MANFESTO

Tags

art, Mike Tyson, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, political manifesto, satire, violence

MANIFESTO

I am
the Mike Tyson
of poetry

my words
punch you
in the mouth

and
then instantly
you forget every
stupid point
in your
political manifesto

especially the ones that relate
to the control of art

CONCRETE POEM

Tags

authoritarian, Censorship, confinement, imprisonment, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, power, satire, sexual symbolism, writing

CONCRETE POEM

let me not
go off
at a tangent
touchdown in a
world of preset
concrete

where a water snake like me
has absolute power
and what you
read as a poem
is sin against
the State, concretely
absolutely

the consciousness
that wrote this
at fault, to
be
corrected

washed of its failings
with high pressure hoses
jammed into
the coffin-like darkness
of a tightly sealed
(concrete box)

there to
solidify, of

use (ultimately) in
some showpiece structure

FROM THE PAGE

Tags

dissent, Fascism, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, totalitarianism, writing

FROM THE PAGE

was writing, writing
writing

could not get the words right
(right meaning “exact”,
not in league with
some
masquerading devil

who would march us up
in our regiments, crisply uniformed,
to the iron
gates of Heaven

where angels with machine-guns
check our credentials
let us In)

no the words, as you see here, were
running away from me
flying off at tangents
swirling on the wind
without focus or power

and who would read such
preposterous metaphors,
ridiculous images
Cassandra warnings of
the end to all polity?

and yet
hopeless as the poem is
however ineffectual

the forces of denial are battering away
smashing at my door, pressed up
against my window
desperate to prevent my pen
producing a line, managing
a choice phrase

for this dominion must be absolute, no
dissent is
tolerable

even this sad, worthless effort
blood-washed from the page

SOLITARY

Tags

Consciousness, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, Prison, prisoners of conscience, solitary confinement, Stars, Universe

SOLITARY

the stars
make their regime
clear as crystal

but are themselves
confused, startled,
as to why we would
so limit consciousness

stick in a windowless,
punishment box of concrete
where their
presence cannot be felt, their
light never enters

see
in their eyes

in
their expression

so much
protest

but
as always with the
politics of man

steadfastly
ignored

other consciousness
such better things to do, so
desperate the need
to protect itself

this our way
until the stars themselves fade

BOILING

Tags

Nazi, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, power, Universe

BOILING

the soup
boiling

people alive
(the great Khan
has not heard that story
about slowly
raising the temperature

watching the frog
broil at
sixes and
sevens)

those who accept power
for what it is, and it
never is
just what it is
(ask my
friend Caligula)
will laugh, shrug their shoulders say,
“let him stew
in his own juices; he
got what he deserved”

and her case
infinitely worse
thinking
of her fate
the darkest pleasure
came pouring

oh how things slide!
one morning “hostile environment”
the next we are all off
to watch the gladiators
“ashes
and dust at the new
Colosseum new
Circus Maximus”

a sword goes in, a trident
finds its target
you wake from
the nightmare

but the horror of
who and wear you are
is a Russian doll, is a
infinite set
of Chinese boxes

first light, crack
of dawn and they wake you:
work detail: so much work to do
enterprise to inflict on
these walking skeletons, ghoulish faces

living dead who need
to be buried

ashes and dust
the problem is never
solved, there is no golden solution

just more and
more
our species trying so hard to
be the perfect
death
machine

our blue Earth
making its

little point
for every every star
out there, every
comprehending eye in
every spiral galaxy

the chemical elements combining
dividing contesting clashing

so much
there
to digest

spinning
in and
out
of perfect control

LOCKDOWN

sleep held me
under tight lockdown

the silent mind
cannot
go crazy
this it might have
whispered
but
I did not hear

unable to wander
make my journey

the sea
mirror calm, but
nothing mirrored here

MAENAD

MAENAD

unless Dionysus,
whose creature
keeps me shackled,
release me

I will remain here
as much as prisoner
as his unwitting disciple
whose dark body
heaves, whose voice
rants, raves
so bitterly unrequited

NEVER DREAMT

no more
chaos from you
Mr Butterfly

on this
day of liberation
she has you
me
pinned, penned

your only flights
flights of metaphor
if you
had time to think,
space to move

battering your cage
your nose
pressed up
against the glass
she
has zoo-reptiled you

like those unfortunate creatures
plucked from tropical lands
you saw
enclosed, withheld,
contained in
a cubicle with a view

which, tragically, comically,
as a child you never dreamt…

JOINTLY FLAVOURED

MUFTI, PUFTI

The Grand Mufti declared
“there shalt be no
more
crude rhymes and
obscene puns”

and there I was
singing “mufti, tufti, pufti”
(and worse)
as they dragged me off
to execution.