poetry – Page 210 – poems 2 die for

SPOKEN AS ONE

only one sign
of the zodiac
got eyes

look right through you
see your inner dreamworld
your structure
in all its proton, neutrons
and wave collapsing
subatomic particles

you ask a question
and you know you will
have to
wait aeons for them
to consult with the cosmos
then
get back to you

but
worst would be
if they ask
themselves a question

never ever
ever let

them ask themselves
a question

for suddenly you hear
smell the ocean
see
those eyes
go tsunami

and then in an
instant

disappeared, shapeshifted
or something

fins and gills hitting
the deep current on their way
far away

FREE PRESS

you spin
spin
spin

like you
Rumpelstiltskin

no gold
no truth

just
shit
and lies

merging
as you spin them

before our
very eyes

FINGERS

forgive me
for running my
fingers down
your spine

to that
place of confluence
my tingling
meeting your
tingling

and talking of tingling
(chimes brushed
by the wind being
what
I am now thinking)

I am in and out
the habit

of making connections

getting
connected

loving every connection
I have ever loved to make

THEN

can see now
why you were
so quick
to do him
in

then immediately deify
deny his
flesh
and blood reality

make him
the most sacred being
has ever been

stands to reason
none of us
want any
of us
getting too
close asking
him questions

about shared
human experience

LOST

we have lost
poetry somewhere
down the line

no subtlety
to speak of
no time
to let the word
find itself

relish the slow verbs
the ones
in whose nature
much inclination
to digress

and beauty
what has happened
to beauty in all
its carbon copied, cloned,
photoshopped glory?

our
idea of beauty
(very idea) is

ugliness
itself

ForGIVE

foregive me
for nor laughing

or
if I did laugh,
the wrong
kind of laughter

when you talk
of murder, slaughter,
being
LIVEstreamed

the irony,
as it
should be

just too
much for me

JAR

gnosis
in a bucket

gnosis
in a jar

gnosis somewhere
in the story you
are reading
commuting
to work
down on the undergound

beneath
TS Eliot’s eternally
lost city devoid
of salvation

the subtext written
in a code
beyond modern
comprehension
hidden

somewhere between the lines

SQUIZZ AT K2

I am digging through
rock and concrete
searching
for secret gospels

in the ruins of a bombed
out city
who can say there is not
a pitcher buried deep
or just
beneath
the surface

as it was in ’45
under the sand of Egypt

six feet
tall filled to the brim
with the voice of God?

searching hard around the farm
maybe through the mine dumps

beneath the Colosseum,
Acropolis or
      great temple of Mars

failing which
      we should explore
the death zone mountains;
Annapurna, Everest,
       or tip it over
on its side and take
a squizz at K2

CATHOLIC

something
catholic in each of us

we’re all trying
to become saints
supersaints
at something

get our statues
and relics
into thd hall of fame

that the text of our lives
be housed, remembered
stored
somewhere

not buried
beneath the concrete
of a vast library floor

DIAMONDS

before I knew it
my life had
for better
or for worse

gone
full mythological

Homer had
fallen from the heavens
down on
my ten year old
head

and Aphrodite, my god,
how that goddess killed me
then
thereafter
and every day since

if not in
divine form, then with
the active collusion
of her
clones and copies
and would-be
avatars

each as gorgeous as
they were fake

but you
were the one
she must have chosen
specially

      inner outer beauty
got in
hearts, diamonds, spades
(and so
    your namesake
did
   sing of diamonds)

time has passed on
but the poem
won’t
forget