Tag Archives: poem

JUST AN ORANGE

JUST AN ORANGE

no mixed messages here
just
   thank you
for the sun juicy orange
you gave me

I love
orange

     and, what is more,
orange loves me

teeth, tip of tongue
and every
bit of my mouth
that can
    put it all together
to make
warm glowing orange sounds

I have prepped
brought to state
            of readiness

the better
to tantalize the giver
with every
    secret of receipt

so now
     I spin it in my hand
my tiny
orange planet

planning to eat it
as sacred mindful act
like a true
Zen master

or eat it not
    as stipulated by the sages

but like a character in
a novel
   by DH Lawrence
or one of his
utterly sensuous teasing
poems

but
    on second thoughts
my mistress of
mixed messages best

keep this
to myself

just pretend it was an orange
gratefully received,
and eaten as
was purposed

nothing more, nothing less
all that
     preceded, all that fancy talk
flowing with crazy
flavour
       dripping with suggestion

should stay
between the two of us, beloved
                                       reader

kept
    to ourselves

FAST FORWARD

FAST FORWARD

fast forward

       when I looked
at the film
again

it had
all been remastered

some
small scenes had
been tripped
    cut down the running
time
to Hell with
     the narrative

villain had
     becoms protagonist
protagonist
did nothing

and old ending
charmingly absurd
had made way
for denouement generic

lay a foundation
for sequel

cruel to laugh seeing
them flounder
in that
wet cement

but I did
so anyway
           (no
samurai suicide
for these
producers and
scripwriters whose

sense of
shame so
not of the best

STICK

STICK

stick to atoms
it is what
you are good at

how can you
escape being
miniscule
if this
is what
you are?

but
big bang too
your soul
ready to mushroom
in power and
glory up
to Heaven

shimmer of light
and
   no one
is home
connection
is fried

but something even
smaller
    hard tp pin down
stick (that
word again) a
detailed
label upon

this smaller that you
dissolve into
gives
    me a
crazy map
down into your
possible probable
sides

and what binds us
has us
    moving, swaying as
one
   in the wave dance
of all that is
suspended between

so-called real and
          so-called unreal

idea
   and its every outcome

we quietly, despite
ourselves working in this

the pieces
             finding themselves
in place

chaos
       and perfect
symmetry
      

SAME PAGE

SAME PAGE

sorry reader, nothing for
you today
     I’m om strike with
the other poets
over fair treatment

do you not see the barrier
here in the middle of the text
where it
         says “picket line”
and begs
you not to cross it?

not just pens
and paper and AI assisted
wordprocessing programs

we have
to seize
the means of production

without
      full autonomy over
the forces of creation

where would we be
where
      would we be?

not between
here and the deep
             blue sea but

right
at the bottom of it
just like drowned Percy
Bysshe Shelley
     pretty much a saint
in this trade

so
deadly serious (that
you convinced yourself was
all about
    markings and meanings
whiff
    of ink
     on a page)
 

FLESH OF THE FAITH

FLESH OF THE FAITH

some buffoon
they call and
who calls
himself
a philosophy
slipping between
jokes
   and profundity
fires away

name of the game
dance
    of truth, not
so easy to work out
the steps
   world and self what
they want to say
for themselves
despite themselves
so damn intricate
so hard to
    pin down when
in this labyrinth every
level brings
fresh layer
  of deception

and why
must he always
touch
   his nose?

is that some
kind of tic, sign of
secret brotherhood or
silent spiritual homage
to H and L and
M his
   forebears and yes,
masters

meanwhile I am continuing
this badly scripted
life story
   my tale of desire
full of
twists and turns but
no story to speak
of itself

an iron wall
    dystopian stuff with
digital chip on
the shoulder, chip
in the brain patriarchal
body guards
stretching between my
heart and its object
wherever that
object, whenever it
should
   come into being

that the motor, engine of
everything should
be loss
   and distance, incompleteness
and sadness

great for Slovenian
thinker, South African poet,
though
    getting it down in all
its harrowing
complexity
      could be an industry
might
not
    keep your warm at night
(flesh
    of the faith to
deeply
    hold on to) may
not even pay the rent at all