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Blog

some beach scratchings

This past weekend, we packed up the Outlander and headed northeast to King’s Lynn for a little camping excursion. The first one of the season. I know it’s late, but heck with the earlier weather not being the best and then vacation time in Fuerteventura, well the days and weeks fly by and before you know it’s mid-July before you’re pitching tent for the first time in 2018. Looks like we caught the last of the dry, hot weather too, so good deal all around.

King’s Lynn is a seaport and market town in Norfolk, England. At 102 miles, it’s the nearest beach to us (actually the beach we went to was about 30 miles north of our campsite in Hunstanton. It was fabulous grabbing so much fresh air over the weekend, and two nights of open fire – bonus!

 

On the beach, I crafted these two poems:

profit

instead of profit,
music is the bottom line

dance floor constructed

sexual

mind-altering
experience to create
a language of desire

the break from real
sold to us through
escape

the environment
where physical connection
seemingly encouraged
emotional engagement

suppressed.

 

 

the composition of style

sexual energy
makes less than
what it seems

body becomes object
the desire within,
a chance to touch
the forbidden

day breaks
the magic ends

keeps coming back
keeps pouring in

gay or straight flyers
advertising the event
energy, sex, or otherwise

the composition of
the style of

the streets of New York City

I got in line came
face to face with attractive
young women bundled against
the cold in stylish pleasant
conversation, sensually dressed
heroin-chic, collecting £15 for
privileged entry.

I entered the chapel
headed for the bar
too early for the truth

at the bar, I found
the congregation
of the beautiful

demarcating
truth from beauty

 

Categories
Blog Poetry

ignorance

can be yourself
don’t bottle up the body,

keep it open.

when all self-identifications remain
get rid of

god.

no self-definition, i am
energy and bring nothing
reality here, can i

demand nothing when you
want nothing, seek nothing
expect nothing

unexpected!

a man engrossed
prescribed by his scriptures
will get wrapped up in them

so many saints
words may be true
independent of ripening time

stay open and quiet
you seek no place
know that

don’t burden yourself
names seeking ends
desire for truth, this is
your profit

seeking at

Categories
Blog Poetry

god be sitting on a fence

god be sitting on a fence

up the road i saw him peering
at the traffic passing by then he

wandered over to the tobacco shop
said something to the barelegged
boy leaning on the countertop

adjusted his spandex shorts and left

Categories
Blog Poetry

no glory

so i lay there
playing with splinters
in the late red afternoon

the angels of paradise
hidden in the mystery
of my days leaning
on warm wings sang to me

sticks lie broken
dead leaves gather dust
i am homesick here
in the ashes

all i wanted was
glory found only
strange sadness instead

Categories
Poetry

night’s leaves

on a pristine
october afternoon
i applied for a job
begging at the ports

all for the sake
of feeling my way
against the ghost
of your truth

my lies limed
and loaded flowed
easy riding the night’s
last flicker of hope

i was young
i tried to capture
you with rhymes
and exotic suggestions

touching myself
pretending to be
a poet of all things

you were a tourist
picking through
the constellations
looking for something
behind my falling words

you found nothing but
a boy from jazz highway
rustling night’s leaves

Categories
Poetry

rapture

on the radio
the buzzing world
whistling

blowers moan
the clack of
balls clicking

so well straining

a high thin monkey
woman begging for
rapture

Categories
Audio Blog Experimental

ant-people, something has happened – the remix

Best experienced through headphones…

ant-people, something has happened that’s made me question the nature of my reality, a thread to follow…

the point of intersection between the human mind and suppression. i don’t think you will ever see me again. i achieved what i was incapable of.

the time wave,
i sent it.

the strong rule the weak and the clever rule the strong. the distribution of our current system is the deadly bank account. there is a dangerous underground operating in telepathic space.

dangerous adventurers who plan to outthink and displace the static fragmentation of our united class society, everyone living lives as a member of a particular class thinking every kind of thought without exception, stamped with the brand of class rubbing elbows and getting jostled in by the crowd.

Categories
Poetry

before the beginning

in the moment she answered
formless in-between states of grief
shadows dancing underneath her eyes
she did not recognise me

darkness
dull and desperate
before the beginning
began

i caught myself staring like a
chimp caught humping another
chimp, never would i be better

imitating the ways of the master not to
create but to destroy the beat of her heart

Categories
Blog

vapour and dust

and then it made sense to me
i stood witlessly fumbling the
key to endless happiness she
sat on the bed with her hands
clenched, ‘i will help you hold
the hatred, spread it over the
fields black and foul and what
will you do for me?’ i will give
you another life layered in gauze
and honey, burning in teargas
i will save you from the vapour
and dust of sad dreams

Categories
Blog Poetry

plaything for the gods

i was in the desert once
lost in meditation
i was trying to get to
grips with being a
plaything for the gods

i met some souls sitting
around a fire in the open night
they were contemplating
Good and Evil
Lust and Sorrow

all of my incantations
and prayers ignored
by the old gods, i consigned
myself to the enigma of the
meek and their gospel of love

until i stumbled upon a
switch labeled universe
next to a button marked
“Boom”

in a moment of weakness
i pressed the button

Categories
Blog Poetry

Where is her glory?

outside, the rats
huddle against the
cold grey shade of sky

eyes trail behind her
shivering as she sings
softly like a morning bell

metallic breath blows
grim where is her glory?

