Poems

I will not wear a Poppy [poem]

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I will not wear a poppy on that celebrated day;
though many others then will feel obliged,
as if by some strange law, to wear that flower
commemorating war. Each year it is revived.
Then one who claims to be offended by the
lack of paper flower pinned upon my clothes
and thinks that all should be like him or her
will be red-faced and full of rage and sternly say:
“How could you scorn the freedoms won by
those who fought so you could see another day?”

Then will I swift reply: What freedoms do you mean?
The “freedom” to be overseen in every little way
and spied on by your disingenuously “democratic”,
pederast-permitting, plastic, gymnastic government?
The “freedom” to live every day enslaved by
drudgeful work, extorted mortgages and rents
and subsequently have no unspent time to play?
To what freedoms could you possibly refer?
The “freedom” to inscribe your X upon a form,
when several years have passed since last you
X’ed that form before (to no avail, of course)
and take part in another manufactured war they
call “election-time”? (You think this is the norm?)

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Architect and Arsonist [poem]

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architect

Indulging in this new-found pastime
causes an infernal end to many
now no longer worthful stories —
generates incendiary glory —
casting them into a memory-hole
forgettery (or better still déchèterie).
For here I speak of bridges being burned.

“Do not look back!” intoned the voice,
as slowly round I turned my head
but stopped myself instead from
staring at the fiery flameful scene
behind, beyond the chasm of my past,
which now no longer must be brought to
mind, for fire to the rear means ice ahead
which will be melted into something
called the present — an imaginary trick
inside your head which comes up fast
and just as quickly melts into the past.

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Jupiter in Scorpio [poem]

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jupiter_in_scorpio

on this strangely serene and glistering night
of distant echo sounds and noises nothingness
shuts tight its sleepless eyes and opens a door
to somewhere way beyond what fathermother
taught us lives behind its lantern-coloured
lintels or the splinters of its shiny self unhinged
restored clean-beamed and damascened
then gold from heaven’s alchemy was poured
(for such alluring doors can never be ignored)

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The Miracle you’ve longed to see [poem]

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Even though our (G.U.Inter)faces (more or less)
portray the same allotted format every day
[despite the fact that most of what we think
we are is nothing more than empty space,
yet doesn’t fall apart into another face!],
a large amount of secret changes happen there
(what we can call the realful cellsome underplay).
But let’s not put ourselves in stark denial,
hiding from the looking-glass’s awkward truth.
The telling time is coming all-too soon when,
looking in that hostile mirror at our eyes,
we’ll not escape that transformation comes
and instantaneously realise (with laughter,
dread or resignation, sighs, or shock, deflation)
that time {in all its retro raw unglory} f l I e s.

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A Flag is just a Rag [poem]

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flag

Phonetically speaking…
it’s not too far to go from flag to rag.
But also in reality; for flags are rags
indeed, and only used to generate
the seed for war in this poor world’s
conditioned young, whose heroes true
and few and sane go every day unsung.

For rags is all these emblems are —
just signals from a dying age
upon a piece of colo(u)red cloth
about the way that countries
plunder one another’s goods,
behaving like no human being ever should.
Parading them in front of mindless armies
marching to their wasted deaths, just so
the ones who sent them reap their gold
disguising their exuberance behind
a mask of fulsome grieving so the parents
of the ones they sent unto their deaths
won’t lose their comfort (falsely bought)
from thinking that they didn’t die in vain.
(They did — but if those mums and dads
would understand that stark and icy fact
they could not tolerate the thought of such
futility & hopelessness in their parental pain).

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Since when was Music an “Industry”? [poem]

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since_when_was_music_an_industry

Since when was music an “industry”?
Yes — oil, steel or pharmaceutery,
ship-building, hotels, textiles or military.
But music, as the food of love,
(the source of which is from above)
is not a money-grubbing tool
to line the dirty inside pockets
of those greedy 10%ing fools.
Music as an “industry” is so uncool!

The very term “to have a hit”
[or should I put an “s” in front of
that to make it what it really is?]
means dollar signs in greedy eyes
& ego-boosting of attention-whores
who masquerade as singers, artists,
f(art)ing out their billboard lies
while screwing influential folks who’ll
open all their once-were-bolted doors.

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Cosmic Barbecue [poem]

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cosmic_barbecue

So here he lies, washed up on farsome shores;
his ragged soul now grown in all its broken glory,
like a used & once-upon-a-time was-useful vessel
(dangling from a wizened mountain precipice
just by his fingertips alone, within his jaded story)
from another starfield light-year’s wayward world
which astronauted space seas’ crested foam,
manufactured from the sap of some galactic trees;
discovering he’d lost forever how to be at home,
destined from now on in hinterlands to roam.

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