Tag Archives: poem

FINE MAN

FINE MAN

when you deliver
on the subject

pretty soon find myself
delving down into subtext
subatomic
    constructing the code
that lets me
read between the lines

need to do this
because regardless of
anomaly, overlooking
                  essential paradox

need to
  emerge from
              this astute

I want to be
  a better man

    not just an atom better
no, indeed, a fine man,
                            a
better
man by far

like Richard, without
his love
    of lovers,

one who can
    call the tune, fix
the rhythm of the Universe

tapping his bongos, sometimes
covering the page with
astounding hieroglyphs

prattling away
                finding his way
into the
heart of
  the labyrinth
      source of the problem

pattern suddenly grasped, and
gist of everything

want to see
        how it all interfaces
where
    the imagination?

look at this diagram
    carved into his desk, by
                              our
science
shaman

    now
visualized in tiles
on the Cal-Tec floor

ANCHOR

ANCHOR

I am
at anchor

around me deep currents
connive; slurry unseen

so what
    can better can worse
move you, break you
topple towers

    leave our whole world,
your world, my world,
                    entire planet
hanging
    by a thread?

thread my spool less than silken
still deep into the distance
way out
        towards forever

and all that ever amen you
feel duty bound to add

eyes closed
        fingers steepled

so much further than any horizon
beyond what eyes can see
mind
    believe.

FINAL FRAGRANCE

FINAL FRAGRANCE

Oh the smell
of sex!

sweet sex, smutty sex,
jump out of your skin
whole body
carnal
    knowledge sex

devastating, delicious,
migrating, miscegenating,
person
    next door,
from the depths
    of a jungle planet on
a galaxy
   far far away

widrninv youd experience 
the gene pool
   hybridizing for giggles
to create
   fiture utopian worlds

just to release some
pressure experience
an ulimate high

float beyond space and time
experience the ultimate
together
    have one crystal
clear headspace carbon
life form moment

as if you turned yourself
to diamond in the
            (final
fragrance)
John Lennon imagined  sky

ONE

ONE

was introduced to death
by a Ms E Dickinson

late of Amherst, New England,
a word mistress of sorts

somewhat
   impure in speech

not privy to her
standing however
     I do remain clueless
in terms of her value
as per
   stocks
        and bonds

and with Lord, who does
all such measure
        down to the last
grain
    be it gold, salt
or sand

and after
     breaking the ice, whose
depth almost glacial,
formally, with decorum
               as only this miss
shapeshifter can

death and I spoke ghost,
conversed
       in plain Indian

so many tongues and indeed
histories of
    this place, all places

sweet in sad sublimity,
     rolled into one

CEMETERY ROAD

CEMETERY ROAD
“may not mean to/
but they do”

I’ve read that
this be the Larkin poem

by any metric
it’s a real shocker

give it its due
painfully spot on
must have
   begun somewhere

with Adam and Eve
tragic trace elements
springing out
of the big
bang
catastrophic for
the happiness of our species

and so me
      not yet teenage

about to be whisked, nay,
catapulted to Africa
and apartheid
South Africa
at that

far from this little British
cul-de-sac
        joy there in the sweet
English place of
pastoral they
call
   a pastoral

where my father dutifully
taught me how
to ride
a bicycle

not much interest in my
life

     this broken life

after which
my father’s little dream
of upping
roots, defining
his Empire

       somehow not
translating

finding purchase, believers,
means of manufacture

will not
     let this poem end as
dead at
    point blank range
as Larkin’s does

HITHER

HITHER

I wandered through poetry
thought I knew
this place
well

looking for wisdom
looking for humanity

my outlook by
no means negative
      though by no means
expecting
wonders
        miracles, transformation,
soul-shaping
life-
defining metaphors
and sadly I must add
conceding
   no possible hope
for love

which is exactly where I found you
    chatting to my Muse
(why is
   Muse never lover?)

man
     most well-measured
not a syllable out if place
but your
voice
      your voice

I do not hear
       perhaps it is just too
comfort-zone, risk
averse

   agrophobic
when it comes to

to the beyond, the boundless,
our freedom
           in a nutshell

shattering it to smithereens
with the force of
poetic pressure

and perhaps
     the poet too

perhaps
we should stay contained
work like
jewellers do
in miniature

for this is a dangerous age
bad time
      for words

and I, for my sins and
pretensions of
truly sinning

have wandered so far
of course, too
far away            thus
with
    grace

let me leave
             you here

for who
would now come hither?