and when
he takes his mask off
we shall see the
demon of dystopia
in all its
ugliness
burning like acid
spreading like oil
#poem
31 Tuesday Jan 2017
and when
he takes his mask off
we shall see the
demon of dystopia
in all its
ugliness
burning like acid
spreading like oil
#poem
31 Tuesday Jan 2017
Posted Uncategorized
inmy lips
on you
so softly
I want you
to separate like
cloud
rain
31 Tuesday Jan 2017
UNTITLED
this poem
is untitled
this poem
is “UNTITLED”
it has
a title which
is “UNTITLED”
it has this
title to
protest against
titles, honours, labels, hierarchies,
lists of things that
presuppose
our world of raw
naked power
is modelled on the
glories of the ranks and
symmetries that
populate Heaven
31 Tuesday Jan 2017
it’s a world
of
diversity
layer upon
layer of
mixed
signals
left
right got to
get your dividers, go
protractor
across the airwaves: an
eye for an eye and
a truth
for a truth
31 Tuesday Jan 2017
thank you
for being you
and presenting me
with a foretaste of Heaven
that sip that
leaves the lips quaking for
more more more
31 Tuesday Jan 2017
there was
an angel
and a demon
the demon
ate
the angel
became
a goddess
or maybe
Carl Gustav, just
maybe
it was the
other way around
30 Monday Jan 2017
who would have
thought
such a
precious beauty in
feeling nothing
in no
longer caring
that I was
horribly deceived
no longer in thrall
of your soft voice, sharp
eyes, terrible
manipulative beauty
the clarity that
you took now returned to me
30 Monday Jan 2017
thank you for
your soft way
of making
me feel loved
rescuing me
from the darkness
and its manipulative queen
who is all
soft-talk smoothing over
(until challenged and
then pure virago)
this figure
of secret lust, smoke
and mirror, this
monster, dragon
without passion
without real fire
unless we
consider
the other half of her
divided, tormented self
29 Sunday Jan 2017
OF THEIR OWN
My hand is so
torn from
feeding you
don’t you
know the proverb
(you being such a
good soul and all)
about not
biting the hand?
But those teeth …
they have
secret lives
of their own.
29 Sunday Jan 2017
SO VEIN
you thought I wrote
this song/poem about you…
in a sense
I indeed did
and could have
made you famous
(if only you
had stuck by me)
but
doing what you did,
necessitating departure,
the anger and
acrimony still bubbling
up
over
under
(all the
prepositions which
for us were
not even hardly, but actually
never in the
slightest
sexual)
there is still
a rich vein of poetry
to be mined
red, arterial blood of bitter exploited
drug-crazy passion
spurting
splashing across the page