Tag Archives: poetry

LITTLE

LITTLE

I knew so little
understood so little

read page
upon page but
nothing stuck
nothing sank in

lost everything, all hope
in that insane five minutes
with you
in your car

at Salt River Station
you told me brutally
bluntly you
did want to get involved
but here you are
your fingers desperate
out of control
all over me

suddenly, and me blind to it,
like some witness wonder in
an Achean tragedy
not seeing
    this mirroring of
desire
for what it is

falling
   out of love for you
for the briefest most
killing
    of moments

but there we are
years later
words spoken
memories on the table

edging towards each other
warily, uncomfortably,
uncertain of
our certainties

and the swansong
       only in a dream

me in your car thrown back
by g force this thing
propelled by a rocket
redlining
skimming the
rooves of the
city precincts before

heading into deep space
only place where love between
us
   such as it is
could ever be

UNTIL

UNTIL

poetry is
the easy way

simplicity itself
line

of least
resistance

a quantum wave
of words
about to
flow

no huge
necessity this
be

in any structured
shape, size
or form

any
particular direction

in your head
mon lecteur acad-
                 emique
length
     of line
geometry of page
                slice and dice
of caesura
stanza

and here
we have a bitch of a poem
that refuses to budge

your fingers hovering above
the page
      a picture of frustration
portrait of
inertia

nothing ever seemed
so impossible
      until it didn’t

nothing even
   beginning to flow until
it would
not stop

poetry is difficult until
it isn’t

poetry
   is no way
easy

until it is

until
(out of nowhere)
it writes itself

MILLION WATT AMP

MILLION WATT AMP

I espied Apollo there
with his lyre

or maybe an
old banjo from dust bowl
heartlands

I am no
expert on music though
strolling through the stadium
with his
half-brother Dionysos

both exchanging at that moment
a sort of knowing smile

my guy
wondering what it might sound
like and,
more importantly, what
that sounds might do
to the
structures of
society

if it were seriously electrified
Marshall amped up to the max
(not ten
       but eleven)

fuzz-boxed, wah-wah pedal led
and shaking the foundations
of Heaven
through
       something close
to a million Watts.

ANACONDA

ANACONDA

syllable by
masticated syllable

came across you
filling that legendary belly
devouring every
morsel
of my name

seems
my being a snake too
according to
the ancient astrology

made me
as regards foodstuff
near
    exact fit for you

a task for you
to slide into wisely
without apprehension

if you were
      to call it
a marriage here not
of convenience

but
made it Heaven

consummated
in Hell, in devilish fashion

I would have
to agree

although
equally I might just add

it sounds
just
   as good

the other way round.

TIMELINE

TIMELINE

Christopher
in this timeline

never makes it
to the New World
his ships got stopped
in their tracks
by metal flying machines
with stars on the wings
and the power
to sink his
every ship
in half a second

huge metal boats
surfaced from under
the water
which appeared to
have a few aboard who
could speak Spanish
or Italian

who told him
in no uncertain terms
to return whence he came
M
there, upon his arrival in Cadiz,
no one would believe
his story

and even under torture
the Inquisition in Madrid
could not extract
a plausible account

and, thus, in these
grave circumstances
determined he must be silenced

the thought of such
an advanced civilization
across the Atlantic
would shake
the Church to its core
and threaten the sovereignty
of every European nation

deconstructing
every
rational premise

from final straw
to germ of an idea.

NO SWEAT

NO SWEAT

I smell
of sweat

smell of death

a smell
to savour
sweat
laced with death

raw odour
needing a tad more
of your perfume
and spice on my skin

and so this alchemy
whose secret
barely hidden
opens itself
to scrutiny

lead
turned to platinum

gold
to glazing

crystal to
diamond

water
to steam

and star  blazing
fissile energy
             force of
such
fusion

stuff of that
industry
to thing that you are

which
that old skald, old troubadour
Saxon
     Norman Viking
Celt
within me

can sing of hesitantly, imperfectly,
the superabundance you require
so
    much long gone
all its
    revelation

lending itself
            to
                all
that
is rival, separate
Other

distant in time
        faithfully elsewhere

whilst
I smell of sweat, do
speak here
of death
and other transformation.

      ****