my poetry and I

are tired of each other

no more lust or desire as when
young lovers

the shape of our bodies no longer
streamlined when stripped
so ready
for action

the metaphors that conjoined us
now marking
sad difference

and not that beautiful difference
from all things regular
that go
by the book
so dull and commonplace

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AFICIONADO

here you
welcome to
my poem
but
before we
proceed please
fill out
this questionnaire:
is this your first time in a poem
if NO, would you class yourself as
tourist or
aficionado?
if YES,
to what would you
ascribe your poetic virginity

and now have you
begun to
develop a
feel
for words?

BAD RAP

writers are
mass murderers
kill off characters
without a
second thought

like animals at the abattoir
there to be disposed of
at our pleasure

we do not
even feel the pressure
of what they suffer

(all that
bad Karma, rhythm, our
totally bad rap)

oh got that beat
in my head that
they even might
get to thank us for

that little
so little
life they had

the gifts bestowed upon them
the universe in which
life is (as Nietzsche promised)
eternal reliving, eternal
repetition

and so that pain, that suffering
stretched out to
infinity being
always re-read

like Christ on the Cross
jumping time, giving us
his death

extended into the very
essence of forever

moment by
moment

hours of agony, divided amongst all
who lived, live, have
yet to live

moment by
moment

pinprick by
pinprick

drop of blood by
drop of
blood

an ocean of soul in each
infinitesimal drop

(and so
the song

changed

something special in

what it
how it now wraps)

WATER

what was the harvest
what was
the yield?

you walked through this field
saw my
little house

but we
were walking

I was
walking outside with you

the box
is empty
I am not inside the box

we look through the window together
look together
see each other

how deeply
does that thought penetrate?

or like water, like rain
does it just cascade
wash off?

and yet water being water
always as it touches
takes
your shape

CHESS CLUB

if not
pure
chess club is
succinct

first rule of chess club is
you do not talk, think about the gun

in this austere beautiful
white black space
mind
is razor

mind
cannot go off
at tangent
disconnect

black and white
queen rules this place
supreme

hold
power in each palm
crack open the world
the Universe
with their
bare hands

their music epic
if soundless, invisible

first rule of chess club (being
so precise a
metaphor)

do not think

talk about
the gun

CONNECTION

was writing my poem
when you poured
over my border
invaded my territory

which is why
borders are
so important

for where
would my creativity be
with you and
others like you
clamoring to be
part of my life
on a daily basis

wanting to be
citizens of my world

read my poem
make a connection

OH THOSE SUNLIT

BREXIT UPLANDS

Oh those sunlit
Brexit uplands

fields verdant, the grass green
as a mamba
as a dying soldier’s
fiction of
home

and this is now
place worth fighting for
sovereignty restored

so clear
transparent:
not a smudge
of smog to dull or leaden
burn the throat out
like a chemical weapon

no nothing but beauty
permissible here

music and poetry
tremendous industry
goods flowing in
from all over the world

everything else
forget, do not
rue

what the world reflects and composes
as so much
fake news.

BY THE ULTRA-

PROSAIC TITLE

I don’t know
how history will
judge us
but I did happen
to read an
alien poem
about us

apparently they consider
it so funny they
have banned it
from ever being recited
lest the shockwave
of laughter

tear their planet
out of its system
rupture their galaxy
and cause some
unenvisaged change
thousands of
light years away on
that crazy, scruffy,
overwhelmed formerly
blue planet
that goes by the
ultra-prosaic title
“Earth”.