poem – Page 9 – poems 2 die for

INSANE RAIN

Insane rain
insane of itself, in itself,
and in its capacity
to drive
us all insane

so this is it
this climate change
you claim is false science
you claim
is overrated

what was hitherto desert
a little more of this
well on it’s way
to mangrove, rain forest

and here, with
devastating predictability,
it is here again
raining on
all and sundry
Monday
to Sunday

raineth on
the faithful, raineth
of atheists too

pouring down on Protestants
down on Catholics too

drenching, drowning,
the hapless,
forcing the sheltered
to count their blessings,

talk
to God Himself about it
talk to
the highest Papal appointee
will take your call

Nature
taking a savage turn
thanks to
our interference

yes those
who survive, remain
bone dry

know that at least
though screwed up
terminately, definitely,
entirely

at least
respects our sacred
truths of wealth and class.

BOSS TALK

this is a poem
wrote it
in a flash
still
a novice
at the art
been learning it
all my life

still
so much to learn

such
a waste of time
according to the advert
according to the boss
in the advert

the boss who doesn’t care
for time unmotivated,
time without results

time
in a poem
time that is a poem
time edging
its bets, running
forwards and backwards

time that is
microlearning, is
Swiss watch precision

is the accumulation of
a world of everything
caught, captured
in a phrase

KIND OF SLEEP

we are asleep
all asleep

sleeping
forever

nothing can wake us
we were bewitched
by a spell
of sleeping

we think we
are awake

but were
never awake so
having nothing
to compare this to

and so must sleep
until we die
        which the poets
tell us
is itself
   a
     kind
of sleep

HAPPEN TO

is poem
thing that
you do
(dowadiddy do)?

or is
poem a thing
that
simply
happens to

(happen to
me,
happen to you?)

let
me know
by return mail

or message
to scroll down to
at the bottom
of the page

in that vertiginous,
voluptuous space

that defines us, surrounds
us

daily infiltrates

EDITED VERSION

cut
dissolve

and fade to

this poem could not
be what it is without blue screen

without what magically
to interact with
these words here
gets
projected
onto the page

and what
could be less analogue
more digital
and yet mimetic

what a job
you pulled, downloading
your everything
into it

calling the shots, making
all the key directorial,
editorial decisions

as there it
rolls out, into the public
domain, global
mediasphere
heart, mind,
soul (to
varying degrees)
all thrown into it

for which you entirely
must take half the credit,
at least, at least

ONCE WERE

I toss
and turn

missing beat
after beat

my bed become
a boat as
dream
metaphors go

battling to cross
plough its way through my
turbulent ocean of sleep

my covers
    in some kind of
cross-current, horribly ruffled,
exposed
     on the deck, naked to
every
    cold wave

Odysseus, Nemo,
Ahab, Columbus,
Nelson, Yamamoto,
so many
names out there
embodying saga
of the seas

and much in the laity
still massively oceanic

memory still vivid even
if we left
so long ago

content
in this format of
our evolution, to skirt
and dabble, surf,
paddle

unless
where we ourselves become
denizens
become the monsters
from the sea across
the sea we fear.

“It is allowed on all hands, that the primitive way of breaking eggs, before we eat them, was upon the larger end; but his present majesty’s grandfather, while he was a boy, going to eat an egg, and breaking it according to the ancient practice, happened to cut one of his fingers. Whereupon the emperor his father published an edict, commanding all his subjects, upon great penalties, to break the smaller end of their eggs.”

Jonathan Swift, GULLIVER’S TRAVELS

tene cervesiam meam. Horati,
Kings and Emperors
cut their fingers
on egg shells
every day

not that that
makes it a logical
defence for
jettisoning
the Republic
(the side, dear Horace,
which, I believe,
you once fought on)

not that we know,
are told, anything
about eggshells
and the grievous wounds
inflicted
upon royalty

stuff
that might
Humpty Dumpty style,
bring that entire
playing card tower
edifice
crumpling down

no
no one has a clue
about this
and other
spurious
causes of war
reasons for battle

not a whiff of any of it
outside mundo satirae,
that treacherous
world of satire

and here I remember, as
no doubt you do too
the doyenne of us all, a
man of the cloth,
a most acerbic, ironic,
comic fellow
whose factual
account of
travels I quote above
was seen
through by many
a stately bishop
not believing
a word of it

but there it was
on the page
cutting like
a razor,
worse
like oxy-acetylene
and not a soul to realize
they were
bleeding. burning,

his like today
we do
not have

do not see
and for
the satire world so
much more the pity

as today’s titanic giants
supreme in
blissful idiocy

proclaim themselves Jesus
proclaim themselves Pope
proclaim themselves God

which we being
humans are wont
to believe

slaughter, torture,
martyr

those who don’t
for ultimate crime
of blasphemy, heresy

ON THE MONEY

let us
bulletproof
this poem together

watch
human evil
just
bounce off

force field it
independence day
extraterrestrial

make it
an instant remake
a 2.0

make it
my most marketable,
marketable as
anything of
military purpose
and manufacture

the one
to make my fortune, on
the money,
one you will pay
good money for

PARTICLE

they looking
for the God particle

me, I’m also
looking for
the God
particle

they
being quantum
physicists,
quantum
machines,
using smashers, accelerators
and colliders

me
on a totally
different tack, deploying
my five felines

still looking,
being very particular about this

DEMISE

the sky
looked tie-dyed

but otherwise
communicating with us
as if
fulminating
from a pulpit

lashing us for
our climate sins
with downpour
after downpour

as for
books and other
things of presumed value
getting washed away

what
good are they, what
role can
they play

in
such an era?

this
end of days
deluge
drenching my books
turning them to mush

laughing at our faith
in the protection
of roofs, walls
and ceilings

what good is communication
when moving
in one direction
so
flagrantly
one-sided

closing our
account finally
balancing all
in the
debt column with
ruthless denise

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