CASCADE weaponize this poem harshly weaponize it softly need to defend the indefensible suck good blood truth (and hashtag) out of my thumb opposable entity, fattest of fingers and hey hey Deleuze happy hanaka Hegel me in line with arm raised high to deflect legal contention from terror, my accomplice me now in bed waiting for breakfast, as simple as a one slice two slice open-face sandwich making for an interesting dialectic, however you elect to interpret reader writer master slave blurring of these categories, until, who knows?, look to the East! Look to the South! maybe a cascade
Tag Archives: ICJ
BY THEIR FRUIT
BY THEIR FRUIT
I have such trouble
writing this poem
my words swell fat
like overripe fruit
burst on
my page, on my fingers
covering everything with
sap wet, thick
and sticky
in colour and feel
indistinguishable from blood
and these
are the same words
the golden children of the law
use in the court room
where
such words do
not explode, do not
shatter the auditorium
with blood-juice
and bomb shrapnel
proving
(sadly, sadly)
that there will always be something about poems, about
poets
and the power
of their poetry
that remains forever
at a distance
tragically unreal
STUMBLE
STUMBLE
we were falling asleep
trying to left-brain
follow every
technicality after
technicality
(South Africa got no case
because we forgot
to insist on
a reply)
but we will show you
dispute if you
diss our
deep integrity
(bet after this you
wish we were
your legal
arm)
but where
were your human fire and
intensity
moments of raw humanity
saw only a shifting of the goal posts
a stilted conjuring act
none of that Irish flair and poetry
threatening to scorch the beams in
the palace roof bringing it tumbling down, everything upside
down
and tumbling down
the world tipped South and
the Southern Cross
pointing the way
dear next Dante
away
from Hell
and towards Heaven
yes no poetry, not a flash at all,
just stumbling responses
and mixed-up
papers shuffled like cards but
all of them
jokers
not a poet
in the pack
not one
homegrown (perhaps
you did
them in
as you did every voice in Gaza
especially
those of the poets
OLD JOHANNESBURG
OLD JOHANNESBURG
waiting by the roadside
in old
Johannesburg
maybe
resurrection
will
befall me
maybe redemption
will come my way
failing which
perhaps
a circus or carnival will
come
round the corner
sweep
stubborn old ideologies
off the street
as serious joke or
perhaps just giggles
a parade of Zizeks
tumbling past me as if
Red Square
comedy
where figures from the
Commedia del Arte
are here
to replace tanks
look
seriously at the world and
it suddenly goes
Toy Town
confirmation bias
on open display for
everyone to see
fat
conspiracy here:
buses passing every few minutes
not stopping for everything
the drivers
believe
waiting for the curtains to open
waiting for the means
transport a boardgame
on my back
set
of lewd Cluedo
for whomsoever might
wish
to join me
help me
to survive
life on a billiard sphere
hustling to get by
wanting to be Master
always
a slave
waiting for the lights
to darken
have
lost the book
in which
I was made
****
after a
while
everything
slithers
snakes and
ladders
perhaps better to
devote time
to generating boardgames
rather than
squandering my existence
writing
poetry or composing fiction
****
bumper to bumper stacked together
owe it to them
to not close my eyes,
keep looking
or everything before me
will disappear
and this funeral procession
miss its target
some poor
exclusive dignitary
about to skip his rendezvous
with captivating tombstone
of proportions extreme
so much here
so mechanical
yet so many
vital nuts and bolts
****
bureaucracy
is horror
bureaucracy
is death
I sat with
Slavoj Zizek
through yet another sunset
telling jokes
about philosophers
telling jokes and
the end of the Universe
(not that this necessarily
implies a causal connection)
today the lawyers
of old and new Johannesburg
are
heading North
with a holy bone to pick.
I sat by the roadside
play after play
oodles of
words, scenes,
dialogue
even
still in my head
ghosts of tales
still
to be told
(media marvels yet
to unfold)
old Johannesburg
TUXEDO
TUXEDO
tuxedo
is name of
the game
you file your suit
hoping
to agree
of definitions
promise not to fight
over whether
this or that
homonym
accidental or
intended
all puns here
quite intended
but here they all are
creatures
of the South
my fellow-travellers
fat portfolio in their satchels
speaking in each codicil
humanity out loud
arguing
that a single sluk of
this evil
can
erase angelic face
pollute the God-given concept
of eternal, outright righteous
hold mirror up to Emperor
to deconstruct
all mind of god
yes
a time when
courage must be superhuman
to vouch for
civility, decency
to put us on the spectrum of
one indivisible being
and this to argue
before history, in
tuxedo
lest the lie, the quite lie
the brutal lie, the truth
denying
crushing line
find its path to become supreme
FOR HUMANITY
FOR HUMANITY would like to thank you for what you have done for rationality thank you profusely for what you have done for the truth above all, thank you for what you have done for human decency and humanity but for what you have done for God I think best to leave it to Him to thank you Himself
SHINY
SHINY
.
people
become evil
it happens
every
day
especially
the shiny ones
in all they do
and
say
people
become liars
it happens
every day
they gibble
gobble goebbels
the
truth
it happems
every day, every
single way
and who do it
best? you ask
well who
could it
be but
the shiny ones
justified in
every single
lie
lie
upon lie
because they
are
the ones who
need
to shine
day in
day out, day up
day down
the only
shiny side
they
are the shiny side
CURLED
CURLED let me take a break from being a political animal writimg to protect humble humanity from true zealots of God missionaries who taste like, smell like (a bit too much sulphur there in with the holy napalm, cordite white phosphorous) feel I have to speak for them nobody listening when they speak for themselves (but now from the South some eighty-four page document so much devil in that detail some holy spokesperson said) time for me to go snake style serpent sidle up next to you slither out of fighting for humanity to fighting for you or just curling up close forked tongue doing the talking flickering into every hidden secret place ultra-sensitive your own true King Cobra we need you if not to entertain then pay (at least) lip service to our huge fantasies we souls of the great serpent born in the snake year
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.
CHALLENGED
CHALLENGED
Like all criminals
I am arithmetically challenged
cannot count up to,
never mind beyond
20,000
so many integers missing
fractions and
decimals
buried under the rubble
so levy your articulate accusations
against me
that I am
chlld of darkness rapist
animal in
league
with the Devil
go through the text, this text,
if not the eighty-odd
closely argued
pages
and we shall see
before Heaven and Earth
whose soul
is damned here
awaits
historical damnation.
poems 2 die for 