Poems
Losing it [poem]
the Point which one can reach
when there is little left for which to live
is like a repulsive magnet
pulling you upanddown
in the costume of a clown
while policemen narrow their dragnet
It is a mindless moth and a candle
a superglued door handle
like heavily salted apple pie
the cigarette pack which says you’ll die
like throwing up and making love
at the same time
as you lose the key
to the postbox of your destiny
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Captive Phoenix [poem]
Do it how it’s always been done!
(that is, if you want to get along).
Never rock that stationary boat!
(that is, if you want to stay afloat).
[Stage direction: Pause…
while we wait for the strains
of a grovelling applause]
Fuck the rules, I say.
They aren’t really rules anyway.
Some fossilised turds
carve their ossified words
into pseudo-granite structures
which —
at any conjuncture
of history’s golden chain —
t h e y
decide should be
the
only
umbrella
in the rain.
Y?
Y do they ensure that?
& (more to the point)
Y do we accept it?
First questionanswer
is they covet control;
they know so well how
to harness a soul
(undo its uniqueness)
and blandify its goals.
Exploiting weakness
they carve out our roles
and render our works
into meaningless ‘wholes’.
Second questionanswer
is that we love to roll
over for them
like submissive little puppies
(artworld yuppies)
lying on our backs
while they stroke
our little egos
with their
platitude placebos.
It’s nothing new this
curbing of runaway minds
which threaten the grasp
of the wilfullly blind.
It’s all so smooth
and smartly designed
to ensure that the phoenix
which soars in the heavens
unfettered and free
will fail to reach home
where it harbours the key
to the fiery breath
of the treasureful depth
of the soaring blue sea.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
The Hand of the Wind [poem]
Why would the wind have such long fingers?
Unseen, they reach through leafy hair,
chilling the neutral nightsome air —
the frisky daytime glare emboldened
by their
blow-by-blow
rain-or-snow
batten-down-the-shutters
flappening flow.
Landslide [poem]
Yes, darling,
I’d love to play with you —
but not the games you seem to favour,
which mostly involve
a crudely parodied sideshow
of a woefully widespread
Black Widow spider.
Yes, darling,
I’d love to have sex with you —
but not if you use it, my mind to control,
ruthlessly wrapping
your clitoris round my neck
like a succulent scarf
with a scream for a soul.
I Knew Two Lights [poem]
An age ago I knew two lights
which hovered brightly in my eyes;
on an eighteen-carat platter
they were served without goodbyes.
But fate made the strangest turn
and took away their glow;
then latterly (not by chance)
they came into the fevered flow
of my mute meandering mind;
and now I disturbingly find
that I must
unbury the dream
revisit the scene
renovate the theme
rekindle the joy
reawaken the pain
repair the destroyed
restore the gleam
by the going-through-of-it-all again.
The Tarnished Lotus [poem]
Once upon a time,
a Golden Lotus nestled in
this throbbing heart of mine.
But over all the years of bloom
and fruits upon the vine,
so quietly it tarnished
and lost its pristine shine.
At first I didn’t notice
or feel the subtle shift;
equivalent geographically
to continental drift,
in which the surface stays the same:
until an earthquake happens,
there are no signs of risk.
Oh You! [poem]
Oh you! whose religion is repression,
whose nakedness is anger,
whose politics is leave-your-mind-behind,
while wearing an indignant expression.
Oh you! whose nationality is frontiers;
Whose perfume is regret,
whose smorgasbord is Attitude Buffet
while sitting on myriad fears.
Oh you! whose face is made of rubber,
whose hobby is despair,
whose heart is like a weathercock
in foul and windy weather.
Oh you! whose hopes are a semi-colon,
whose energy is glue,
whose philosophy is “couldn’t-care-less”
so long as it suits you.
When you are not Here [poem]
When you are not here, it is true:
that nothing else could take your place
that no one else could be your face.
But there are so many other things
which serve as temporary wings
to elevate my vexéd thoughts
and ease the stilted space marked ‘naught’
which hangs before my eager eyes
like an empty well of broken sighs.
Bad Timing [poem]
Every
where I look
bad timing.
Every
thing I hear
unrhyming.
My jet thrust out of sync,
I took some time to think
how to manipulate the clock
back to its pristine state
so that all the angel-dusted
darknesses congregate
around the temporal lobe
without rubato’s rusted
rhythm’s pleated robe.
I hung on to the minute hand
as it clicked its way
around the moonly face.
If only I could make it go
the other way —
time’s steps retraced
When I reached
half-past the hour,
my hands slipped
from the metal ticker
I slid down from
that pompous tower;
the world thought
“He’s the worse for liquor”
That’s what happens when one tries
to bend the messy tracks of time.
For every moment has its place —
a look upon the clock’s stern face.
Ten-past ten, the plainest smirk.
Midnight, please do not disturb.
Half-past three, a gallows laden.
Twenty-past eight, crucified maiden.
Bending time to fit into our needs
demeans us and our giant ego feeds.
And so I wait for synchronicity
to work its signpost magic over me.
© 2011, Alan Morrison
Ragged Crow [poem]
tree branch fingers
reach out to
the naked sky
with bent witchy
endofwinter
withered woodness;
they poke the wings
of the ragged crow
as slowly he floats
b y
the lake which
feeds the ground
which
frees the trees
which
find the dawn
which
bathes the fingers
in something
for which
there is no
other word
than
The Naked Troubadour 