MAS no more poems of love only poems of pain, grief, rage controlled hatred maybe no more poems at all who has time for poetry when our world is split, divided, blockaded from truth and vital energy? pray that this humble non-descript pièce of scrawl is not the last poem if it be the poem penultimate let the last poem be a great restorative epic restore our faith and love and desire to embrace all of humankind
Tag Archives: writing
THE WORD
THE WORD the scholars are wedded to the death of the author and friend Roland and friend Michel are clear that the word will flow where it wants to go will speak fof itself but you poets under bombardment either casualties or still survivors your words are gated, fenced in have no means of escape, nowhere to go but however softly whispered somehow become targets sought out for destruction, best censorship that can be what is it about these words small words soft words that seem so powerful inspire such hatred and such fear?
LINE OF SIGHT
LINE OF SIGHT
you are
missing my poem
it is
not
in your line
of sight
and dumb ordinance
not guided
no matter how
much you drop,
you fire
not
a single hit
and, to labour
the point,
furthermore,
this is not
the terrain for
attac
at high speed
all
turret
and tracks
and so
always begging
to differ
I feel I must ask
who has the firepower
here mustered
to put a dent
in the word, the living
word
surgically, single shot,
put that light
out
in an instant
make
a confirmed kill
for once
in this rubble
over and above
all that is wholesale
decayed, false flag
lying
through its teeth
not
best
for rebuttal
this ricochet from the truth
HOLES
HOLES
there are holes in the paper
places of quicksand
the words cannot
traverse this broken landscape
move at pace
across the page
shocktroop you with
tactical juxtapositions,
lightning images
no
the whole nature of
poetry has changed
those books on mechanized modernism
so obsolete (ultimately
so) better
thow
them away
only good
for metaphor
subtext is where
the power now
lies
NO EASY MEASURE
NO EASY MEASURE
there are many ways
to start a poem
maybe an image, a theme
a rhythm
bouncing
around in your head
snake-like
rasp of word
many ways too,
to enter a poem
linear or
non-linear
syntactic
or symbolic
feeling your way
set to full tactile
or up
for helicopter shot
to view
as mosaic
put
everything
in perspective
then
fill in the detail
induced, deduced
seduced
at your pleasure
although
linger on
this thought
if you will, let us dissect
this
dark treasure
only
fair to point out,
to leave a poem, however,
(speaking
of seduction)
is no
easy measure
here is the poem
here is we are
unexpectedly
together
not so many ways down
from that height
this height,
routes
out of the labyrinth
this
labyrinth
safe and
without cost
hardly enough
to count on the
fingers
of one hand
so many surrendered
to the poem, dissolved,
got
absorbed by
poetry
something about
the beauty
of this python still
to comprehend
as it
closes the circle
you now mine forever
A WORD
A WORD
let me have a word
let me fill
you in
from a poetry
am going to need
twenty, maybe
thirty
thousand
characters already
oops1 sorry,
my apology
did I say
“characters”?
that was a bit
of a fatal Freudian slip
I meant to say “words”;
no sorry: lines
no I am completely wrong
in the wrong
to do this justice
I need to write
the final
death count
as poems
BY THEIR FRUIT
BY THEIR FRUIT
I have such trouble
writing this poem
my words swell fat
like overripe fruit
burst on
my page, on my fingers
covering everything with
sap wet, thick
and sticky
in colour and feel
indistinguishable from blood
and these
are the same words
the golden children of the law
use in the court room
where
such words do
not explode, do not
shatter the auditorium
with blood-juice
and bomb shrapnel
proving
(sadly, sadly)
that there will always be something about poems, about
poets
and the power
of their poetry
that remains forever
at a distance
tragically unreal
OLD JOHANNESBURG
OLD JOHANNESBURG
waiting by the roadside
in old
Johannesburg
maybe
resurrection
will
befall me
maybe redemption
will come my way
failing which
perhaps
a circus or carnival will
come
round the corner
sweep
stubborn old ideologies
off the street
as serious joke or
perhaps just giggles
a parade of Zizeks
tumbling past me as if
Red Square
comedy
where figures from the
Commedia del Arte
are here
to replace tanks
look
seriously at the world and
it suddenly goes
Toy Town
confirmation bias
on open display for
everyone to see
fat
conspiracy here:
buses passing every few minutes
not stopping for everything
the drivers
believe
waiting for the curtains to open
waiting for the means
transport a boardgame
on my back
set
of lewd Cluedo
for whomsoever might
wish
to join me
help me
to survive
life on a billiard sphere
hustling to get by
wanting to be Master
always
a slave
waiting for the lights
to darken
have
lost the book
in which
I was made
****
after a
while
everything
slithers
snakes and
ladders
perhaps better to
devote time
to generating boardgames
rather than
squandering my existence
writing
poetry or composing fiction
****
bumper to bumper stacked together
owe it to them
to not close my eyes,
keep looking
or everything before me
will disappear
and this funeral procession
miss its target
some poor
exclusive dignitary
about to skip his rendezvous
with captivating tombstone
of proportions extreme
so much here
so mechanical
yet so many
vital nuts and bolts
****
bureaucracy
is horror
bureaucracy
is death
I sat with
Slavoj Zizek
through yet another sunset
telling jokes
about philosophers
telling jokes and
the end of the Universe
(not that this necessarily
implies a causal connection)
today the lawyers
of old and new Johannesburg
are
heading North
with a holy bone to pick.
I sat by the roadside
play after play
oodles of
words, scenes,
dialogue
even
still in my head
ghosts of tales
still
to be told
(media marvels yet
to unfold)
old Johannesburg
RUBBLE
RUBBLE
my poem
lies under rubble
dead, asphyxiated
would be on
life support
but
there is no life
is no support
my poem
is getting
amputated
will lose a whole page
has already
lost
stanza
after stanza
without antibioticd
without anaesthetic
each line screams
as they cut
through
bone
you will have forgotten
these words
and the mass graves
of those
that have
spoken them
as you stare into the sunset
across the Mediterranean
from
your beautiful
seafront property
looking out towards Greece
the rubble
of great Troy
and the gods
of Homer’s world
CURLED
CURLED let me take a break from being a political animal writimg to protect humble humanity from true zealots of God missionaries who taste like, smell like (a bit too much sulphur there in with the holy napalm, cordite white phosphorous) feel I have to speak for them nobody listening when they speak for themselves (but now from the South some eighty-four page document so much devil in that detail some holy spokesperson said) time for me to go snake style serpent sidle up next to you slither out of fighting for humanity to fighting for you or just curling up close forked tongue doing the talking flickering into every hidden secret place ultra-sensitive your own true King Cobra we need you if not to entertain then pay (at least) lip service to our huge fantasies we souls of the great serpent born in the snake year
poems 2 die for 