LOST
we have lost
poetry somewhere
down the line
no subtlety
to speak of
no time
to let the word
find itself
relish the slow verbs
the ones
in whose nature
much inclination
to digress
and beauty
what has happened
to beauty in all
its carbon copied, cloned,
photoshopped glory?
our
idea of beauty
(very idea) is
ugliness
itself
ForGIVE
foregive me
for nor laughing
or
if I did laugh,
the wrong
kind of laughter
when you talk
of murder, slaughter,
being
LIVEstreamed
the irony,
as it
should be
just too
much for me
JAR
gnosis
in a bucket
gnosis
in a jar
gnosis somewhere
in the story you
are reading
commuting
to work
down on the undergound
beneath
TS Eliot’s eternally
lost city devoid
of salvation
the subtext written
in a code
beyond modern
comprehension
hidden
somewhere between the lines
SQUIZZ AT K2
I am digging through
rock and concrete
searching
for secret gospels
in the ruins of a bombed
out city
who can say there is not
a pitcher buried deep
or just
beneath
the surface
as it was in ’45
under the sand of Egypt
six feet
tall filled to the brim
with the voice of God?
searching hard around the farm
maybe through the mine dumps
beneath the Colosseum,
Acropolis or
great temple of Mars
failing which
we should explore
the death zone mountains;
Annapurna, Everest,
or tip it over
on its side and take
a squizz at K2
CATHOLIC
something
catholic in each of us
we’re all trying
to become saints
supersaints
at something
get our statues
and relics
into thd hall of fame
that the text of our lives
be housed, remembered
stored
somewhere
not buried
beneath the concrete
of a vast library floor
DIAMONDS
before I knew it
my life had
for better
or for worse
gone
full mythological
Homer had
fallen from the heavens
down on
my ten year old
head
and Aphrodite, my god,
how that goddess killed me
then
thereafter
and every day since
if not in
divine form, then with
the active collusion
of her
clones and copies
and would-be
avatars
each as gorgeous as
they were fake
but you
were the one
she must have chosen
specially
inner outer beauty
got in
hearts, diamonds, spades
(and so
your namesake
did
sing of diamonds)
time has passed on
but the poem
won’t
forget
AND THE LOVE
I was listening
to Santana
and you
just walked on by
shouted out to you
but no words came out
was no sound
or you elected
not to hear
or maybe
I just whispered
all I had courage for
best I could
do
all I could muster
truth is the heart of me
someone close
an everyday someone
cut
it out
and you were just
beauty’s archetype
by look
by name
a mirage, thing
off the silver screen, a
biblical queen
and me
somewhere in the desert
all those years
where you
called me, found me
shared
a word
and left
I was listening to Santana
connecting the world
world
which will
end
eternal it is however
sadness, joy
and the love
ANACONDA
was trying
to rhyme
my anaconda
get it
to do tricks and
every
perform sundry
to maundry
put on fool bells
and smirk-clown greasepaint
in vain
in vanity
and me a snake too
as Taoism sees it
think would get him
her to shapeshift, budge
yellow green yellow-green
yellow
limit to the spectrum
archetype notwithstanding
(no bend in this landscape
states of curvature only)
will
tell if it feels the same
when tunneling inside
SIDE
smokestack lightnin’
wild side
other side
flip
side
bit
on the side
I hears you
can’t do nothing
when twelve bar slide
or blow
that blues harp
so much death in that ocean
under that mud-brown river
hell yes
I’ve studied that time
saw how
it lost
its colour
all that
glorious grey
war never over
till its over
divide outside always
first inside
poems 2 die for