project of self-knowledge and moral sphere) things here so naked, exposed in all their ugliness (by every metric) bleak intensity things the world of the farm would not believe and so naked as I am speaking to you calling out to you wondering what your good self might make good or best and even better in whatever illogical gradation fullness of our together might sway the nature of belief.

FARM STORY

FARM STORY I am all farmed out Tick tock me here on your doomsday clock on the farm you will see I need my tik I need my beautiful tribe of B to get me atomic golden shower of abracadabra (hashtag Hasbara) help me to isolate myself stand against every creature, every animal calls itself humanity doesn’t rwconize tgd beauty of a bunker buster pure cluster bomb (failing which there is always the nuke in the cupboard) but this just the beginning every true alpha needing its omega its sky raining gamma needed to sort out everything unspeakable that crawls yes my dear saviours in your sanctified flavours need to demonize every farm imsect out here every stick of farm produce every evil land mime of flower only B’s Heavenly true propaganda hits the spot righf spit can correct my poor eyes attune to the power show things as really are.

MARS

MARS

Ah, Mars
you red-eyed god
of grain
and guns

here on the farm I smell
your secret cordite,
perpetual war
concord, discord
forever
in battle

circle of being, conflict
of life

the trees, the corn
all
akin to spears

as they stand in phalynx
tall and proud

except

that is not it
at all

this is the shape of thinking,
seeing that you bring

reducing to raw red, rampant
green, crude
primary
colours and basic shades

as if it were all one
monochrome chess
games

with its millions of moves
and permutations

light and dark on
opposite sides of the board

split from each other
drawn up in opposition
files and ranks

a most
feudal arrangement