DEMONIC
you were once
labelled love synonymous
but now
we decided
we like you callous and cruel
prefer you
as death threat
happy if you love the
hate we have become
as we further warp
and twist our image
knowing it to be divine
by sacred
definition
no matter how
much
it murderously delight
in how demonic
it has
grown
YOU
you, whom I love,
who twice
(not once)
gave me
the gift of life
who are you?
where
are you?
nothing of what I am told
can I longer believe
imagining writing the text
saying the words that
will change the picture
transform
everything
but there you are, at
my level,
down to my
size
picking up stones
rooting through the rubble
lest there be those
lost and forgotten
erased by history
needing to be
found
restored to memory
OMELETTE
“you egg!”
Macbeth,
Act 4, Scene2
make for
bizarre bedfellows
lead to
crazy places
they definitely do
Darwin
to the jackboot
merry old Malthus
to the electric fence
dingy ripped
and ravaged
upon the ocean
propaganda as truth
set up in best
civllized dress
but slice and dice
whichever way you cut it
there is just too much egg;
today too many eggs
which are
not to preferred taste
being of the wrong shape
and size and
State-approved colour
hence the forever
Napoleonic solution
of
military omelette
DARK
Oh, what a burden you wear
my Prince of shadow
hard not to think of you
head-to-toe in black
the state
is a lie
your castle
is death
your family
a prison
and behind this sweet tragedy
what writer has
contrived
to conceal what
might be
close to this bone
this sepulcher of a stage
littered
with all we have
come to hate and love
and thus History arriving
(as it tends to) with
an army
new flags, iconography,
presence of dawn
this the
poet knows, indeed
seems steeped in, riddled
with it
something here
so consummately dark.
JUNGLE GYM
I ate my jungle oats
you are your jungle oats
you ate my jungle oats
I ate your jungle oats
we ate our own and
each other’s jungle oats
not at the watering hole
but in bed together
you telling me that aliens
came to this planet Janet
tens of thousands of
years ago
as is recorded on
scroll and parchment
to build the pyramids
and screw
our woman
the former with sonic resonance
and photon matter creation
technology
maybe, safe to say,
pretty much
the latter too
and you trying to tell
me that
Noah’s Ark was actually
a saucer-shaped vehicle
(like alien craft on the cover
of an
Amazing Stories 50s Sci-Fi
magazine)
nothing more lewd or leering
than one of those aliens
desperate for
the feeling of humanoid
tits and shit
and me making all sorts
of irreverent and disgusting
sexual puns
during the entirety of
her discourse
obviously not the kind of
civilized fore and interplay
that would lead
with neat evolutionary
procreative logic
to our own little
trans-linguistic
conjugation
and most
intimate and
nearest thing
to
cosmic encounter of
way more
than three-dimensional kind
EQUATION
energy
is mass
and space
and time
are
money
me
I wasted my
time
studying
philosophy
writing poetry
so can tell
your what’s-the-
matter
moment is
pure
postmodern
spiritual existential
ennui of life in a
post material age
nobody
offers a phosopher
a penny for
his
a shilling for
her thoughts
or to speak
the value or meaning
of anything these
days
just nowhere
for the human
mind to expand
and all
that wasted
storage space
BONEY
I apologize
for not having watched
your film yet
(hope it will
be as
good as Gladiator
in which you
played an
entirely
different character)
my supreme Leo commander!
let me kick this off directly
by telling you
how
much I love that hat
would
(if indeed I had one)
surrender
my Empire
for that hat
which to me seems so solar
to
proclaim you
as Helios himsrlf
on top of your head on entire
solar hemisphere
(rising,
setting)
of course, the hemisphere
below supplied
by the bottom
of your
now
my
gigantic head
Empire for your bicorne
hat
being
our fair trade
nothing could be nore
Napoleonic
be about continuaton
of your legacy
not even
ten ghousand
YouTube videos on
your rise
to power, sweet
Josephine
and the utter tactical
brilliance of
Austerlitz itself
than me
wearing that bicorne bonnet
en bataille
THIS THING
this thing, suffering,
never
thought about it really
when we were
together
before the fracture,
time of complete loss
yes that short time
of beauty
I do not remember
much about it now
why, how
it could not be sustained
thinking about the drive home
immediately after our
marriage
no reason to think
of suffering
suffering there lying
in wait somewhere
outside us
or, already primed, set
to destroy,
lodged within
SHADOW
I misremember you
still
in your shadow
anniversary
of your departure
in size and proportion
shadow
is giant
sometimes you cannot even
capture it on
old cinemascope screen
and you were giant too
when in wonder
first saw you
peering into my cradle
wondering
what you were thinking
who or what
you were
still wondering
what you
were
what
you are (immortal
philosophical question)
what you were thinking
all those years
shrouded in shadow
what
you were thinking.
I remember you.
Trying to forget
does not come easy at all.
poems 2 die for