Poems
Born to Serve [poem]
Nothing makes a scrap of sense
unless this man can make himself
of service to the order of the world
(despite the fences and the corners
and disorder and the surly chieftains
wielding crass unpower from behind).
Yet not the dying old world order
(masquerading as the new
by those whose splintered view
distorts a rainbow’s promise
into darksome swordthrust lies)
but what the truly newness harbingers
of lightly goodness show in all their glory
where his hearting gladly flies and where
a blaze of nature’s trove completes the story.
Equinox [poem]
as summer dies so beauty fully
with that sigh (sforzandolike)
and autumn’s golden smirk
falls silently as homeless leaves
drift rocking side to side and down
to earthen featherbedly endofride
i smile through tears which mingle
with the lightsome lazy mist of dawn
I’m Dangerous [poem]
“I want you so!” said she
“Not in those clothes”, said me
“What DO you mean?” said she
“It’s your smoke-screen”, said me
“That’s what I wear”, said she
“Your cover-up”, said me
“From prying eyes”, said she
“That’s your disguise”, said me
Where I belong [poem]
like a fish out of water
my mouth becomes a gasping hoop
through which ideas
leaply excrement themselves
to silky foamful shores
and I, like many fools before,
have found my manhood lured
into a labyrinth of curdled prose
The Estate Agent’s Brochure [poem]
Today I visited the Estate Agent’s office
to discuss my holdings on this alien earth.
I needed an evaluation done so
I thought she would be just the right buffoon
to tell me exactly what I’m worth.
(Holdings is a funny word, for,
as any half-sane genius has heard it sung
in what must be the best song of all time:
“There’s nothing you can hold for very long”).
No truer word was ever spoke
though if I’d penned that line
it would have said (this is no joke):
“There’s nothing you can ever hold at all”.
The Ballad of Little Nate [poem]
When Nathan D. was just a little boy
his parents tried out every ploy they could
to stop him touching fires and stoves.
But everywhere he went, his little hands
would reach out roving for some burns.
They thought he’d never learn to do
what’s right (as right was, in their view).
Forever putting hands on red hot things
(desiring as they did to keep their son
on tightly tied-up apron strings)
they soon assumed he was a special
psychiatric case and would, if things
continued as they were, bring on the family
ignominy and neighbourhood disgrace.
One day, young Nate had looked them frankly
in the eyes and asked them straightly why
they thought they had the right to censor
what he does in life. They said that it’s
“because we are your parents and
your parents know what’s best for you.”
“You don’t at all”, said little Nate, as they,
astonished, heard their own son say to them:
“I’ve put you to the test. The day has come
for full disclosure of the rest of what I’ve tried
to say for years, but hadn’t had the go-ahead.”
“Never once”, the little boy went blithely on,
“have you directly asked me why I love to
suffer burns and other kinds of bitter pains.
You just assume it’s a mistake or wrong —
as if I’m likened to you as a broken song —
though lately you’ve begun to think I’m mad or
something’s programmed badly in my brain.”
Unzipped [poem]
Wandering wiseless on some smooth
indecent steep and sandy dune
he wondered if those grainly rumours
could be true that he should stand
astonished, still, in front of only unly you
who’s not (viz. yet) been fully met on this
unset trajectory of pain and pleasure ride.
He waits, just as he’s done for thousands
more besides this molten lava year
(if time indeed exists outside this sphere)
as fragment bits of ideas hurtled down
through treacle air around his cadence.
It’s Come to This [poem]
And so…
it’s come to this
[breathed with a sigh]
the bubble’s burst and piss and wind
come slyming out while temperance ladies
dressed as barkers curse and swig
from prick-shaped bottles mocking me —
their bodies wattled like some pagan crone
or crazed misandrist fart unhinged
[which rasps against my whiskered chin]
an ultrasonic intrauterine device
which thin girls wear at weekend parties
thus appearing more substantially built
I am a Mirror [poem]
I am a mirror
reflecting every
whisper which you’re most
afraid of in your self —
the feathered touch of
freedom’s fickle fibres’
lusty
chime of bells
I am a looking-glass
Growth Spurt [poem]
Surprised, I noticed flowers and plants
come springing up from barren earth
around my rooted-to-the-spotsome feet.
They were not scattered there so neatly
but the roots were bedded down more
deeply than I’d ever seen before.
The Naked Troubadour 