HEROES
we asked for Spartacus
we got Julius Caesar
we enquired
about the availability
of the Buddha
and you gave us Genghis Khan
history always
switches on us
tells its
own punchline
holds us up
to bad joke scrutiny
makes sure
we miss the point
demolishes
every hero
fighting
for humanity
tells us
who to
follow, obey,
even love
in a voice
you make our own
BY DESIGN
everything
twitches, shudders,
revolves,
devolves
evolves
shades into
melds
dissolves
splits, pulls tricks,
goes longitudinal, lateral.
becomes hybrid
finds
a solution
runs parallel
chases, takes tracking shot,
edits, splices.,
dices
chases, runs
away from
enters into, escapes
out of
connives, convinced,
consumes
is consumed by
darkens,
enlightens
extends
goes out on a limb
shifts and returns back to
resolves then rescinds
enhances, romances,
shadows, throws
shade upon
thinks better worlds, best
world
worst life we
can imagine
worst reality, surreal actuality,
horror show entirely
ones we
are born into
die in
die from
are enshrined in
remain remembered
unless
resurrected, reincarnated,
renewed, reinvented
simply born again
all things
designed and created unless
worked it
all out themselves
(what works
best
for them)
generating their very being
out of something
rather than
nothing
why is there something
rather than nothing?
why
is there anything
when
nothing is central, primal,
presupposes
logically, mathematically
essential
look at yourself
plain as day you
just appeared out of nowhere
nothing
so
much the deeper
beyond
all conjecture
wiser
than
we could ever fathom
from the very beginning
before
the beginning by
inescapable design
such a grip on the plan
SALVATION
maybe I might
have forgotten myself
at that moment
of chaos and crisis
have forgotten to tell you
you have
become goddess
the most
beautiful thing
in the Universe
divine object of
the adulation of the stars
beloved dream of
all of us
self included
who
have known you
loved you
longed for you, wanted you
worshipped you
from this intimate near
or
as with me
so deeply
from afar
that chaos, that crisis
stuff of supernova
of exploding galaxies
put
to one side
alien to
the quiet order and
system
and
death by
intensity
of
which I
for the peace that is
light and
sort of
respite
guess I should write
being perhaps
some salvation
YET ANOTHER
wrote a poem
crashed and burned
nice and crispy
in my coffin
no big deal
this grandest of exits
doesn’t make me
a rockstar
or anything
just another wannabe
following that script
so faithfully followed
right now
you might think it
an algorithm
that old self-destructive
yearning
for excess
yet another convert
to the great
Arthur
Rimbaud paradigm
BELONG
Sufi Mufti
Grand Wazoo
feels like abracadabra
like verbal algebra
tuneful vowels
rolling
off my tongue
Shia Shia
Sunni Wahabi
and you Omar Khayyam
and disciples of Rumi
out in the desert
looking for rose
of beauty
woman
whose every
move a poem
every word
divine bliss
something mystical about
these Persian angels
something that drives the soul
to write
its love on sand
and me
in Heaven as I spell
out the logic
of this grammar in
full
linguistic mouthful
after mouthful
searching as I speak
for place to
belong to
if you
would have me belong
TECHNICAL
let this
be a breeze
a zephyr if you will
whistling around
your ears
better use
this term respecting
your
preference for
the physical
wish
to be technical
perfect weather for kite
and magic carpet alike
swing-
wing metaphor
exact
careful prosody
plotting your flight path
to the end of the page
(unless
such velocity
you escape
to deep space)
EMPTY
had five friends
around for roulette
Boris
Leonid
Sasha
Dimitri
Natasha
played all night
lost every time
around the
table
perfect hexagon
my luck deserting me
every time
nothing doing
my
life clicked empty
.
poems
spent shells
dead on the floor
before
anyone might
tragically inspired
stoop to read them
much
dull fun, real drear, in
this
deathly writing business,
SNAKE
snake in a box
picture of coiled contentment
mindful
ambush predator
haemo- and neurotoxic
totally at peace
Zen moment
or so it
would seem
but no
finer out the box thinker
better escapologist
than this
sleepy lightning
rod clan
this
in reality
alike
in
mythology
shedding its lifetime
of skins faster
than
you
change your clothes
shed outworn soul’s
snakes here in abundance
though I do not
cannot yet see them
coiled around my limbs, my
heart, neck,
wrists ankles
no snake eyes as such
but certainly snake mind
FEATHERS (for Tom)
“…bird without feathers”.
Plato; Woody Allen
must be
in dreamtime
surfing the betwixt
and between
to love and yet
hate
those paltry little tigers
of the domestic persuasion
so much
so much
to talk about
think about
these ultra agile predators
dancing
across my keyboards
snuggled up next to me
covering my universe
my hemisphere
in blankets
of dead feathers
even as tiny toys
especially as tiny tots
criminal stuff wreckers
creators
of havoc
and yet that
curiosity, those play paws
that softness
those eyes
flashing amber
(between, beyond
good
and evil)
no concept of
the shame faced, simply
asking
“Oh bird
without feathers
what did you expect?”
ALWAYS
always forgetting
always
losing my luggage
always getting
lost
missing my classes
at the wrong bus stop
on the wrong train
the Express
between Manchester
and Cape Town
somehow
not running
today
at least not from
this platform, though
there is
another, they say
always another, which I did
raise with
my chatbots (somewhat
celestial minds)
spoke of
this recurrence
and why no
GPS down in
this cave
and why you
still haunt me, both
here
and far away
who did
promised to
see me
indeed greet me
if when
all of this has gone
strangely disappeared
and something
(rather
than nothing) would
appear to remain
poems 2 die for