Our world is getting prude again
It’s all the drink
There’s no more edge to straighten
It’s all centre.
Drink more and write – break
the literary rules
The advertisible rules –
and all is so.
from the origin –
they are sent out, spiralling
on the universe wing, to write
and fight, and to reverse
the strange path, strong force,
that saw them soar forth,
a configuration of angels
only to have their wings
snapped by a passing aeroplane
from the west.
The poets’ guest. Movement.
My brain machine is configured
and the pencil marks start, the art
that is the particular sort,
of dark induced thought, the poet
and the pen and paper machine,
play catch up with the neuron – neuroses –
the thought patterns rise
and are surfed.
with all the expectant noise
one would expect, by now
at least the sound of coming crowd
of the deep works of the apocalypse
spread out on the world, like nutella on toast.
– – –
How can I be trapped? How?
In a body owned from time immemorial
and weary even in the calmest morning
my strong brain menacing me, grinning,
until my teeth fall out
and I die a granite heart.
My body makes me moveable,
it frees me from my bed, for the world –
why does it also confine?
I return to the same places each day –
not thinking, reading
I need a muse, gleaming hot of soul
to calm me and entice to urge
and join me on the page.
– – – –
my complicity in the trick
loudly proclaimed by my conscience
lets out no solidarity, and
framing each problem alone in the dark
God leaves us unknown.
Whence authority comes,
from where society’s run
the dancing rats cannot see,
1 2 3 tongues up – and the death penalty.
Waiting, watching each is bored
before the modern horror store.
I need a love, not a scared heart in a bar.