WICKED WAYS
On the farm
lots of the things
that
go bump in the night
are seldom ghoulish,
hardly ever extreme
just Nature
unflexing, having
a little fun, making
some sport
reminding me
who’s boss
should I
ever
presume otherwise
keeping it clear
should I have naively
allowed myself
to
forget
justly accused
of having a nerve
to overlook
the terrible abundance, syrup
lips
all she can take
all she
can give
the wonder
of her wicked ways.
RECTANGULAR
Suddenly my head
feels Oh so rectangular
the Romantic poets
of my youth
gone
for good
and that Britain whose
shores my family shunned
when I was eleven
fades into the distance:
a freshly post-
imperial strange,
sad memory
just in time
to miss out on the Stones
and the Beatles
and every dear English
Summer of Love
but did
return for
the dour seventies and
punk deconstruction
my mastering
of Manchester in
my own
inimitably cock-
eyed way
and ducking out as
Mrs T swept
herself into power
our true
English Aphrodite motor
boating in with
new neo-liberal tide
and end
of society
wonder how that went
(smells even at this distance
so distinctly
born-again Nazi
can only imagine
how torturously writhing
poor Orwell in his grave).
T (TO PERFECTION)
don’t want to see
him
have you for tea
know you
to a T
measure you
exacTly
find you wanting
leave you
wanting
wearing my mad hatter’s hat
skyscraper top hat
am going to
invite myself to
that cream
and buns party
see how many tiny mice
get stuffed into
that teapot
until, with
absolute aplomb,
time is called on
that sad
stale old joke
forever recurring, such
crucial, critical distance
between its
sweeiness of promise
and hap-
handed execution
RIGID
when British satire
became
(Oh, what’s the kerfuffle?)
self-
satire
(losing its old
job description)
and British comedy got
its priorities straight
putting its foot
right up its
mouth
when Goon and Python hilarity
cowed in the shadows
onset
of Orwell reality
the laughter of the gods
truly
deserted this place
left it to sink with
traditional flawed false graciousness
under the waves, get
swallowed by
ocean, reign of
old stuck-
up unconscious
spirit
of dead gravity much
bemoaned by Pope
in his assault on all things
vapid, and without
substance yet
weighed-
down by Dunce
rigidity
most righteous of true
rigidities such kingdom
could ever
know
FRESH FRUIT
On the farm
I wonder
about the ideology
of a tree
the entire tree:
roots, leaves, branches
cannot
escape asking myself
what haiku currently
courses
through the flowers
Of course
this is (dear reader, I
do recognise) a
category
mistake
of the first order, and will
no doubt, none too late,
be brought
to my attention amidst
much
wild snarling
and thus forgive me
my contextualizing in a poem
how much theory
pervades
everything (truly
it is in
its nature
to be an invasive species)
and Fall and Autumn and
all those mellow feelings
much
written about
some ode or other
that leaf to dead leaf
is
remembered
all the wherefores and whys
as to how
this system getting greener
came
not just
to be but
into conscious being
ruthless and polite both
stuck in a rut this day whilst
supposed
of infinite variety
and my voice
estranged, coming back
to me alien
as if
freshly arrived, in awe of
all capacity to
shift the
word of perspective
see things differently.
KUBRICK’S CHILD
when
dust
sprouts legs;
begins
to
think
the Cosmos,
amazed
proffers
a nudge
might
venture a wink
SILLY ME
silly me
how silly could
I be!
all the ills
of the world
I do allow
to make
me
sickly
so please
do not simply
condemn
if in this
fall
from grace
I do
maybe
vomit up the odd
poem
or two
perhaps
quite hideous
possibly
outright
sublime
silly not to factor
all that is genius into
the chaos
of big picture
JIGSAW
Oh its
a fucked up jumbled
jigsaw puzzle
so many pieces lying around
broken
dead
badly mutilated
so much so
impossible to put back
together
never going to get
that slick sick
picture
that had you
sold on the box
HARD CORE
searching for
my inner Bukowski
scanning every word,
inclination
ruthlessly scrutinizing
fastening onto
all the scruffy, seedy places
where, turning over
some unkempt stone,
I might
just find him
turning
the tables upon myself
tables I can now easily
drink each
and everyone
under
sinking my last inspirational shot
to welcome first light of dawn
and
then there are the
creatures of night’s pleasure
I might now
feel
free to consort with
the boxes of cigarettes
stacked mile high
I should
suicidally smoke through
in
the name of art
burnishing an image
burning my trash
openly
on all and sundry’s lawn
that manicured lawn
cropped
close as a Brazilian
delight
in the mind as such
thoughts, hard
to the core just
spurt
from my mouth
AND DICED
Oh the satire
ran away from me
shunned civility,
turned severe
demarcated sharply
for slicing
sheep on the one side
goats on the other
yet
to preserve some
semblance of balance
nothing in the middle
a house divided:
those who laughed
set against
those who cried;
and those, true
to the sport
who both
laughed and cried
and then up
on high prior so
monstrously reversed
those whose guilt of complicity
though masked by
whatever
fake camouflage
ran
horribly
deep
that like Vampires in the light
suddenly stripped of immunity
and with
ripped-off
disguise
all they dare do is lie
down with their victims
(human
at last) wither
and die
(sadly only
metaphorically, in my
wildest imagination, even
though the world,
planet,
cosmos
crying out for justice;
desperate for correction).
poems 2 die for