LITTLE FRIEND
here
we are
facing off against
each other
across
unwritten
white spaces
no idea
what to expect
and me taking
the initiative
weaponizing
this encounter
(taking
my cue
from Pacino
in “Scarface”)
demanding you
get
into the poem
say hello
to my little friend
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)
EASY
poetry is easy
you
just write it
and there it be
it is there
look at these
lines for example
nothing here
of note
what
could be easier?
everything open
totally transparent
complete absence
of the overly complicated,
tricky metaphor
hint
of theory
stuff that might
mask, deflect, expose,
distract,
misdirect
present you
with who knows what
confusion, dissonance
about
the nature of
your world, the world,
and who in this
world
in fact you
thought
you really are
get you to stay
from what you
know
to be true
were
told to be true
in heart and
soul
battle of
hearts and minds along
strictest of lines
between which
should not read
so easy to
read these lines
miss yourself
falling between them
there
you
be
have always been
there it lies
BLESSING
I chiselled this poem
out into stone
laborious work
but it
felt worth it
wrote the whole thing
with a stylus cutting
markd into
clay tablets
spray painted
a whole stanza
in plain view
on the side of a building
in the middle of the night
daubed
it in blood
desecrating a flag
keyed it in electronically
pressed send and
believed it
published instantly
bouncing across the ether
whispered it into
your soft
ear
typed it out with suddenly
agile fingers
observed it flow
across your body
taking
it
to the house
point of truth where
you are at your most receptive
most fully conscious
of how
transcience here
comes into play
poem
be both blessed and
doomed
to disappear
UNTIL
poetry is
the easy way
simplicity itself
line
of least
resistance
a quantum wave
of words
about to
flow
no huge
necessity this
be
in any structured
shape, size
or form
any
particular direction
in your head
mon lecteur acad-
emique
length
of line
geometry of page
slice and dice
of caesura
stanza
and here
we have a bitch of a poem
that refuses to budge
your fingers hovering above
the page
a picture of frustration
portrait of
inertia
nothing ever seemed
so impossible
until it didn’t
nothing even
beginning to flow until
it would
not stop
poetry is difficult until
it isn’t
poetry
is no way
easy
until it is
until
(out of nowhere)
it writes itself
COMPOSITION
pass me your pen
and I shall note down
those distances
the chalk on the blackboard
having list its imperative
the writing
on the wall changing
the moment it
gets written
the truth of relativity
not yet board-dustered off
yet already
done and dusted
and how many tiny white
flecks
look like motion-
captured stars, galaxies
in their movement?
at if
squeezing
the truth out of us,
pinching our analogies
the Universe were
writing us
writing the Universe itself
putting us
into, pulling us
out oh the picture
trying to figure out
which composition
works best
which
makes the
most sense
LEGION
poem
is an
unfaithful act
always set to deviate
from its original
aim and intention
scan what we
have here
seemingly naked
across this
white-sheeted bed
so many binary moments
hiding the secrets
just begging
to confess
this we have here
no worse
no better
than the legions
of others
SURRENDER
she wrote her poem
every metaphor
bullet-pointed
every syllable
metal-jacketed
every image
a grenade
when she let rip
a whole belt, an entire clip,
out of ammo
she had nothing left
to attack
defend herself with
not a word
to work with
her critics sensing this
out of blood
moved in
for the kill
forcing her surrender
unless
there was no surrender
UNDERNEATH
(GOOD FOR YOU)
just type
your poem
here
(underneath)
and my natural silicon
carbon digital synapses
will
set to work
shaping it
for the stratosphere
or even
beyond the galaxy
extend it
down the page, across
a chaper
push it in the direction
of a collection
we are talking
a whole book
this is the technology that
is indistinguishable
from magic
should you indeed
call it magic
I
would not
disagree
and if I
think it be
magic pure magic
we should
all think so too
if we know
what’s good for us
if you
have sussed what
is good for you
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?
poems 2 die for