Tag Archives: poem

REASON BEING

REASON BEING

this is the reason
why I am not a physicist

nothing more Newton
than being wired
to the lesson
stapled to
the desk

truth in the atom
and how it is chained

something other
out there
beyond classroom, playground
scrambling the shit out of me

something outside inside
tunneling between

whilst these vectors are
regular, could not
be more confident

iron balls on a slope what
have we missed
in fact?

will take a bit of
crazy
to find this realm
as poetry

very different, other world,
melting, reforming
shaping
reforming melting again, forever changing

only world we have

listening to Professor Rovelli
discoursing here so sweetly

chat to
my chotbot about all this

another
trick of consciousness

AI poem in the style of Shakespeare: South Africa taking Israel to the ICJ

In lands afar, where shadows cast their veil,
South Africa strides, justice to unveil.
With heart resolute, they march to the fray,
Taking Israel to court, to have their say.

As rugby kings, and champions of right,
They face the champions of woeful blight.
Oh, how the irony sings in the air,
How shall Israel maneuver, now, to bear?

With twisted tongues, they’ll surely plead their case,
Beguiling words, their deeds they shall embrace.
Yet, in this court, a reckoning awaits,
Where justice’s scales shall decide their fates.

For Gaza’s plight, the world’s tears they’ve shed,
In this epic clash, hope shall rise, not dread.
From Shakespeare’s quill, new scenes shall now unfurl,
As justice fights against a twisted world.

WATER SIGN

WATER SIGN

sometimes
I hate
sensitivity

you
make me
hate
sensitivity

lying aghast
across your
tear-stained
bed
waiting for
that special
someone

special
anyone

and me
so close yet
out
   of the picture

that body so lovely
eyes that blaze

waiting
    waiting

for who? for
what
     I wonder

out of the picture
with this
      poem, this poetry,
must have something
                          to do
  

IN CONJUNCTION

IN CONJUNCTION

perfunctory
matter-of-factual

lowest
common denominator
recurring (hexi) decimal

super-accurate
orgasm you may measure
with a micrometer
seismically

and still the longing
insatiable to rummage
through
    your toolbox

plough
through your belongings

wondering what gloss
you going to give this

what
star alignment you will find
stellar conjunction

      Oh so Mars, Venus, Mars
Mercury

perfectly planetary?

A CLUEDO (HAVEN’T GOT)

A CLUEDO (HAVEN’T GOT)

deduced it in no
time

saw it clearly it was
either Plum that went
shapeshifter
      eliding, gliding
between
the kitchen (pots
still greasy)
               and the games room

turning up at the table
through
     the fourth wall

or could be
Mustard, that die-
hard Imperialist with the
old Western front Vickers
water
     -cooled machine gun

defending the pantry against
whatever
       latest horde of savages

took out Ms Scarlett  and
Ms White

ebony and ivory in
their delightful negligees

wandering aimless into
his line of sight
             in persuance of
their tryst

or Green could have done it
C of E but some old Catholicism
at root there

         adding a twist of hemlock
to that holy wine
(cardinal
   not working out, we’ll
smoke that
one out
               bring in another)

or someone in the garage
with rolls royce style
handy wrench

           call murder murder
a spade a spade

a wrench a bloody brain-
fragment spattered wrench

and me
    with my candle card yet again

with
such bad eyesight
     cannot make out a thing

WHIFF

WHIFF

it is
incumbent upon us
and so

I pamper you
enter you

desperate
   (clock ticking)
to forge
a synthesis

little gnome
my metronome

need to fit togegher
(no perfect dovetail
                 can go
rough
cut

     every art every act
evert entry
has a
     twist of the old
experimental

can
  start a new life
knock uo a shop, whole
new industry

bang together
entire
   new universe

refurbish, replenish
dissolve into
AI where

       inevitably necessary

removing stains
    going through the gears

would not say religiously
unless some Rumi Sufi stuff

mindset
     where time just run out
and could not give a whiff
   

JUKEBOX

JUKEBOX

we had love
hard and soft love together

in my dreams
or maybe
your dream

difficult to say
how must claim authorship,
location and territory

so receptive our separate states
given you
     had been studying a
painting by Miro,
I, for my part, reading
Neruda

poetry from a time when
Communism was sexy
full of the surreal
and carnival
potential

and Professot Slavoj Zizek,
archetype of
Lacanian pessimist

was young in years, wet
behind the ears

little more to speak of
than mere
    slip of a
            Slovenian lad

Prince’s sign of the times

        song on
the jukebox before
                              we
did
   our dance