20 Wednesday Jan 2021
Tags
Cats, poem, poetry, Salvador Dali, space travel, surreal, time
ABOUT TIME
I got my cats
special goggles
so we could
aviate the cosmos
and navigate time
asked Mr Dali
to design them
since when
it comes to time
no one
has produced
of that concept such
a fine distillation
in the surreal sleep
of cryogenic freezing
cats and me
are, when it
comes to death dreaming
have a
fabulously
long night
17 Sunday Jan 2021
Posted in art, Creation, Creativity, gods and goddesses, Moon, mystical, mythical/mythological, Poem, Poet, poetry, Poetry, Poetry
SOFT STROKES
so many stars
in your eyes
cannot
deny
it’s amazing
you are able
to see
anything at all
not least
in the West
a tiny sliver
of silver
crescent moon
read thereinto
face of horned
matriarch goddess
even as
a wispy veil of cloud
brushes across the sky
to hide her
whosoever this artist is
they are absolutely using
very soft strokes
29 Tuesday Dec 2020
Posted in art, ironical/comic, Poem, Poet, poetry, Poetry, Poetry, Uncategorized
THE EXHIBITION OF REJECTS
went to
the Exhibition of Rejects
with my
Jackson Pollock type
screen-prints
but they couldn’t
afford me space
told me this
to my face
directly
but not exactly
and so I began
to dissolve into
hopelessnesss
drizzle
and drip
which got them
admiring the artistry
to revise
their decision
but turned into masterpiece
there
on the floor
to accept their fresh,
kind offer
was, quite sadly,
in no position
20 Sunday Dec 2020
Posted in art, love, Metaphor, metaphoric, Poem, Poet, poetry, Poetry, Poetry, Sexual, Sexual innuendo, Uncategorized, writing
Tags
TALK TALK
poets just talk
they no use in bed
beauty like yours need serious sculpture
fine fine art
a Rodin
really up for it
a Moore
a Miro
a Picasso
a Picasso firing
on all cylinders and
way more Miro
tons of gold-leaf
gallons of finger paint
how else to capture
the intensity and sensuous shape
of your sexuality
how else
to pay it homage, give
it aesthetic justice?
way beyond anything possible
in how you
scheme your
lines
(saucy interplay between those
masculine and
those feminine rhymes)
if not
paint or
alabaster
then let us turn
to
melody, harmony
scale and
chord
Oh the music that we imagine
if you
were orchestra
ascending
descending
ascending again
(as
arpeggio, glissando
the maestro feels you about
to launch
into your solo)
leaving world of words
feeling sad and short
and so far behind
unless
colossus of wit, mandarin
of syllable
announces himself mightily
strides
centre stage, his voice
a whirlwind
and there you are, your body versified
your story
made
universal
stretched out into three acts and
climaxed in denouement
not one
inch of your body
not willing to mean
all it can sing
be
the truth of a
tale realized
it always
(so secretly) wanted
to tell itself
17 Thursday Dec 2020
Tags
Alien, art, metapoetic, philosophical, poem, poetry, simulation, Stars
MATTER OF FACT
what if
we are all
just alien
artifact?
run
from
research and development
to production line?
no art to speak of
just a pieces kit you
rivet and fix
by numbers paint
colours of
(an oxygen atmosphere)
rainbow
praise be intelligence
for thanks to this
got other
models and myths
I’d rather
cling to
even when
I stalk a poem, circling
the house at night
the stars laughing in concert
in
their
constellations
as I
miss the point
become the embodiment
of
our
base assumption
that there is
thing called
self, things
called
soul
and mind
clunkiest of all
our most arrogant
rationalizations
06 Sunday Dec 2020
QUITE LIKE
” History records no
phenomenon like him.”
