SILLY ME
silly me
how silly could
I be!
all the ills
of the world
I do allow
to make
me
sickly
so please
do not simply
condemn
if in this
fall
from grace
I do
maybe
vomit up the odd
poem
or two
perhaps
quite hideous
possibly
outright
sublime
silly not to factor
all that is genius into
the chaos
of big picture
ABSURD
in a poem
it gets so absurd
the whole thing
can be changed
by
one word
for the piece
at hand
it’s life
or death
the shift of shade
you now express
EMILY SYNDROME
stuck some poems
in a folder
ready for revision
(Oh,
happy day!)
left them not
so long but
long
longer than
intended
albeit without Sun
or air or
indeed watering
at all
so imagine my delight shock
and horror that
day of
days, moment
of reopening
when found the little bastards
to have thrived
and multiplied, some
even grown in size
to embrace the gamut
from
split little
atom through to
Pandora of expanding universe
poem growing up
prophetic,
apocalyptic
whispering, screeching
to the Universe
their
primal truth as mirror
and
testimony (dear
reader)
to all
expanding size
WIRING
sorry about the writing
must be
something in
the wiring
keeps
rejecting dead
reckoning
flying
off at a tangent
seeking out the truth
PENMAN
saw those old school
photos yet once more
(was looking for something
relevant
and they just
fell down)
so angelic that face and
mop of blonde curls
would seem to have
“grows up to become
cruel spree-killer
written
all over him”
so easy to strip, lock and
load an automatic weapon
after careful study
(nose buried
in that manual)
so much harder a labour
filling basket after basket
with failute, screwed
up paper
battling the odds
to pen a poem
CHARM
for you, my
dear friend,
writing
is a charm
for me
it is thing
done in blood
the scrawl
across
the page
raw nerve
sheer pain
you at the soiree
reading, drinking
champagne
me in the cellar
with a tourniquet
trying
to
suck out the poison
LINE
I have a
ghost writer
in
my machine
have a
ghost writer
that is
my machine
inserting itself
between
me
and
my desire
subject
and text
when that
voice
whispers
what
must be and
so
what is
what hope do
I hold of
not walking that line.
MECHANISM
seems
like a no-brainer
poet is
predator
poem
is prey
no brainer
of no brainers
unless
as poet
stepping in
for the kill
poem is waiting
camouflaged
ambush reptile
hitting you
first strike
huge
toxic
shot
feedback
mechanism
OVERKILL
“Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.”
Shelley, The Masque of Anarchy
(poem on the Peterloo Massacre)
Ah, my beauties
here is poetry
where it has always been
first past the post
(postmodern, pissedmodern,
posttruth, postnuclear,
postapocalyptic, post-
whasoever)
play of language: you realize
of a sudden that deep
down in
your tin heart
you have to prevent it
look at the danger: exhibit A,
very drowned poet
his young pregnant wife
dreamt the future as monster
private parts monster
(as they all are)
scratching at her window
demanding
life, consciousness,
not exactly Turing tested but
she scared
the life out of us, this
virgin snake did cosmically,
with what
ex machina she
duly came up with
such overkill
need to nip it in the bud
radical danger of metaphor
surely
needs its own -dectomy
the threat of crucifixion
along every highway
and byway
resurrected again
something the billboards
really need, are crying out
for
real spectacle
behind them.
AT ALL COSTS
this is my safe room
I need to lock myself
in my safe room
watch Slavoj and Yanis
debate the downward
spiral of the world
at all costs
avoid engaging with
the horrors out there
unless my empathy
spark me
to self-destruct
do things that power
will cause me to regret
(so vindictive our species
when
power is challenged)
and here
in my room
let me discuss poetry
with imaginary friends
one I have I Frankensteined
to my own specifications
golden-skinned, bob-cut
IQ in the thousands
the technology that will
destroy us
in the exchanges
we have
other crazies of our time
that fit in your pocket,
can
be considered hand-held
maybe these enough
to guide you
across minefields
through the cross-fire
find your
escape ladder to God
poems 2 die for