PROFESSOR SUGAR CUBE
wanted to
dissolve all boundaries
between
self and cosmos, writer
and word
sucked that juice out
instantly
on the road to
strangest territory
such a dark, dark terminal
sweetness
and multiple many-track
dimensions trapped within the
confines
of that cube
.
MR DARWIN
the observation
became conjecture,
became hypothesis, became
theory, became
scientific truth
(most
assured of
truths)
but it was
when it became
metaphor that the world burned
burned
in the interests
of survival of the fittest
when extended into our
realm of analogy
a monstrous fitness
giving itself license to brutally contrive
rewrite the world
slaughter half
the species
in name of room to maneuver
space to
be
fresh habitat to colonize
build that new fantastic civilization
some of us always dreamt of
the rest, our worst
nightmare fear
this on the supreme strength
of the
shape of a scale
length of a
feather
NOT YET DAMAGED
was born unto
you
a son
eyes brown
hair (then) fair
the whole
not yet damaged
beyond
repair
in case
you hadn’t noticed
in case you
didn’t care
on way or another
COLD JOE
Joe
you are old
you are old
your brain
is cold
seems you need
something
thermonuclear
to give
it a spark
get it working.
MACHINE
“The autonomous logico-fantastic machine is something I like insofar as (and if) it serves some real need: the need to enlarge the sphere of what we can imagine, and to introduce into our limited range of choices “absolute rejection” by means of a world thought out in all its details according to other values and other relationships.” Italo Calvino
you must have
read this poem yesterday
or maybe you are
planning
to read it
tomorrow
stop me before
I ramble on erroneously:
you may well
have read the poem
today
already
perhaps
you are ahead of me
just how it is
how this machine works:
nature of the game
it could be stone-cold fact
that you
are always ahead of me
maybe you read it
when I was undressed
might have told me
I would have dressed
smartly for you
or gone all Lagerfeld
dressed
to kill
but what use seduction
when I may
well
be dead already?
what use
putting pedal to the metal
linguistically speaking
upping the ante
so that
my words
might touch you well?
you read this poem tomorrow
you read this poem
how things at
that moment dictated
everything
and
short of signalling every cue
or clue
nothing I could do
THINK I MUST HAVE READ SOMETHING LIKE IT BY H G WELLS
I feel it now
something
burrowing
into
my brain
know the strategy;
see the tactical plan
how they plot
to nuke that landscape,
shred
my opinions
reduce me to a compliant
all-accepting wreck
crucial my contribution
to this war
of the worlds
upcoming election.
SPIT AND
we polish
the statues
of those
we imprisoned,
tortured, killed
bring out our
Muses of
history and, yes,
poetry
fiction is apt, though,
to re-cast this scene
knowing the story told
false to fact, unless
true to the certainty
of our
hypocrisy
GASHED
a butterfly
flapping its wings
can tip
the scales
in a chaos dynamic
as can
as many bombs and shells
fired and dropped
onto an area
the size of a postage stamp
as dropped on Laos, Cambodia
and Vietnam entirely
to save humanity
from itself
lucky
we have
the power of
these skygods
to look out for us
this
the most angelic
of all butterfly effects
FOR THE GODS
“which to Angels look like torment and insanity”
― William Blake
Made in the divine image
(thus
fabricated)
but how come
we get
so demonic
allow ourselves this
most poisonous pleasure
succumb to the devil
in us
from
time to time
to most
apocalyptic
of times
all the time
(that
divine image getting
pretty mutated)
and then (stop me
and contest this) when
we think the divine
we get
so divisive
cannot tolerate difference
become uniquely genocidal
and so
here the question begging
to be asked (so
superb in
question-
begging)
which of all these
blood-soaked, blood-
spattered
images
is the one with true sanction
the one
from above?
All
from
below
equally above.
MORPHOLOGY OF MARTIAN
let us
invent
an ancient language, lost
for millennia
call it “Martian”
let us
construct a grammar
divine a morphology
a language that will
refuse to lend itself to
the trite
and the trivial
bend its form and structure
in the service of evil
like all the languages do
on the planet right now
giving propagandists their
dark joy
in the fabrication of oppositions
construction
of hierarchies
building of pyramids and towers
to mask
diabolical schemes
no let our language
dispense with all gatekeepers
show itself truly generative,
supremely transformational
in its very acts of creation
turning to the galaxy
to glean
from every language,
every spoken
written tongue
downtrodden
and suppressed
poems 2 die for