Monthly Archives: December 2016
Mixy
Selva
Down from the knobbly knees
contest of the high Pyrenees
we get the slag
heaped, poised pre-sea
since the dawn;
a sawn skyline,
a ragged razor edge
of spinal, mountainous
rock and pine jungle
preserving a primeval peace.
Love Me Tendon
What’s up with you? Invisible as you are,
you’re sticking out, like a sore..thumb,
old chum, let me drown some sorrows,
come on, what’s up with you?
Re-join the group of me again,
let go a bit, your hair is too..up,
come on, please-remember the old days..
I know you look up to those lads,
the knees, well I’m on them now-
reaching out to you, don’t you miss it?..
the crack, with the boys?
So, what’s it going to take?
Its turning into terrorism, this;
I’m a hostage and your demands
-total shut down etc-
are totally unreasonable..
so you won’t get drunk with me
that’s fine, for all my ‘power healing’
texting, inviting, ribbing;
staring at you, imploring you
to sink a few
but you’re so very sober.
Blackbird | My Deerboy
Green Form
Our breath is a waste product,
for all the kind words in it
-the answers we give;
he’s deaf, he’s moved on,
another space or two
on the board he exists on.
He gets by on our submissions,
our spent efforts;
a monopolising monster;
this is how he rolls.
He gets the royal treatment
– occupies a realm that can dissolve
so fast he can choke
if it bursts-
living hand to mouth,
with any object chewable-
he smokes a fat white board pen
in his den, dictates
what he eats-cheese, jelly beans-
goes out when everyone has gone in,
circles a playground
on a squeaking death-trap
of a mountain bike.
The windows of this school are his blank cheques,
signed recklessly by a bullet hard head butt;
glass will shatter,
see the well-meaning scatter
as doors are battered down
by his battering ram size 9’s.
His appetite for destruction…
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Green Form
Our breath is a waste product,
for all the kind words in it
-the answers we give;
he’s deaf, he’s moved on,
another space or two
on the board he exists on.
He gets by on our submissions,
our spent efforts;
a monopolising monster;
this is how he rolls.
He gets the royal treatment
– occupies a realm that can dissolve
so fast he can choke
if it bursts-
living hand to mouth,
with any object chewable-
he smokes a fat white board pen
in his den, dictates
what he eats-cheese, jelly beans-
goes out when everyone has gone in,
circles a playground
on a squeaking death-trap
of a mountain bike.
The windows of this school are his blank cheques,
signed recklessly by a bullet hard head butt;
glass will shatter,
see the well-meaning scatter
as doors are battered down
by his battering ram size 9’s.
His appetite for destruction is gigantic
like he is, he will rip your equipment
to pieces-sports gear or computers-
and in this complex of fobbed doors and glass
he feels he is winning
when he breaks on through
door panels and partitions,
to the fire brigade, to unsuspecting passers-by
with a kick: smashing.
He ruins the constructive world around him,
the points multiply in his eyes,
roll like jackpots in self-celebration
when we come to mop up
everything he has tipped up..
and we mind him like maids
flanking ‘mother Hubbards’ tending to him,
following his law.
In his mind he is casing the joint,
the circuit of his day-to-day life,
fantasising about getting to the places
where he can score more, scare more,
bring his chaos to more important doors.
In the meantime, he pecks, mundanely;
gets his points, consumes his treats,
his beady eyes sizing up bigger prizes.
Us
On the face of it, we’ve been model surfers
coming in from the Earth’s four corners,
willing walls down, shifting gods into cogs
to make the West the fifth gear,
man fracturing and calling it the best
that we can do: so we made
the wave machine, we the people
made the wave machine
to high five and four wheel our way
to be wall watchers and mall hunters,
cruise through drive-thrus,
and all the complexes of a world
that became an American theme park
but the machine is rejecting your coins now,
it doesn’t pulse or entice like it used to-
the model is remodelling-
so what are we going to do? World?
Look around you, the ground you are on.
Not nationalism. Not nostalgia; future.
It’s the environment stupid!
Saltwater
My Deerboy 