MR ORANGE MAN

MR ORANGE MAN

you told the soldiers
to stand up straight
lose weight

know
who’s the boss

stream
in single file
loaded
and locked

off
to the gym

need
to look beautiful
get into
shape, stay
trim

for all those enemies
without, and within,
especially within

told them
to fight the good
fight
love

the sight
of blood
(neither forgiveness
nor redemption
international law, code
of honour, Geneva
Convention)

all rules
of engagement, out
the window, thrown
into question

to clap
for their Emperor, save
his approval ratings

to which god-given
command they
did not
respond

such poker-faced
warriors

they will not
last long

(too much
internal enemy
still
    nestling
within them)

AGAIN

AGAIN

if the Universes
fancies itself
to be
a simulation

who
am I to disagree?

decry the fiction
abhor that our reality
should
    present itself a sheer
illusion

two-dimensional hologram
mapped out into three

upon which
all our projections be
fully encoded

but
   if this be so

then why
so much brutality, pain
and suffering

and why
when the last sun dies
signalling the arrival
of ultimate
ending

do I  have to
      word for word live
out
   the reset

follow the script
             from the star-
forged formation
of my molecules

through birth
                to death and

what
     sleep extends?

DIG

DIG
‘Do you dig it, suckers?”
The Warriors
(dir. Walter Hill, 1979)

are you in step?
got to
be in the lockstep

get
with the rhythm

dance the
        obligatory dance

follow the pattern
dig the metre
clarify
    the images

go with the flow
out into the agreed
upon future

dance
     the whole deal

dig your own grave

DOLPHIN

DOLPHIN

ah! the ease, the effortlessness,
this dream is what you get
with being streamlined,
by
  thinking
free and deep

final shape emerging
through that brutal process
of secret, significant,
implicit choices

taking the evolutionary path
of torpedo, missile,
submarine

and here
       we have it
the latest model, built
for speed bursts, leaps zig-zagging
     at will across
the prow

pretty breathtaking for
us as we
     negotiate those swells
make our little journey

and you
    sewing it together, stitching
every seam

sea, beach,
cloud, mountain suddenly
fused, welded
together

glimpse for a moment
into a
       close but distinct
different Universe where
gravity seems
not
    to apply

and of friction
there be no need

WHAT IF?

WHAT IF?

what if
no picture
tells a
story?

what if
there is no
picture at all?

but faces are here
speaking their truth
hiding something

lining
the walls
of this
sublime gallery

and here, above all,
that enigmatic madam
with her Louvre smile

we all want the light
need the light
accordingly
     build chapels, erect
cathedrals, write
gospels of the heart

need to
      see everything, capture
everything
leave nothing
        to conspiracy
need

to know
     no one falls alone,
unlamented
from cliff
       into abyss

whose crevasse, to be blunt
has opened
        to receive you, eagerly
welcome
   into
the fold

little girl who caught the eye
out there in
     what was once Abyssinia

stalked
by a vulture

seem to need
a pinch of Solomon here

that I might
begin to understand

GARBO

GARBO

the devil
might lie
in the detail

but this lie
fooled the Abwehr
might have fooled God
(more than
mere mortals here
needing their wits about them)

as to the entire nature
of his fabricated Britain

as to
   the stone dead certainty
of Pas de Calais

and him inventing inventing
no limit to this overstretched
outsized imagination

this little chicken farmer
dropping his little hook
overboard

silently smirking when
the poor much
abused
     Hitler Reich could
not be
stopped
   from swallowing it whole

RATION

RATION

this be
your daily allocation
full poetry ration

honed down,
barely a taste

pensioner
packet

smallest feasible
as to
   size
and volume

nothing spacious, rapacious,
utterly epic
decidedly dramatic

way below
what you get
when you ask for your
basic quota
of required rationality

crucial for survival
somehow
       slipping
through your fingers

just
flowing down the drain

THE ODDS

THE ODDS

threw a
Hail Mary

what are
the odds
       historically

it be caught for six points
or fly to the Moon
on the wings
of Apollo?

less or
more
    always a risk factor

must check those sacred pages
in my father’s manifesto
of social disconnection

great-grandchild of
some famine immigrant
sold a dream story
of opportunity

progeny of some child
of Africa transported
across the Atlantic
chained
       in the hold
to work
those prosperous fields

out there in the touch zone
holding the victory ball
or still waiting
          receiver by trade
and set
to receive

the crowd ecstatic that we
have a
Sitting Bull ambush, have
a Wild Bill
          shootout

have some music demigod
to serve the half-time feast

red zone
hell hole

too far ahead in
space and time
for me
      to ascertain with
degree of
certainty

the shifting nature of this game
cowboys, packers,
miners, and most
typically
      raiders, chiefs and
buccaneers

see in its logic
          all we need to know
must
     now envision

the spectacle
         telling its truth, making

the ambition of its
        intentions clear

PLAY’S THE THING

PLAY’S THE THING

the play’s the thing
unless
     forgetting throne, crown,
father poisoned in
an orchard

I decide
to step back, tell
my tale of woe, hereafter
sleep

the peaceful sleep of one
not wracked with guilt

unforeseen consequence
collateral damage

take two succulent heroes
(a loving pair)
get them lost in
incestuous forest

without grid reference, compass,
guide

and so
plenty fairy tale time
to languish
in the bracken
strangle conscience

beg
to be thrown into the brambles
when smeared with tar

in this
our era, ’tis plain
how easy it be
to get smeared with tar
(a whole
industry created
to make it stick)

or
  as if lifted up the tree
canopy high above,
in hydrogen zeppelin
or on
cushions of helium

think
ladder, cloud, spiral
staircase, deus-
ex-machina
elevator

escalator there
only to
convert into metaphor

lost babes
no more
but Castor and
Polluxed
fully
      soaring, rising

high as poetry
complete
as blue
moon
lucid
as song

tale we might
recite together
the metre faultless, not
a rhyme wrong