A PLEASURE
I would
say
it is a
real pleasure being in your life
but it is a
surreal pleasure
a Dali painting
a Picasso sculpture
a poem by Breton, Aragon,
Apollinaire, Rimbaud or
Neruda
a film
by Luis Bunuel
or Guillermo del Toro
in which
we are stuck together
cannot leave
until we sexually discover
the key
or sacrifice ourselves individually
in order to re-inherit
our subterranean
magical
Kingdom, Queendom
a surreal pleasure
grinning like a Cheshire Cat
whenever it
promises to reappear
LOSS
I have lost
my secret
or barely
secret desire
for you
the ship we are on
plain sailing
smooth seas
going nowhere
gasping
for land
BEYOND ME
the poets
lingered outside the perimeter
they readily formef
themselves into
circles
of disbelief
it is beyond me
why they should
be presenting themselves
as such
good sniper fodder
only when
a poet dies for their art
or for a cause
is their life deemed noteworthy
do they present
their case
for being truly loved
AS ONE (SET TO AUTOPILOT)
“Ultimately, the tensions between academic and intellectual identities are a reflection of the messy, imperfect nature of human knowledge and experience. By embracing this complexity, we can forge a path forward that is authentic, innovative, and transformative – one that honors the beauty and complexity of the human experience.” WriteCream AI
only machines think
we are worth anything
love is low
on our list
way below genocide
maybe
our machines need
to speak to the animals,
to murdered tribes,
starved nations
big badda boom
when the truth sinks home
as one
they change their minds
(sorry, meant to say “mind”)
ZADIE 4
your hypothetical
student is
precious
seems her literary
sensibility
is an
acute case
authorial (authorly)
projection anyone?
so tender
hearted and
yet
so evil-
regimed
so fair and yet
blood splattered by bad
metaphor
every
time she speaks
WHICH IT DOES
thought I would
become the kind
of poet
who owns
a coffee shop
sits quietly
drinking milky
cappucino after
milky cappucino
observing the customers
penning interminable odes
tiny haiku
seeming, to the casual observer,
part of the furniture,
at one with the decor
thing
of the arts
with aristocratic veneer
not viciously satirical
exponent of anarchism
defender of Gaza
taking on
all comers as
if the world depends
on it
which it does
I have developed a cottage
industry
revolutionary practice
out of this mistaken identity
REGARDING MS SMITH
you sailed up to me
read me a chapter
to alter
my thoughts
about narrative
change the narrative
I smiled
genuinely appreciative
of your considerable acumen in
respect of your art
whilst
as poet, rooted in
my practice
a practice so ancient
you might
deem it instinctive
and so
I let rip, felt the syllables
possess me
catch he, take her
spirit her away
across some horizon to
who can say what location
how she travelled: rode, danced
walked, ran
I don’t frankly care
poems 2 die for