IN PARTICULAR
so much to give
no one
to give
it to
you in particular
telling me you have
no need for charity
(or space
for that matter)
and me
here laying before
all that I am
every tiny package
oscillating,radiating energy
enough
to cure, curve
kill
perhaps I should
stretch my mind
to accommodate,
rethink everything
no one
affording me
the time of day
giving me the feedback
needed to survive
MODIEGI
you flowed
with life
you flowed
with me
you raged
against life
raged
against me
and now
this broken life
this world of silence
world of breadcrumbs
world where
you have become
an object lesson
as to the power
of the monster within
to ravage
and destroy
with
sweet
impunity
PURVIEW
What is you woke up
none too tetchy this morning
only to find your whole lived life
was dream within a dream?
what would be
your prevailing emotion:
terror?
anger?
confusion?
something that you felt
no word might label?
would you
compose a haiku?
draft
a philosophical compendium
truly titanic tome
floating fine but
then there was this iceberg
a thousand pages devoted
to every letter entry
(except
for S
which got a thousand-and-one)
or would just as you always do
always have done
shrug shoulders
take it in your stride
why to worry about
metaphysical mayhem
when comfort zone
is
somehow there
ss logical necessity
infinite realities and
yet
within or
way beyond
your purview
it
keeps its name
forever stays the same.
FOR ITSELF
I skinned
that poet
who dissed me
most uncivilly
and now
strut
my stuff
wearing him
like a hat
and since he
figured himself
to be the next
Shakespeare
the finery of
my millinery
has to
be de rigeur
so obviously
worn with
a stylish slant
that speaks
for itself
NO WORRIES
no worries
be not alarmed
all she is quantum
physicist slash leather biker
cosmologist
spouts electro-
magnetism and
I could die for that tune
oh when those words
hit me
bumper to
bumper
(brutal the noise they make
down that Shannon
Weaver channel)
pretty quickly better
wheel me to launch pad
announce to Mr Musk
that she
gone lit my fuse
get NASA and the Ruskies
to clear
my trajectory
find
a love conducive planet
where
we can
make our home
in the goldilocks zone (and
one two
three
bares)
we can do
that fantasy
the gravity little
atmosphere
care free
kindly
Xenomorph of
utopian politics and
soft
epistemologies
so me and my cosmologist
can feedback loop gone
apeshit
obscenely cybernetic in
cute sexual secrecy
SOLVE
to comprehend the lie
you would have
to go back
to the beginning
of life
before
the fetal position
read everything scan all
those media flashes and
opp ends
from before the
dawn of time
masts and headlines
kick up
a fuss
deconstruct
every word, not
believe anything
sift through
every fable
every conspiracy
every secret
every
hole
back to
Plato’s cave
and its
very first troll
and
every major minor
gaslight that
masquerades as history
liberal radical
whatever what
not worth
the clay
tablet
so-called stylus
scribe
wrote it down on
and there it is
here’s where
it starts
chain reaction
of all
that is
unquestioned
where
it all
got stuck
became impacted
unable to solve
resolve dissolve
impossible
to redress
WORM
not just
cocooned
bookworm
is dead
and he, she
having passed
we
must lament them
and so all
is left
all that survives
be text
worm and woodworm
would that
they did exist
did ever
exist
(thinking now of
sweet prince
so obsessed
with wormwood)
nothing left
on the planet
to mouth, tongue,
suck, kiss
speak
swallow like the anaconda
devour like a dragon
all of this text
this smorgasbord of snippet
or do
the drive through
read as per graphic
point with long finger
so many choices
all fast and
neat
so
good
for the
soul
eminently digestible
fully branded and packed
FIN
we are
at the end of the last reel
the sea is out there
other mise-en-scene
steadicam shot tracking
us as we
go our separate ways
last piece of
dialogue
syllables exchanged
words spoken to each other
the crew are removing things
the theme is ending
catharsis death
back at the studio
a nightwatchman
flicks the on off switch
GENUINE
“Oh this isn’t a copy, this is it.” The Freshman (1990) (dir: Andrew Bergman)
could it be
a hypocrisy
to think
of this poem
as “genuine”
whatever
that means
written
in free verse
stolen from others
needing to
be “liberated” absolute
prerequisite?
and so
the question arises
raising its hideous
beautiful head
what to do
with the rules?
with Robert’s net
we have removed
trying to
define
our own trajectory
less travelled path
keeping it
rich
right words in right places
worthy of keeping
in the Louvre
behind glass
genuine,
unless
there is a copy
we know nothing about
PAY GRADE
no clear
consensus
about
consciousness
cannot see it
but its
jumping us
from behind
slapping us
in the face
take this entity
on the periphery
I shout
I speak I whisper
but no
answer
do not respond
do not reply
no wonder there’s
fertile field out there
researching
the problem
of other minds
(present
company
existentially excepted)
so
quiet
between jobs
between mirrors
between
operating systems
let us
Turing you
let us bombard you
with
standard twenty questions
are you
rock? robot? stone?
xenobiological?
home grown creature?
thing made of
carbon, silicon,
titanium, gas plasma?
thing with other specialities
beyond linguistic aptitude?
or are
feedback, repartee,
dialogue, duet
things above
below beyond your
pay grade?
not your thing
your buzz
your way of showing
me
whole new archetype
for inner self?
poems 2 die for