DISGUISE
clock striking zero
clock striking thirteen
Ah, dystopia,
you are the master
and mistress
of disguise
the overlord of
pain
and scarcity
with glorious hypocrisy
you build your
dark concrete world
on such
stupendous lies
hiving us of to the
generous hallucination
that
feeds us every fiction
of unending supply
HERE!
here’s my poem
do
what you will
with it
have your wicked way with it
enquire, explore,
immerse
yourself
see what you can fathom
look for what you can find
but
what is this here
submarine-like, shark-
like
meeting you as you
submerge
moving like
a machine
dreadnaught of the deep
words
to probe you
as you sleep
WROTE
wrote
a poem
for you
the words
bleeding through
memories so
powerful
painful
hearts
torn
in
two
SURPRISE
here’s the surprise
in this morass
of words
.
lies are truth
truth
is lies
every meaning
you woke up with
were
certain of
has been
re-defined
and the symbol of
your salvation
bent,
twisted
into new configuration
HERE
here is my poem
poem I am so proud of
you tore
out of my book
ripped
out of my mouth
plundered
from my body
buried
in deepest
hole imaginable
since contrived,
created
to be part of our conspiracy
we
animals
non-people
FARM WITH A BARN
the farm
with a barn
and a silo
underground
wants
a world
without
consequences
world
for and
by
the exceptional
for your
disinformation
as their
forever playground
DEAD
morality is dead
it died before
our very eyes
both slow
lingering death
and death like lightning
death by lightning
but don’t
say anything
let us pretend
morality is still alive
otherwise
they will shoot
us where we stand
or where
we kneel (execution
style)
as is
their moral duty
moral right
ANYWAY
my love
was not enough
stuttering, halting
it was
never enough
and so
we lost each other
lost life
hardest price
to pay
we paid
it anyway
love
the commodity
cannot bear
exchange
IMCOMPLETE
do not learn
we never
learn
what have we
learnt?
don’t hold back
just
let rip
tell me
tell me!
look at me
pay careful attention
thorough scrutiny
all those years
gone to waste
sitting down
lying down
standing up
writing something
learning nothing
what in here
worth speaking?
out there
worth reading?
what
good are books
when there are tanks
in the street?
indiscriminate slaughter
clearing a path house
to house
room
to room
every alley
every precinct
this book of horrors
as yet unwritten
as yet incomplete
one two
three four;
every paragraph
breaking
every wall
VILLAIN
each of us are a villain
in some origin story
my phone alarm sings
celestial cosmic sounds
at 5.20
in the morning
(exact
moment I was born
making me an
ascendant Aquarian)
and news of airstrikes
all over the media
preparations
for the SuperBowl, one
week away to see
which team of
scarlet supremos
will
be champions of the world
the world
being America, it is a
killer synecdoche,
poet as villain
not with you
thetefore against you
further from grace
with my every little diatribe
poems 2 die for