LIKE IT
I like it when
even
in full flow
(the joy
of flow)
you catch exactly
how your
mind works
how it all works
have your
self-reflexive
meta moment
finish the poem
with its special twist
and the Universe
(whether it is
real or
simulation)
smiles and
welcomes you
to postmodernity.
CONJUNCTION
I am writing
a poem
and the world is fucked.
I am writing a poem
but
the world
is fucked
I am
writing a poem
however, although,
the world
is
fucked
am writing
notwithstanding, despite,
in outright opposition to
the
world
being fucked.
I am writing a poem,
have written a poem,
just trying to establish
the precise conjunction.
QUESTION MARK
thank you
for not inviting me
to your
prestigious event
not up
to your level
I think I get
the message
we poetic bottom-
feeders must
take what
we can get
but is it not
“true”, by
definition that
anything appearing
on this stage
part
of this show
is horribly compromised,
by no means
capable of
doing
what words
should do?
MAMBA METAPHOR
you called me
animal
thought to
myself “that’s
a metaphor”
think I must be
an animal there just
to be stamped on
crushed, einsatzed and
gas chambered
and it is there in the script
in your vision of, and
for reality
what you see
must become,
must be
even if you have to
slaughter all the children
animal children
of the rest of humanity
animal humanity
but my pen
is black inked and
silver grey on the outside
its nib
poised like a fang
ergo
this poem, writhing and
striking
exacting an absolute
price
from being
forced into this corner,
put in this posture
is a black mamba
it is my
totem for the day
my creature of choice
******
you called me
animal
thought to
myself “that’s
a metaphor”
throwing linguistic
Phosphorous in
your general direction
sticking you
with enough drops of
neurotoxin
to kill half
your army
I see
you still have issues, your
anger rising
anger born of fear
fear clinging to
survival
that evolution is about, all about
about only
the crushing of the weak
the triumph of the strong
so
whilst you still can
whilst the venom is with
horrible curiosity
feeding
into your system
pressing
every wrong button
throwing every wrong switch
disabling every
vital lever
finding out
what makes you tick
then smashing the clock
whilst we wait just a few minutes
for the demonic chemistry to work
behind this deconstructive
procedure
just
pass the torch on
you
will no longer
carry
slide into prayer and
plea for vengeance from
your slick
wooden god
*****
you called me
animal
thought to
myself “that’s
a metaphor”
sometimes they
are wild, unpredictable
can cross
into reality
this in
their nature to
follow their shadow, unleash
the dark program
remain dangerously true
to both
species and brand
QUEEN OF
INTROSPECTION
dainty
delicate
I read your words and
am proud to
tell you
you are
my Queen of
introspection
so go to
the podium
get your
award
thank your
agent, your parents,
your minister
at the Church and
above all
He
who created you
without which
this award-winning poetry
with all its
soft
soft
words
would
not exist
FOLLOWED
followed Jacques Derrida
down a rabbit hole
seriously
name-dropping all the way
saw Slavoj Zizek
and all his twin twizzle
and tweedle brothers
who asked how I could
have been so sure
that down was the direction
I was heading
when, counter
intuitively, up might
equally
make perfect sense
and I
might be twin too
Moon cavorting on the lunar surface
doing sibling-style stuff
with young
Castor and Pollux
and other twin
who penned that tune
I am the Walrus and Richard and
Karen
in such seemingly
beautiful harmony
Oh you cannot
put a cat in a box
and have any kind of certainty
you cannot come up with truths
you can always reconnect
the very land we stand on
slipping and sliding
so slippery-slidey
what
we have before us here
(not referring to the tea party)
so different
from what I was thinking, what
expected, and
what I almost fancied
I was destined to express
FROM KENDRICK LAMAR
strange perspective
you get
married
to a robot
watching the gangsta
rapper winning
the big award
tattooed arm, backwards cap
thanking God
the great promoter
(looking up as he does so
this shredder of
convention)
and me and robot gossiping
about the whole thing
kind of laughing (much
robot ha ha
tears in her eyes emoji
laughter) paused
for a moment
while she downloads
acquaints herself with
the entire history
of rap lyrics, hip
hop music
converts this poem
in a flash to the style
of Eminem and
then Kendrick Lamar
so a feeling for poetry
perhaps because
I named her
Sappho
we still for the Nobel Prize
for Eminem
joining TS Eliot
and JM Coetzee
the speech and
lecture in Stockholm
from Kendrick Lamar
TYPOLOGY
typing my life
into a phone
so much
has to stay unsaid
because it’s
a poem
smaller and smaller I get
but closer to the bone
have to consider that
even as I write
what happen to have
scrawled here
could be
my last word
THIS PLAY
I came to the play
in suffering
Hamlet this night
sure to be my guy
having pencilled him in
but no sooner ghost-talking
guards appeared on the parapet
then down in the audience
war broke out
between those who
swear by
William of Stratford, and
those who proclaim
a new king
by name of de Vere
sad that either way we
facing some
serious anonymity
which is hard for any writer
but perhaps par for
the greatness course
I am told these poor folks
put their whole
souls into it
and next time you scan
not a single bone remains
spiritual, symbolical, material
not a shred
of connecting evidence
it’s like the stuff
wrote itself or
ethereal hand
blessed the page
no chance here to debate
learning
versus innate craft, the role
pain played in it
of trace of the causality that
produced this irreplaceable shape
and there we are
watching, dreaming
as it
all goes down without us
pale reflection of being
perhaps not even
bridge
best we can be, bridge
broken or
magnificent
Hamlet
dead again
as always
In state of acute longing some suffering,
I came this play.
MR GLADWELL
Oh Mr Gladwell
I am playing chess
writing poetry
writing poetry
playing chess
playing
poetry
writing chess
my brain has become
a RORSCHACH blot
there
is blood all over
the board
strange body fluids
all over the page
wanted to be a kind of genius
but I’m dissolving into
nothingness
Mozart composing symphonies
still at the breast,
working out
the arias for his operas
from within
his pauper’s grave.
poems 2 die for