PRECINCT 13
massacre out there
somewhere
British bullets? Hell,
who cares
certainly not
the Mother of All Parliaments
shamefully abrogating
its democratic responsibilities
and duties
turning its
great narrative into
Assault on Precinct 13
BANK ON IT
went to
the bank
not realising
that I was funding
the arms for
your next
military adventure
how could
I have been
standing their
transacting
in all innocence
in the exact
position
you would
wish me to be
CASTLE
you see
a bank
I see
a castle
you
see an
entrance
I see
a moat
you have
a horse, a title,
a suit
of armour
no problem
here asking
the manager
for a loan
BLOOD
I whitewashed
my poem
silly me
I got all my facts wrong
good job
the mainstream
media was
on hand
to correct me
poet nobody
cleans up his act
at least now
I might make
some kind of
headline
worth the whitewash
restoring the page
to its pristine blankness
worth
all the effort picking
up the body parts
mopping
up the blood
ACTOR/DIRECTOR
we came to
your open-air amphitheatre
to watch your
play
but were baffled
by all the mirrors
and smoke (so
much smoke)
and the optical illusions
hideous
optical illusions
further, we must also
confess to being terminslly
confused when it
came to identifying
the genre
obviously historicsl, with
a strand of absurdism
and much theatre of cruelty
(not to speak of
the spuriously apocalyptic
religious revelation stuff)
we could not believe so
many of the characters, the
actors, the production crew
and the audience
met their end in the firsr scene
first act, the number
in steady escalation
until no one remaimed
the bodies piled high on
and around the stage
no encore
no one there
for the final curtain
and no less a great loss,
no sign anywhere of
the original script
PLOY
it was my ploy
to throw some
poetry at you
see if it hits
before you
close me
down
see if it
sticks
in your flesh
like a longbow
arrow fired
at the battle of
Agincourt
and seeing how
I struck you so
grievous
this glorious shot
might incite
some band of
brothers
to loose some volleys
upon your insidious
self
send you off to a place
where you
should feel nore
at home and
we shall
be so much safer
DRY
there is no everyday
there is no ssme street
everything has
been disconnected
there is no
same old
go home
pretend that home
is still as you
have always known it
nothing
has fallen into ruin
nothing has been resprayed
watch all the cheap
global disaster extinction
level event
end of the planet movies
you can get your hands on
an election is coming
you will need
to drink the drinks’ cabinet dry
GONE
same street
same street
you are walking down
the same street
could switch to
automatic
know this street
so well
same street
but not quite
the same street
not
the same street
at all
street has, whoops!
gone
hit by a stick
of huge dumb bombs
was here
a second ago
now you see it
now you don’t
no one sees it
street has gone
no one sees it
no one
sees you
BANDANA
she wore
her bandana
with relish
consumed every
banana I bought her
with radical abandon
and I just
sat there immobile
like a can of stewed fruit
as
she proclained herself
nothing
for her to gorge on here
nothing appetizing
about my
no-
name
pictureless
house brand label
MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
Is this the poem
you have been monitoring?
Is mine
the face in the feed
from your spy satellite?
Are their words here
that triggered
your security
algorithm?
And, even if you
loved or liked this poem
are you
going to swoop down
and arrest or
assassinate me
in the middle of the night?
poems 2 die for