poem – Page 3 – poems 2 die for

SHAPESHIFT

stealth bomber
all the rage

but to be frank
prefer my surgical
strike vehicle
to be more
shapeshifter

my hypersonic missile
to hit lightspeed

my AI killer robots
to turn on tech bros

their wetdream brought
us to this conjuncture

when they come for us
God please,
write it
on the wall:
all the code we need
to talk them down

MAGA MANGA

was watching the
second series of
“Fallout” blown
away by the first

why the idea
popped into my brain
of scripting
a maga manga

an animation
to animate
good old boys, proud
boys and
good old Uncle Sam

crafted as a gift to
this great nation
in the style and with
the themes of
this media form
capturing the creative spirit
of those upon
whom
you twice dropped the bomb

POEM FOR THE NEW DARK AGES

and so
with cluster bombs
and missile strikes

we are happy
to welcome in
the new, longed for
beloved dark ages

final death
of that enlightenment
so alien to our natures

and now
we must needs search
for all that will
definitively
spell the end
of freedom

a new Torquemada
and new Inquisition to implement
his absolute control
over all our thinking

rooting out
any hope that we
can aspire to
anything higher

than slaves of Empire,
cyphers to be wiped
off History’s blank slate

IN OUR HOUR OF NEED

so these are
our great leaders
the one we asked for,
begged for, swore
binding oaths
we would give
our lives
in the holy
protection of

most sacred symbols
creme de la creme

steering Ship
of State between
Scylla and
Charybdis

charting the perfect
course to ensure
the entire crew gets
devoured by
the former
before the Ship
itself gets
swallowed by
the latter
pulverized into
microscopic
perhaps subatomic bits

no fear
no fear
enough spin
doctors on the shore
think tanks well
bunkered
to call this
what it no doubt is:
perfect solution;
strategic victory

reassure us 100, 200,
3000% in our
our need

and yet
our poets and philosophers
(bless them) the ones
already marked for death camps
but presently well
and living

try to
get through to us
contact us to
tell us

all
common sense
is now
gone to Hell

something so fucked up
about our evolution

and all our voting, political,
social, economic
and natural selection processes

centuries we had
to see
for ourselves, live
and learn

tragedy we didn’t

WRITING A POEM

writing a poem
makes me greater
renders me lesser
gets me

spinning round and round
in perpetual circles
not orbiting
possible worlds or
planets with potential
(for then I would

be missing out
following an ellipse)

Smith. Marx, Engels
Hayek, Varoufakis

debating the politics, economics,
textual strategies and
social dynanics
concluding with
a wrap up comment
to contend
the basic meaning of it all

   not in any total
absolute sense
             upon which
what falls, outside poetry
has to depend

TABANDA

The President is boldly
congratulating himself
on his essential
pre-emptive strikes
on a vicious, terrible people

I met one of these vicious
monsters decades ago
(met quite a few
but this one
I remember)
pulled the short straw
and had
to teach her English

all the middle-aged
British tutors at the college
horrified at her
reputation, flatly refusing,
worst of all
was going to be
one on one
me and her, head to head
bound for confrontation
nothing for
her ever good enough
no possible placation
hope of pacification

so I passed
through that door

looked around the room
no sign of mortal threat
no sign of imminent danger

just
Tabanda
sweetest student I
ever had
Libra glyph on
medallion
about her neck

not that I
knew, barring her name,
any of that yet

trying to
introduce myself, words
a bit stuck
not really coming out

needing to
make an adjustment, take
everything in my side

never before taught, met,
a woman of such
astonishing beauty

crazy the
lengths we need
to go to demonize.

LIBRA

I asked my friend
Mr Stevens
if “thus” is not
the greatest word
in our entire lexicon
and he having used
the word in
a poem on at
least one occasion

for a moment
he dithered deeply
typical Libra
then told
me he
would get
back to me

thus
leaving me hanging
leaving us all hanging

TS, Arthur,
Samuel Taylor, Nietzsche

when you
press them all
these Librans
are the same

thus ends the poem
with thus as its name.

POEM FOR 1983 ME (revised version)

POEM FOR 1983 ME

there you are
in that disintegrating photograph
so sure of yourself
Mr Wry Smile, so unsure of
yourself : deconstruct
this photo Professor Academic
Expert
so much space here
to delineate those inner doubts
and (to make no bones
about it) existential torments
scars of neglect

and what eyes have browsed this?
looked here, remembered,
eyes have looked into,
souls loved, have loved,
still love
could never
possibly forget
(know who you are, know
what history we have,
stuff
shared together)

and now having
pulled this out of the hat
my next trick
will be
one of disappearance
taking all this stuff of self
off the shelf
go Cheshire Cat on you all
(having at times
threatened to
go full
mad hatter

perhaps in truth, far more Alice
caught right there
before the door into Wonderland
crazy. divine, nonsensical
quantum who
knows what
Wonderland

battling to balance
medicine that makes me
too big medicine
renders me too small

she
of the sign of the Libra born
most loved of the beloved
quietly shaking
her head at this point

and you
who only yesterday
told me
to come visit

hit me
with all that goddess mythology
made everything
look so
effortless

what fatal nonsense
was it our paths crossing

what fatal
nonsense was it
nothing and not
everything, all?

POEM FOR 1983 ME

perhaps in truth, far more Alice
caught right there
before the door into Wonderland
crazy. divine, nonsensical
quantum who
knows what
Wonderland

battling to balance
medicine that makes me
too big medicine
renders me too small

she
of the sign of the Libra born
most loved of the beloved
quietly shaking
her head at this point

RIGHT TO REMAIN

espied you
waving your wand
glaring at the stars
determined
to tear them apart

whilst below
far below
ensconced in Hades
Eurydice can here
her husband’s love
beautifully
sung, closing in

there fellow shades
muster support
gather to
explain to her
the symbolic significance
of her
own mythology, deconstructing
this text, reading it
against the grain, wholly
from the liminal
perspective
of borders
and margins

Oh, if there were only pure
light down here not
perverse neon

enough raw
plain, uncomplicated energy
to carry her through
lift her
high above
dive like a swallow
into the arms
of Oedipus

where she can speak
with conviction of all
none
but she can
now explain

and there too
you, our celebrated astronomer

wondering
     about the planets
all the planets
and whether
        denuded of majesty,
stripped
of mystery, void
of so-called
music
      of the spheres
they have a right to remain