LOVERS
millions
were making love
when the bomb
dropped
a fat few megatons
vaporized them instantly
moment when
dream and desire
annihilated themselves
love and death
in dark exactitude
of intensity
so mirroring each
other
as if the species
was fucked from the moment it began
but
the poem still here
jury out
clock still ticking
lifetimes of love
still to resolve
DREAMSCAPE
you think this is a poem
in your dreams
it us a recurrent dream
one in which
we lose
each other try
to
find what went wrong
search for joy
escape the nightmare
bliss, salvation
nirvana, integration
anything remotely resembling
even
as shadow the above
question is will you help me
will I help you
or are we just relays, ciphers,
circuits in
the dream machinery?
something out there
seems to be hounding me
and yet
cannot discount the possibility
might be here to save me
whisper softly (turn
on your audio, unmute
yourself presently)
tell me
since all ears
the message as it is (or
how you best guess understand it)
promise on my soul
to keep it locked between us
exclusive
share between us
thing at least to bind us
running through this recurrent dream
even if we wished to
as much as we try
simply
cannot escape from
RECiTAL
I came to
your recital
enthusiastic, hoping
for the best of the best
some of it
sounded smart
some of it
may last
went down like a dream
swept
up your audience
who were
so taken by the spin
of your spoken word
skill
of your voice
this despite the heard
it all before
painful self-
centredness
of what
passed for a text.
MARIONETTE
I was
interviewed by a,
marionette
someone ardently, adroitly,
pulling, plucking the strings
behind the scenes
was from network or
other, I forget which one,
CNN, FOX, BBC
much
of a muchness
if you ask me
someone
working those strings making
them sing
though I would
struggle against
the grain to
call it lyrical
too much
noise, dissonance,
same old same
English words
on life support begging
for death, screaming to be free
I was
interviewed by a marionette
sent
to get my fist
publicly expose me
narrative
confirmed, truth out
the door
left me
to my thoughts, not
good ones either
better by far
had they sent a robot
AI intelligence never
so
well programmed
if had
left
me be
better infinitely more
than entirely
BODY OF EVIDENCE
the jury is out
cannot
reach a verdict
in the streets, in their
backyards for
those with
ears to hear a
body of evidence
strewn everywhere
bodies of evidence
high as
a hillock, still
piling up
vast
as a mountain up
there in its
death
zone where
no human
might breathe
the jury is out
out on a limb
severed limb
of humanity
there
is no justice, will never
be justice
we are all under judgement
all in balance
judges hanging
from every lamppost and tree
UNDER WRAPS
Rutherford split it
in a laboratory
at my alma mater
(kudos
to that)
then
over Bikuni Atoll
air burst.
over Nagasaki
barely tested and
rushed into action
could have ended all.wars
previously if
as
conjectured
had set the atmosphere on fire
be thankful
for small mercies
atom split
world went hush-hush,
furtively fissile
pandora’s box within
a box within box
inside Schrondinger’s
thought-out, Cheshire cat
beaming
wave collapse experiment
in Miss P box (box according
to Madane P (P for plutonium)
the weight of
secret subterfuge
lethality
of
big lie
obviously satanic in its ceremony
dark critical mass
common (and uncommon
sense) dictating
must keep the sure thing
odds-on holocaust
forever
under wraps
REAPER
.
I sowed my oats
(whole, rolled, instant)
built an ark in
a time of drought
(deploying modern
hi-tec materials, paste,
carbon-fibre)
set my GPS to rapture to
navigate the
longitude and
latitude of
much
theological mess
sea of troubles
oceans of transition
came looking for your soul
heart of your true being
so pure
and, yes,
so pink
me hot for that
like blazing meteor
as I torch
the atmosphere some
dinosaur checking me out
my soul
much refried red
giant comparatively speaking
hot to the touch, sizzling
Carolina Reaper off
the Scoville charts
as I
negotiate your lips
DRUG OF THE DAY
had my blood
my innocent O neg
syphoned, extracted,
replaced
with King Crimson
planted beds of magic
mushrooms
in the furrows
of my brain
symbolism
being my currency;
mythology my game
was ’69 a Rooster year
and Yasgur’s farm
Hendrix blitzkrieg anthem
and Carlos wrestling
with his
snake guitar
channeling the cosmos
raw, unfiltered
and me sitting in a library
in apartheid South Africa
sweet
sixteen
reading Plato (had
to start somewhere)
desire for a truth mystical
not yet a droll dream
keys
being pushed on
my mellotron keyboard
swirling with tune samples
and snippets of ideas
heart beat be
a drum but could
it do
a hard rock solo?
stuck
on the turntable of life
I watched you undress
slip into bed
wondering
my whole life wondering
was it
beyond me, your
nuance of invitation?
TRUE?
time passes;
words disappear
hard angle, narrow
algorithmic
minimalism becomes
my mode of being
body
shrinking, mind folding
its wings
but soul
now
hears the countdown, sees
its target plain
as day
target, trajectory, flight-
path confirmed
end of
the poem itself
lined up, what
could be
more
painful, beautiful,
final, true?
MONSTERS
monsters are weiring the stories
monsters are wording the laws
you see them everywhere
dictating everything
shameless, no longer
anonymous no
longer behind
the scenes
out in the open
daring us to
challenge them,
which
nobody dares
nobody does
(or
maybe they do
and
just disappear)
look there: see the acid
in their text,
the acid
in their blood,
the hate
is paramount
why (they ask) did
God give us brains?
if not to conquer and
control,
vaporize: kill
poems 2 die for