Mutant

I sit; a nut,

turn in my shell,

eyes in backward.

 

Dig a wee self;

forage in the glen

of fine, crude cells.

 

I’m pressed.

Ears in the ocean

seize…

a mutinous song.

 

Feb 23 2017

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chicken

You look like a Stiff,

high on stilts.

A prize cock.

 

I fixed upon the back of yr neck,

as you sat upright

at the dining table,

and thought:

 

Last night I brought you back

from the dead, you wanker.

I know,

 

I know: you’re wired

to think right

ahead, apply

 

arithmetic

to human situations.

Not quite Utilitarian:

 

learn 1st to figure

the Self 1 Unit

among many.

 

Oct 2016

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onward

onward
for Keikei

i wake
in our love
i walk through
the day and its
shadows in
our love
i sleep
in our love
i love in our
love my
deer
my keep
my cloud
my deep

2016

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The Money Man

They leaned in as the money man spoke:

You might be best, he said, to just put 500 out –

By which he meant, add three noughts.

I mean, do you really want that house?

They moved back from his veined red face.

No, they said. Thrice no.

We might be best, they chorused, to just put 500 out.

Just get the interest (well, such as it was).

They agreed on everything, even the small-town coffee;

Just the thing to whet the financial whistle.

Then they left, and the waitress’s face set tight

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Grey Lynn Festival

i feel i never breathed before this day with you
began with wine, we danced
we held the value of our life
in one clumsy hand
entwined our fingers with the other.

the cork jumped high, we overflowed:
plastic cups were chalices
children were cupids
all eyes were wide
and the rain was not steady.

i will sit with you in the park
and strand by strand
comb every tangle from you;
will look at ducks and weeds and watercress
be amused by steady beauty
constant as this flame that has us burning.

cloistered somewhere dark and deep
carousels of angels laughing winking
every thought we speak is sweet.

some may say there’s something better;
many say there’s something worse;
but i will wrap you in my sweater
tuck you in warm fields of verse.

yes, you speak a foreign language;
many cases, too much wine,
so we share a friendly bottle
inside our ship on summer time.

———————————————–

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A poem for my vagina

A poem for my vagina

Nothing could be finer

My cunt

My pussy

is sweet

Like a flowering orchid

Enfolding

Enveloping

Developing

Unravelling

and travelling

It’s one route

Don’t shoot me

down in flames

Don’t play

your stupid games

Where would you be

without me?

My strong bold cunt

enveloping

your useless front

Try to fuck me up

Why don’t you?

Haha…see where it

takes you

With your timeless guiles

your pretend smiles

Point your cock

in my direction

Doesn’t even rate a mentiob

While I’m down

on my knees

Your cock

I’m trying to please

What about my pleasure?

That you take

at your leisure

What about my vagina?

Nothing could be finer

My cunt

My pussy

is sweet

So let us meet

in mutual rendevous

I’ll put on my red shoes

Dance for you

so divinely

so finely

So…do I prick your conscience?

from

time to time

While I’m being

divine

Well…Fuck you..

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Love By Drowning

I see your whirlpools, darling
I can see them now
the blue and green
and between those colours
I understand now, these currents
I can see your whirlpools, baby

I can see the deep ache, sweetheart
upon your weathered smile
the weight above your eyes
turmoil, like sunken treasure,
way down deep
that you have protected for awhile

I can see your whirlpools, darling
like a spinning water wheel
up one second then headlong down
you refuse to heal
a vow to never give up on us
wasn’t that the deal?

I can see your whirlpools darling
the water could wash us clean
but you wont come up for air
so I dive into your whirlpool baby
lets go down into your abyss
I will be your treasure there

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Worst poem ever of the day week

I

 

Might quit

what’s not any kind

of business. Cowboys,

 

Cowgirls! rein yr high

-strung horses

in, loose syllables. I

 

have a family

that can’t depend on me.

 

II

 

My last poem will look something like this,

but lean; a withering away

of the Self;

 

disciplined,

not this kind of rubbish.

 

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from Common-On-Est.

The retrial started after
I’d taken a sleeping pill
when my son decided he wanted in
the same bed
after a frightening movie
of time travelling extraterrestrials
physically present on earth,
not frightening, in the horror movie
way, but deep, intellectually
complex, and because I had to work
early I took the tablet, and then
the mother said, as I was climbing
between them, ‘Why did you bother
if you’re not going to be alive
in your sleep?, no cuddles for me!’
So using that for my excuse because
I had a new artwork I’d finished
in the afternoon which I wanted to view
under electric light, I drove home,
not far that I would fall asleep
on the way, and when I got home
I stood looking and wondering how
a man with no art training
or even any early inclination
could produce and sell so many
painted surface artworks?,
and because the pill had started
working and it was like when I used
to drink and drug I thought I would stay
awake for as long as I could,
and I took down from the shelf a writer
I used to read when I wrote drinking
and read poetry drunk. I know Regret
is a lame horse, and I don’t know if
it was because the movie we watched
spoke about Language in relation to Time
and Thought as the conditioning agents
for being free or being caught— but even
though I’d removed the saddle
and stirrups and the reins
and had lead Regret, limping
to a small piece of lawn behind the shed
by the tyre swing, where the wood to
be made into kindling was stored
which were the kisses I didn’t take,
and the days I didn’t show up, the mistakes
Bravado allows, and expects; with the gun
in my hands, the knowledge
of Time, Emotion, the symbolism
of Memory, I still was unable
to pull the trigger…

 

 

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City’s Secrets

A city’s secret

Up a steep stair.

A swing door

Kept shut.

Fusty light

Too tired to shine

Sits in corners

By faded florals.

Secrets.

Wary steps.

Come up.

(Mind the step)

I’m in Room 3.

Left at the top.

Bring your scent.

Your gorging eyes.

I’m in repose.

I’m in your head.

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Moulting.

So evenly it sheds
skin, love –
a gentle slip
in symphony
to betray a leather
breach;
its new & true jacket,
sleek
in fresh venom.

I arch the path
of the latest asp
in hot ash, unravelled
along cinders of
our nebulous friends;

kidneys, liver, lovers –

those fallen organs
shape neurotic beds
for a living dead.

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à la manière de Pound

Your lines, Aurelius,

are stiff; the age

demands a long-er

breath. The age

 

demands

the unexpected

flare-up of vamparism. A reel

more disturbed than

genocide, even (which is,

the mass and systematic slaughter

of a people); some unusual

childhood, say – not,

at any rate, a mere exercise

in formalism,

or the sculpture of rhyme;

 

not, not assuredly

the strictures of dance,

metric  symmetry.

The age demands,

 

in short, freedom –

immediately;

a home brand

subjectivity.

 

Your lines, Aurelius,

are stiff; the age

demands a looser

grip. Les demandes

 

d’âge

 

30/9/16

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