Categories
Blog Poetry

her destructive rage

 

metaphorically speaking
a kooky dream bounces between
erotic romance turned
gripping taboo

restrained, repressive
struggling to contain her
destructive rage, she
falls unkempt in blood

slightly deranged
a killer on the loose

Categories
Blog Poetry

I’m not dreaming

This isn’t finished, but I thought I’d share it with you anyway as a sort of working out loud post.  Plus my brain is fried right now. I can barely string these few sentences together.

//

I’m not dreaming
my dark eyes see
a purple flower
next to a burnt
out tree

I smell the breath
of the Beast
hear his low growl
and snapping teeth

I remember
my youthful days
(i traveled lighter)
then

over sex drive
little insects buzzing
in my ear

The harpies were there
and the willow tree
and my mom’s friend too

purple rain fell

beneath my window
she talked about
the doves at night

Categories
Poetry

in a view that looks the same

in a view that looks the same
nothing changes except time

the rain washed away the early
morning silence leaving in it’s passing

patches of white like tiny barren islands
are all that remain of the snow on my block

Categories
Poetry

On the fate of gods and men

Is it true
all men must
die?

How many
faces will you
meet before you
meet your maker
or your fate?

Faces of me
Faces of you
Faces of each
other as one

because

we are all together
and i am not the walrus
but i like to see them
run for

comfort
buses and trains,
run to get laid and
laid to rest

like the antelope
that couldn’t
outrun the fastest lion,
the CEO’s and COO’s
feast on their bones

Sleep now
you’ve earned it
like my father and
your father and their
father’s father

Dead of the fight
seeking solace in
the paradox of
nihilism when the

night is clear, they look
for a direct line to God
only to find he’s not there

God’s Comic has stepped
in to bartend until the
stars disappear and
through blurry eyes
and dried voices they

whisper together
Valar Morghulis
and sometimes gods too

Categories
Poetry

On Damaged

Isolated
by my own strangeness
I try to bridge the
unbridgeable
gap between

us

You with your
good looks and
blonde hair, ice-blue
eyes that

beguile
bewitch
behead

those with courage
to look longer than
a stare

I think of something
Prince would say:

“Now move your big
ass ‘round this way
so i can work on that zipper, baby”

I wouldn’t dare,
of course, I need
someone more
damaged than me

to un-play a game
I play with myself

Categories
Poetry

A Kiss Is

I’m sure if we closed
the distance between
us we’d kiss. And that
kiss would be the beginning.
And that kiss would be the end.
A kiss is never just a kiss.

Categories
Poetry

Stroke My Terror

You don’t want to go where this leads
I dropped my airpod on your breasts
You never give me your honey but
the coffee you serve is the best

I stroke my terror to find joy
Oh I’m going to burn in Hell alright
I promise I’ll burn well though ‘cause
mother said if you’re going to do it do it light

myself on fire, drop dead on the spot
i’m happy to be hurt by your mysterious
ways, the abyss is underneath the table
if you’re able to second guess my (intention)

I’ll play the role of darkness and you can
be the light that lights my perversity.

Soundtrack:

Categories
Blog

And that’s the trouble with poetry

I awoke this morning to the hammering sound of rain. Just what you want out of your Monday morning – dark, wet, gloom. I made a batch of strong, dark coffee to match the mood. I turned to my one true source of motivation – books.

I cracked open Matthew Zapruder’s new book, Why Poetry. He’s on a mission to bring poetry back to the people. He argues that the way poetry is being taught in schools puts most people off of it for life.

“So many of us have been taught to read poetry as if words mean something other than what they actually say.  In this version of poetry, poems are designed to communicate a message, albeit in a confusing way. Everything that is in the poem – metaphors, similes, imagery, sounds, line breaks, and so on – is decorative, that is, place on top of the message or meaning of the poem.  The student’s job is to discover that meaning, and to repeat the central (often banal) message or theme back to the teacher, or in the exam.”

Liz Lochhead, former makar (poet laureate) of Glasgow, had this to say:

“The way poetry is taught at the moment is absolutely appalling…they teach poetry as a problem, rather than a joy, and that’s disgraceful…It’s clear that even teachers think poetry is code. I have been asked by a boy, who emailed me once: ‘when you wrote that poem about a bull, what did you really want to say?’ His education had allowed him to get the misapprehension that a poem is a code trying to get a message across.”

And that’s the trouble with poetry, it gets a bad wrap in school and few people, except sad sacks like me, ever recover.  It’s funny for as much as I read poetry is dead and that I should be a writer of a different sort, I can’t shake the poetry bug.  I love it and it’e my favourite form of self-expression with words. I love the wild ride poetry allows you take with language.

My favourite poems are those that are self-contained, that is, you can use your literal imagination to enjoy the poem as it is on the page without having to have an extensive knowledge of obscure literature or need a guidebook to help your navigate the many allusions and references (which is ironic, seeing how the poet that got me fired up about poetry when I was 16 was T.S. Eliot, but to be fair, I didn’t understand what the heck he was on about in the Waste Land, I just loved the pure language. And Prufrock and Hollow Men easily stand alone).

Zapruder nailed it for me though when he said, “poetry can only fully be pursued when the writer is not ultimately preoccupied with any other task, like storytelling or explaining or convincing or describing or anything else.” The poet must “be ready to reject all other purposes, in favour of the possibilities of language freed from utility, is when the writer becomes a poet.”

Categories
Poetry

Archaic Values