POOR OLD
poor old
dystopia
what is
there
left to say
sadly, can
no longer
be science
fiction creature
of dark imagination
your evil
become so ordinary,
everyday, run
of the mill, super tawdry,
ultra banal
here is
Hannah Arendt
left
totally gob-
smacked
nothing to add to
the discourse, not
a single
cutting to
the heart erudite
contribution
to capture the moment
define the terrain
SAVING
I’m saving up
for Armaggedon
when a can
of beans
is worth
a billion dollars
and the queues
into Hell take
forever
(need to
purchase
snacks
so as not to starve)
the queues into
Heaven
no where
to be
found
and ditto the entrances
when the big one falls
enough collective
guilt
to go many times around.
ON THE SPOT
You asked me
for an inspirational poem
so I filled an oil drum
with every sugary
sweet
epithet I could
on the spot
regurgitate
dowsed the contents
with treacle
knock yourself out
with this
the spoon
of spoons.
OVID
the pompous Patriots
scoreless
at half time
Seattle (smart city)
with their
blitzkrieg football
acing it
in our own
back yard
meanwhile
between Oz and Kansas
the corn still growing
as spears go, every
clutch of corn
by
rank and file
deep as a legion
tall as
a phalanx
but Empire troubled
by what it sees
out at half
time
rapping in Spanish
(language
closest to Latin)
worse, singing about
love and
community
not
fish, beer, trucks
and dogs
as quintessential
song lexicon
and preserving a
language
for the sake of
ablatives, declensions
and gender
spoke as it
are
vestal
as a virgin
from
the horse’s mouth
(the Empire that
gave us
Spartacus
also giving us Ovid)
TURNIN’ POINT
“All you need to do
is swallow.” Josh Johnson
waiting for
something to push
an envelope
must have come
to the wrong place
basic chords, I presume
the guitars
are
in tune
(not a lick, not a riff,
not a whiff of the blues)
paint drying slower to not
show up anything
and free speech put
to the test here, yes sireee,
twangibg lyrics that sink
to the bottom
of the bottle
giving dregs
a new name
and these
the musical
airs and graces need
to send out to, show
the world
the deepest metaphors
of the tribe imaginable
would
tie up
with a ribbon, present
you myself
but the truck got stuck
truck got stuck
BOGUS
so this skinny old
withered guy
splurted out that the skiers
who called into question
the current state
of American
should be unceremoniously
stripped of their
national ski uniforms
which
gets me, thinking
if this geezer is
so passionate about this
he should
travel to Milan
strip the offending
skiers himself
presuming
obviously that
he survive
the cold
manages to
not drown
in the snow
such fake, bogus contrived passion
stuck in a glacier
not going to melt anything
poor, skinny, old
withered man
older, more skinny, more
withered,
infinitely
more bogus,
than i am myself
SIR JIM
for a moment
when Sir Jim
came in
to fix us
we deluded ourselves
it would be
Camelot
but turned out
much more
managed by
Mordred and Morgana
than reborn
Manchester United
still
a key player short
and no free
bananas
no free lunches ever
as we stop-start climb
above fifteenth
we never expected you
Sir Jim to be
thin and sparse and
tin
man kind
of hollowed out
supposed
to unite us all
but here you
are breaking apart, fragmenting
a team of squares and
round holes
bits and pieces
no football logic, common
sense
so must be
profit in it
primarily, exclusively,
in
everything we do
NOSEDIVE
we nosedived
fell on it
like predators
as soon
as we heard natural
selection, survival
of the fittest,
categorized ourselves
into different classes,
different species
and subsecies
predators and
prey
highest to the low
ROCKET
rocket
sprocket
in your pocket
so this is the social benefit
of billionaires
of wealth creation
the utter beatitude
bounteous bounty
pushing the boundaries
of masculine sexuality
through
the ceiling
right through the shitosophere
out into the absolute zero
of everything held dear
MEANWHILE
meanwhile
above the clouds
the Lolita Express
is banking
descending
is like an aeroplane
in a children’s story
inspiring thoughts of
magic and
mystery
and exciting destinations
full of memorable
characters, exotic beings
the speed of this jet
being quite impressive
you think you have
left that
shadowy raptor, harpy
that goes by
the name
of nothing
is the embodiment of
nothing
in its tracks, empty-
clawed, struggling
far behind
today it
missed its pray
the sneakiness of it all
just too much.
for it
existential disappointment
in its eye
as bleak as pure abyss
back to
Noam and Ali
after
so much
meanwhile
only two options
the man
is an idiot
confusing the meaning
of bilingual and bi-
sexual
(purely on the hidden
sexual punning
sounds of
language)
we have
the philosopher maestro
of linguistics
juxtaposed
with this hip hop
moron who
doesn’t
know right
from left
unless
the joke
is on you and for
all your acumen
you took this
covert killer master-
satirist
at face value
did not
see his
failure to
find and comprehend as
radical sign
beyond itself
leaving you
a bit denuded, stripped
of all
presumed acumen
an empty vessel when
nuance
called for
meanwhile
the jury was out
but is now
returning
let me see any, if any,
Chomsky satire,
Chomsky comedy
any of the resonant poetry Chomsky wrote
can recite
to end this thing with
less
nihilistic bite
as the Lolita Express
comes in to land
poems 2 die for