Joachim C. Fest
the failed artist
is there nothing
quite like
the greatest of these
paint death with brush strokes
beyond anything hitherto seen
hard to
find
humanity in
such a canvas
the grey-green and
other camouflage tones
so strong, so heavy
connoisseurs will claim
they have it
in them to last
for a
thousand years
life
longer than
indomitable plague or
nuclear radiation
and this, if we
rewind the tape, or
page back to
the beginning
spoke of idyll and Apollo and
Rome and return to
the wellsprings of
pure civilization
Oh yes
when art is
distracted, fails
is humiliated
then the compensation
defies the capacity of
mere imagination
look
elsewhere
for that source
far and wide, back
to
the origin
to the beginning of time
to that primeval law
rule of cosmic violence
or closer to
home, right
in this space
time
there, millimeters deep,
just under the epidermis
of the skin
you are wearing
whether or not
you carry the tattoo
of the
failed artist, or
that which is akin, is
hopelessly like it
24 Saturday Oct 2020
JE NE SAIS QUOI
your poem
is curly
your poem
is kinky
sometimes it threatens
to leave the page
I ponder who he or she might be
the Muse who inspires you
whether he
she
is sign of the twin, like mine,
twinned we are
she and I
my Moon
in her twin sign too
talking of lunatics (and lovers)
that bearded bald guy
still
crowding the stage with
characters and invention
his scope: the Universe as he new it
and social structure
from top to
Bottom
assuring us this horizon-
vaulting madness
is beyond
normal explanation
those crazed
in love, crazed
beyond love
stripping off the mask
pushing to the edge
lost
in this mirror world
even as
I am with you
12 Wednesday Aug 2020
Posted in art, Creation, Creativity, Metaphor, metapoetic/metafictional, Nature, Poem, Poet, poetry, Poetry, Uncategorized
FACE VALUE
suck on this
and
don’t worry
it’s fake, not
a real poem
nothing about it
is natural
everything
is constructed
it did not
just flow
onto the page
every word was
worked
tried
and tested
so many rejected, discarded
gone to waste
and yet it
all looks so accomplished
ready to
dive into
accept
at face value
04 Tuesday Aug 2020
APE
“Even as a shadow,
even as a dream.”
Euripides
ape
needed
to
imitate
good then
to find
a mirror
one
to
carry
everywhere
so much
the better
and me
aping Pound
and Eliot
Blake, Yeats
and Cummings
rehearsing the words
in my head though
page is never
final performance
never even
opening night
speaking of which
have to think
how the work evolves
need to explore
to the fullest
evolution
of the writer
backstage, even
as you shut the book
press exit
and save
so many of your,
my,
gibbering kind
hitting the keys to type for infinity
thus randomize Shakespeare
but before
those epic, evolutionary heights
are
attained (peak of K plus 2, mathematically gained)
may just stumble upon Blakean augury
about sandgrain and eternity
infinity and
a flower
the small
and the beautiful
speaking for my species
for the ape
in my species
not
our style at all
not
our cup
of tea at all
come back to me
when you have got
(or at least laid
the foundation)
for city of
narrative,
palace of
poetry
five act theatre by
the Thames or
open space on the Greek plains
where the ape gods inside us
can wander
across stage, wonder
at their narratives, their passions
their characters
their love-hate relationships with
us mere
ape mortals
who gave them
flesh
and blood
who gave them their lines
21 Tuesday Jul 2020
HOGARTH
we don’t need no Hogarth
we got our
magic lantern
we can watch moving
pictures all night
all day
can live another world
just sitting, lying here
but Hogarth
would have nailed you
to his wall
would have
put you
in a gallery
captured you
every whim
and wile
with his
unflattering eye
and yet
no space for him
on our street today
no place for
an artist of
jos kind
the broadsheets
blew them
blasted
quite away
before
he could grab them
perfectly them
by the Grub Street
skewer them
by the Fleet ditch
his century seems so far away
but: fake news,,, false
Enlightenment
Pope splattering and splashing
up his wall
there is a better
kind of
satire
he would argue
one whose allegory is
that painful fall
from hubris to
social destruction
****
Oh the vanity of it
how those faces in the portraits
long to
burst your
bubble
fix
your lottery
have long foreseen
the financial calamity of your burst bubble
the roast beef of England
now where did that go?
where did it disappear to?
If I’m not
much mistaken guv’nor
they not be eating that
down Gin Lane
just Grady scraps of fried chippy
wrapped in
a tabloid page
and a fop
to rule us
who would have thought it
those old laughed-at stereotypes
back with a vengeance
bawd is bitch to your
ramshackle kingdom, M’lud
in Bedlam you
can be committed for
satire, irony’s
incurable disease
snap, crackle,
pop go our rights, pop
goes the economy
but we have free
speech, right to
stone
in the media
stone
on the streets
don’t be like evangelical Jesus
rushing to throw the first one
remember
the fool will
always be with us
the fools not grown
much bigger
just
more loud
so
don’t put up
bunting
don’t go
to town
if Hogarth’s spirit is
with us, resurrected,
walks amongst us
who can tell
what he’s
bringing down
