TIPS
the tips
of the trees
are dancing
the clouds
above them
sublime
as they float
high above
composing, dissolving —
I feel them
pulling me
up,
towards them
here below
drinking chilled
tap water
when the vista would
seem to demand
sparkling wine
KNOWING FULL WELL
was writing to you
carefully
knowing full well
how the choice
of a wrong word
can devastate meaning
this even though
whatever I did
manage to write
you would most
definitely
not reply to,
perhaps, I contend,
not even read
whilst
this happening
everything went dark
not just for me
but for everybody
and therefore
my forlorn hope
for future
communication
immediately dashed,
suddenly
no longer relevant
worse still, no one
left to
help either of us
understand
no one for us
to talk to to figure
this darkness out
SENSE
you think
they are
margins
left
right
justified
they are
actually fences
actually walls
you
think
it is
editing
in effect
it is
gatekeeping
you write
what you wrote
speak
what
you said
nothing
controversial
nothing to
get upset
about
vetted
and validated
it makes
perfect sense
UNTOLD
and now
for a riddle, a parable,
a moment
of silence
this poem
cannot speak
is best left unsaid
let out
sent on its way
tracking sweeping sky to Earth
Earth to
sky parabola
from absurd truth
of particle accelerator
back and
forth
to ancient text
everything is
written the way it is
you and I
written
the way we are
WONDERING
Was wondering
what the soul
is made of
when I heard
you were praying
as hard
as anyone has
prayed
for a rival’s death
celebrating every casualty
in the war you began
as proof of the supremacy
of your (not my)
one
true God
God of missile and bomb
and accurate targeting
(your
thermonuclear arsenal
proof and sign
of how
thoroughly blessed)
but, forgive me
this sad,tangent to
careen
off at
and let us
get
back to the soul and
stuff whereof made
would if I could
try to manufacture me
a new one
fresh from the factory
smelling like
instant salvation (not
like the rose-
scented stigmata
of Father Pio
sanctified on
account of, yet
despite, his suffering
Rome’s
constantly bleeding,
wonder
of this forlorn age
beloved, most loving
saint
SMALL THINGS
Small things
shifts, nudges,bruises
inconsequential
bending of the light
all unnoticed
until something dawns
familiar turned
alien, climate
changed, landscape
erased
supercaldera
on the boil
and yet
radical interconnectedness
you
spin one way
your soul mate tru-luv
opposite apposite
spins the
other
hard to believe it
hard at work
behind
the radical separateness
on the agenda
to bombard
our feelings
mystical it is, which
is just the acceptable way
of claiming
answers are infinite
the Universe
suckered by divinity
into plunging
for
endless variation
the better
to live, survive, thrive
evolve into something
that will
sense
how it works, show appreciation
Arundhati,
burning the midnight oil,
her queenly pen unwavering.
RIP TIDE
it will all blow over
all be gone
next throw of the dice
compressed
into a space
ever so tiny
lead-lined
solid lock
to which the other
half of me (or
perhaps three-quarters)
telling
my sunlight self
to give him
a fucking break
or
(translating
direct from shadow-
speak)
what hope for the species
when it exalts its dredges
to them
doth lovingly entrust
its final demise
swept out and down
into the ocean trenches
sad
that in this last, last
wager
all so gung-ho
no one left to hedge their bets
rethink the logic
of rip tide
(sinking like stones
one and
all
two
for the price of one,
arm
in arm
no last magic
melding of
their warring selves
LID
Let me
shut the lid
the fallen, the victorious
even the defeated
are right as rain
whilst
there is no sang-froid
with our
two generals
in this game
of question marks
and exclamations
a different kind of
battle is determined
by the opening move
only now
ironically as
my eyes fail me
do I start
to see the patterns
too late
for that old crazy
dream of mastery
my default settings
not exactly in tune
with the
exponential dimensions
and configurations
of this impossibly calculated
not
a hint of gray eight by
eight square exact white
black world
wherein
you have the power
to wipe
the floor with me blindfold.
CITY LIMIT
I am that
three legged thing
the Sphinx confounded
everybody with
in its riddle
everybody, that is,
save Oedipus
soon no doubt
to be buried
with my stick
rather ignominiously
no horse drawn carriage
bearing my casket
but this is the thrill
of being human, that we
can imagine
such impossibilities
extend our understanding
out into
fantastic realms of magic
and dream, or, alternatively,
really real science fiction
and me, as
thing singled out in Sphinx
conundrum, and
thereby
less worthy of
being spoken about
than others
elsewhere on the age spectrum
of the species that I am
a paltry thing
King Leary type thing
mutating
without grace but not quite
your standard cosmic
horror lovely
Lovecraft alien
shapeshifting its way
at mesmerizing speed from
thing
able to devour
a throng, a host,
a whole mechanized division
this
in a single bite
and back
to civilized raconteur
in a simple wipe
of last few
bloodspots from
aristocratic mouth
sipping tea
exactly as custom insists,
and every social
protocol quietly
demands
it
Oh yes,
to connect with such
creatures, transcribe
their awe
is a thing we
are up to
wired as
we are
pushing that fear envelope
to the line
of every boundary
I am
that three-legged thing
with, if not special power,
then at least
dispensation
remember
this
let it
soften your scorn,
failing which,
at least temper your laughter.
SONNY JIM
your music
I do confess
to loving
it madly
you lit our fires
with the song
on the soundtrack
to Apocalypse Now
which Vietnam
venture I am
battling to reconcile
with that
false flag
Gulf of Tonkin incident
and the bizarre revelation
that the Navy Admiral
who was at the heart of
and chief architect
of this calamitous
act of subterfuge
was none
other
than your
dear old Dad
upon which note
of strange coincidence
we end
our poem
conclude all comment
on the Lizard King
poems 2 die for