PIPING

Tags

poem, poetry

PIPING

“like a fiend
hid in a cloud”
William Blake

so chuffed with themselves
about bringing me
to this grisly place
of cosmic
afterthought

I watched them
try to teach me
to walk, to
talk
shit in a plastic pot
as I began
to learn
arsehole from
elbow and

the rest of
that philosophy

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WILLIAM BLAKE MOMENT

WILLIAM BLAKE MOMENT

bit
by bit

he built
his wall

a spectacular
wall

not to
exclude,
prevent, enclose or
protect

but to
hang pictures
in case he
gets a
William Blake
moment

WHERE NOW, MARY SHELLEY

WHERE NOW, MARY SHELLEY

I see
Percy Shelley
standing out in
the open

on the shore of
an alien sea

waiting for his android
wife’s return (carrying
android child
still to
be born)

returning to him
infinitely.

KEATS

precious to be like Keats
squeezing a last poem
out with final flourish

the words fighting the
very darkness they
have emerged out of
to
which again headed

WITH KUBLAI KHAN

why didn’t Keats and
Shelley market
on social media?

and Wordsworth’s poem would
have looked good
as selfie with daffodil

the man from Porlock
not knocking
at the door but
sending an email

whilst Samuel snapchats undisturbed
with Kublai Khan

THE WORSE LIFE GETS

the worse life gets
the more beautiful
the poetry
(what kind
of wicked parasite
is this to
turn my
pain into
your pleasure?)

be that as it may,
would that lust were my only sin
would that it had all
of my dedication, total
Zen-monk focus

then we could talk about your kimono
is subtle, surreptitious
removal my
elephant in the room

but no street preacher
when you need one so
the smooth feel of
skin must
be left to, must
totally become
product of my imagination

street preacher, street walker,
one of you must absolve me,
convert me
endorse me

leave me with lust, best in
the form, the shape
of special desire

kimono
on the floor

there is
space
to
fill, that
can be filled

places to kiss

CLICK THE LINK

can’t always get
what you want, Keith,

can’t take
anything for granted

so
I turned off the tap
till not a single word dripped

cut all hyperlinks, especially
those to Blake’s fountain

went
outside (took
time off) to
see the Sun

the real one, my one, not
the one in the planetarium
or my iPhone adaptation

AND THE PROFESSOR SAID

and the Professor of
Poetry glanced up
from his desk
and said

the last thing we need now
us another Blake

pontificating on how
far we are from
our dream
of Heaven

how deep the
tumour
in our
social flesh

MR TIGER’S EYE

I see you now, Mr
tiger’s-eye,

rock idol long before
electricity
turns the
world fluorescent
into
a
compact disk

and I wonder
if you
can still shepherd us
through those
surreal doors

where everything
devolves

is
ceaselessly evolving

SADLY

SADLY

sadly, no longer
does anyone say
“pleasure me!”
this demand

rising naked from
a pool of marble

those eyes
so like her father’s
who it was gave you
(dream now capturing
the writing process)
commission to
command
and
ancient sword