Wednesday, 23 October 2013

Four Poems

Howling

Something feral,
Not quite wild

Passes between us

We tear each moment
Apart

A casual slaughter

An indifferent passion.



Consequences

We pack away
The board game
That was given to us

Play, in secret another game

The one where
Consequences
Are not imagined.

The one where
The rules are lost
Or are reinvented
At every move.



Holy

If desire is holy
We are a shrine

If sex is god
We are a trinity

If lust is a religion
Then it is an old one

If sin is real
We are done for.


Quilt

On that quilt
We refused to be quaint

Under it
We refused to be uncovered

Over it;
Hanged stars,
Drawn constellations,
Quartered moon.




Passion

Passion in many forms
We are idle as engines

Revving the counter
At amber

When red arrives
We fly

Tyres smoking
Guiltily

But always behind us.




Bus Stop

This bus stop
Is a metaphor,

For you going away from me

I check the timetable
For when you will return.

If you do not like this metaphor
There will be another one along shortly.



Monday, 21 October 2013

The Whitman/Hopkins Mash Up




Through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,
As king fishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
late of a winter night--And I unremark'd seated in a corner;
When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower

what I said to you in the open air I resume:
I know I am restless, and make others so;
I have desired to go
Where springs not fail,
To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail,
And a few lilies blow.

A sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding;
And haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away. 
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say

Thou that on sin's wages starvest, 
Behold we have the joy in harvest:
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing,
pondering the themes thou lovest best.
Night, sleep, and the stars.

there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?

Why not be an Academic?

Why not be an Academic?
after Steve Urwin

Crudites
The caterer’s choice
Chilled
For crunchiness.

Just enough time
To snack
Before
We jangle
Champagne flutes.

A good guide for life
Split down the middle
Of class,
Lying to the gods and
The gallery.

Run a course at uni
Make each half writer whole
The bare essentials
Of arts council, nepotism
And salary.

Pearls from swine fever
We patronise the word
Be an academic

Live this shit.

Μια ζωή π




Looking for something constantly
Turns life into a formula for death,
Which approaches in its usual shape.

I cannot figure you out
Because you do not wish me
To understand.

Everyone is empty
Some emptiness
Is fillable.


Typos from the opening lines of famous novels.



Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover lice.

It was a bright cold day in April, and the cocks were striking thirteen.

Stately, plump fuck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed

Miss Brooke had that kind of booty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.

The old passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring frogs revealed an arm stretched out on the hills, resting.

"To be born again," sang Gibreel Farishta mumbling from the heavens, "first you have to hide.

He was an old man who pished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a pish.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a life.


It’s a very Greek idea, and a very profound one. Beauty is error.

Shattered Specular Reflection.



Imagine a mirror
Look into it and
Try to see yourself.

It isn’t quite you , is it?

An approximation
Of what you believe yourself to be.

Take a second mirror
To reverse the first’s reversal.

Is it more or less like you?
Do two lies make a truth?
Does twice removed
Make things nearer?

Break the mirror
And reassemble
Your reflection.

There that’s better
Now do you recognise

Your true self?

Oneirology



Don’t write about dreams
Unless you’ve got something else to say.

Don’t contemplate them, you will slip
Into cliché as easily and obviously
as clouds being fluffy or as night being dark.

Ignore them and their glib psychology
Freud used to dream about sex
Before it was Freudian to do so.

Denounce them as being what they are; mind herpes,
Involuntary ramblings or at best pleasant diversions.

Don’t encourage them to breed.
They are as pointless to take seriously
as astrology is to astronomy.

View them as you might view gossip columns
Interpret them in the same way, with cynicism
And if you don’t know yourself by now
Ask someone who does.

Don’t write about dreams
They will trick you into believing
You are important, when you really know
You are not, otherwise why dream at all?

You can’t escape or find safe passage through
Life by dreaming, dreams are like cotton wool

Good for soaking up stuff but useless after that.