Sunday, October 29, 2006

Of Drift and Special Ease

I never sleep
on the bed
never sleep
into dream.
Never quite reach
sleep comfortably
that groove time
of drift and special ease
of gone and just going off
in to perfect snooze mode
- cosy to gone.

Never quite reach that
first layer of sleep
still aware

There is sincerity
in quiet of dark
unasked for.
A neutrality.
Solitary bliss.

Though restless
peace now with
the certainty of
pulled curtains
the seal of walls
warm toe cosy
feet arms legs head
perfectly secure
preparing to

Eyes closed
kettle warm
muscles slack
small aches
- strains
the covers massage

peaceful now

as everywhere around
the sound of nothing
And of nowhere.

Friday, October 27, 2006

The Mind Is a Sieve

my sickness grows from a love turned sour
my spirit is naked and frost bitten in an arctic wind
snow blind love blind heart blind
my love is selfish
my love is not even tangible
Jesus, what am I talking about?
Am I ranting at the wind again?
as spiders crawl up my legs
like they own me

The rain urinates down from the sky
swollen grey clouds amass like armies
from WW1,
they have the look of two large
scholarly eyebrows crowding into
a frown of disappointment...
Five children sun about in the sun,
searching for their mother
who has fallen asleep in the
back garden with slight sunburn.
They will sneak into the kitchen
and steal three biscuits from the biscuit tin.
Damn! Then the memory of Alex, 16 Years Old: DEAD!
Smashed over an L.A. highway and lying there like
an open wound for every one to see and remember
their own childhood, and all the cars that passed
and all the passengers that looked, would never
know that Alex would be on a life support machine
for one week before it was switched off...
No, they still do not know that and nor should they!
Nor do they know that Alex's parents where Scottish
and that on the day he lay dying on that road
the woman who came to comfort him in his pain
was Scottish...and therefore the last voice he heard
was Scottish.
Love is Nostalgia. Love is memory.
Love is your private hidden stupid heart.
Imagine: from 1800 until 2007, 7:48

everyone has been nostalgic for the
lost and the lonely and the dead and
the dying. And it is absurd to think of
such things and it is beautiful and it
is those sorts of sensitive thoughts
that build giant monuments and steeples to God!
Rays of sun shine
through the blinds
like swords of light...
Politicians: Puppets
in a cynical puppet-show,
where only the strings are real...
from the womb to the tomb in ten
easy steps of sorrow and joy
experience and watch
your mother and father die
and be strong enough for that,
as flowers wither
they nod their heads...
when will the world
quieten to a heart beat...?
when will Mothers
lift up their arms
and Fathers untie
their breasts...
when will the
million questions
undress to answer
there are many universes that exist
like this universe: they float
like bubbles in the air
each joined to each...
this here world,
seem beyond false
as crumbs fall and pile on the floor
as the neighbours hammer on the wall
There is not much to say.
There is only a kind of stirring
of the pot, flicking the words about.
Making something out of nothing…
they'll do, they'll live, they fall through!
Then the thought of that
thirty year old woman
from up North
as I seduce the woman
she seduces me
(don't tell her husband)
the heat of the passion was so mad
we just left our minds at the door
and welcomed our bodies into bed.
time cries in the rain
love makes warm lentil soup
memories build houses
eyes scratch out the bad images
the pearls in the shell rust
the diamonds lose their edge
my mind is a sieve
my thoughts
drop like rice.


Upon the Word

I cannot write I have no hands.
Instead, I use my feet to gather stones
and pile them together into
the form of Miniature Mountains.

I have no poems they bore my mind.
Instead, I pick up all the sticks I can find
and join them together
into the form of five fingers.

I imagine pointing
at the world with my finger
while upon my mountain, bellowing
Do not linger too heavily upon the word.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Mad Cerberus

It is Friday. I shall be going out for some drinks tonight.
I shall drink with due care and attention. Like a policeman.

Ah, but all round the world is a crazed Dog!
A mad Cerberus frenzied with rabies...

Muslims are ordained Pitbull Terriers!
Christians are frothing German Shepherds!
Atheists are obedient Labradors!

It appears everyone is sniffing their own private parts.
Licking their wounds...following their Master...Heel Boy!

The bombs drop and fall and burst
wild placentas from some grand abortion...
how vivid and bombastic an image, how melodramatic!

As the soldiers cry in their late night beds.
As the widows weep and weep and weep to no-one.
As the many judge the few, weak jump, strong arm.
As the machine guns melt, bullets retreat, missions fail.
As the bombs burst pour say nothing and begin again.
As the casualties drop like condemned buildings.

It will continue like a recurring guilt
and we are useless to stop it.

I shall go now and drink and sing and dance ridiculous
as the poems write themselves as all wars are one war
as the Sun and the Moon ask no questions.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Side Of The Road

(Picture taken by Kevin Carter)

If you can picture a dying African baby
pipe cleaner thin nothing but a pick of meat
croutched like a Mohamadan praying
as a vulture stalks just feet away
waiting to feast upon this carrion.

If you can picture this:
please take a photograph
to offend civilisation.

needle sharp beak
knitting on the corpse
gouging flesh, tugging
at a tangle of heart strings.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

eyes meet

our eyes meet
ten thousand stranger
eyes and we each a kind
eye shake shy hand look
touch see as we pass by