Tag Archives: poem poetry

LAST

LAST

this should be
my last poem

the process
has become fraught

protection permeable
hostile takeover imminent
constant suppression, much
infiltrating

you look at what
is on this page

ask: is this how
savages, animals
write these days?

and you fighting with every bone,
      every breath
for consensus?

so many conceptions, contending
definitions at play

out of this problemmatic
few crossovers, no
idea miscegenation

things you
believed getting tunneled under
tunneled through

and always, still
same overriding question

is this how poetry, a single
poem should look
    and then what about

humanity, in what image
a single human?

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

CLOCKWORK

CLOCKWORK

like clockwork
everyday
      somewhere
in the world

a poet
jumps under a train

they know
it’s a poet

because
they find poems

send them to me
to fix, to edit

a labour of love it is
piecing them together
making them
              whole
editing
      out
            all

the
stuff
  that might
derail the project

all the unconscionable hurt
and real raw pain

BROKEN

BROKEN

poetry is sublime
code

bought you a nut-
cracker best
to crack it

heard the thunder, saw
the lightning created
by yout exertions

thpught if this
             be the reaction
of what we call Nature
tag
   as the cosmos

and if sweet Lennon-
McCartney lyrics be
the end
   of civilization

what would the lightshow be
like
      in store for us
   
  if we were to collide the
exposed
    God particles of the cosmos
                           (beyond
hypothetically)

in order to create singularities
         deep underground?

MACHINE

MACHINE

“The autonomous logico-fantastic machine is something I like insofar as (and if) it serves some real need: the need to enlarge the sphere of what we can imagine, and to introduce into our limited range of choices “absolute rejection” by means of a world thought out in all its details according to other values and other relationships.” Italo Calvino

you must have
read this poem yesterday

or maybe you are
planning
to read it
tomorrow

stop me before
I ramble on erroneously:
you may well
have read the poem
today
    already

perhaps
    you are ahead of me

just how it is
       how this machine works:
nature of the game

it could be  stone-cold fact

that you
are always ahead of me

maybe you read it
when I was undressed

might have told me
I would have dressed
smartly for you

or gone all Lagerfeld
dressed
       to kill

but what use seduction
when I may
well
    be dead already?

what use
          putting pedal to the metal
linguistically speaking
upping the ante
so that
        my words
                 might touch you well?

you read this poem tomorrow

you read this poem
                     how things at
that moment dictated
                       everything

and
    short of signalling every cue
or clue

     nothing I could do

SOMEONE ELSE

SOMEONE ELSE
“My only regret in life is that
I was not born someone else”.
                 Woody Allen

you looked through that
special drawer

for mementos, treasures,
precious relics of time past

you you found were
poems, love poems
written
    for someone else

told
their own story

self-
explanatory

no comment necessary
or required

it is always; there
is always
     someone else

it iz in the nature of desire
who we are
     you don”t need
a doctoral thesus on
Jacwues Lacan

to figure it out
    but it just might help

things
might help

and everybody ultimately
knows that ws all
want, wish
   we were someome else

want to pour our hearts out
to somone who might love
us, want us
or at least listen

but they have no time
for you
      and your pain and
all ypur somebody else troubles

becausw
   in the hearts they know
what you are
is
    less, is negative
is not what

they thought

          too young you were
to figure out the disappointment
on all those faces

first breath
you took

    meant for somebody else

JURASSIC

JURASSIC

we grasp
we create

imaginary worlds
in abundance

hold up mirrors to
our nature than little
old Hamlet could never
have foreseen

would have
fallen off the stage
in pure
stupefaction
(and his author too,
for that matter)

and yet
for all this gnosis

we remain in essence
still prehensile

machine-like, true,
but prone to self-
subvert

and so, like the entire planet,
I was spellbound watching
Mr Spielberg’s tale cautionary

wondrous meditation
upon Mary Shelley’s theme

still
some of that ancient T-Rex,
velociraptor inside of us

the monstrous beauty of
these creatures
blazed across the screen

huge thrill
massive awe

but ultimately, big money,

every cent of which
drained out in sequel after
mindless sequel

these creatures
so passe, defunct,
dead
and threadbare

a different fable
here

about art
and story

and the death of
our species

to be
dragged out kicking
and screaming
into
the light of day.

GO

GO

Let me go
hunter-gatherer

my last breath
burning in my lungs

no need to cry out
try to communicate anything

just take in the light
sharp as the flint tip
of an
arrow

light like this
still a
mystery

and let them think
they have solved it
these
men of science

only for it to
bed to differ
take issue with them

who do see
how we continue
on that wave

one wave
capturing this life
bringing it
all together.

EXCHANGE

EXCHANGE

We thought the goddess
was here incarnate
to impart her blessing

we thought Aphrodite
but it was
time of Kali

wrong mythology, wrong
about everything

and you
hot-stove focused
when
I made my move

the chemistry I thought alchemy
much, much mistaken
this
kitchen stuff, basic
premise of our evolutionary trail

exchange of fluids, no
noble elements, grubby
hydrocarbons

no catalyst here for
transubstantiation
trans-
formation of the real

and we, after the greedy, grasping

clamour of our exchange

left wondering
where we were heading
praying
we not taking
our Universe, the Universe
along with us
for some dark ride

and Kali’s dark eyes filling
with the light that is
her darkness

needing
our little, paltry,
insignificant dance

to spur her upon
her cosmic charge.