Only Fans

my dog stepped on a bee

grandma killed a drone

with the most excellent pickles

yet I live within

feeding on

Binley Mega Chippy

watching with tears

the people of Ukraine

punished by the despot

as we have our own

tin pot dictator

of inflationary no comprise

parties more of a preference

champagne eton mess

vulgar shits

believing covid in retrograde

the poor keep dying

on the pyre of debt

chancellor grinning

utility meter spinning

on his cosy yacht

let them eat cake

but even that we cannot afford

food bank serenade

whilst they last

until nobody can supply them

we need tractors

to steal tanks

so I can live

and you all can smile

maybe a grimace

a death masque to society

Shirley Jackson – The Lottery 1969

Remains

Dull thudding rain,
wipers squealed on glass
red lights distorted,
music filled the space
using decibels
to shatter
the once and final
chance for closure,
mother lain to rest
no more
would be said

lamp and silence

you can always find a helper
to dig your own grave,
the logical old mind
that grasps
within the brain
images thick as chocolate,
and arguing heart
will find a place to bury
but not here,
a sky blue vast
ocean of the above
crossed by vents
of expelled air,
it was as if the doctor
pissed in his own specimen pot
a give of gold warmth
to be dipped by another
to let you live by extension,
no more searching,
spade would cut a wound
hole expanding,
an expression of what was vast
keep it to yourself
as earth opens
and you become
what once would of been
a miner

     

Birago Diop – Spirits

Listen to Things

More often than Beings,

Hear the voice of fire,

Hear the voice of water.

Listen in the wind,

To the sighs of the bush;

This is the ancestors breathing.

Those who are dead are not ever gone;

They are in the darkness that grows lighter

And in the darkness that grows darker.

The dead are not down in the earth;

They are in the trembling of the trees

In the groaning of the woods,

In the water that runs,

In the water that sleeps,

They are in the hut, they are in the crowd:

The dead are not dead.

Listen to things

More often than beings,

Hear the voice of fire,

Hear the voice of water.

Listen in the wind,

To the bush that is sighing:

This is the breathing of ancestors,

Who have not gone away

Who are not under earth

Who are not really dead.

Those who are dead are not ever gone;

They are in a woman’s breast,

In the wailing of a child,

And the burning of a log,

In the moaning rock,

In the weeping grasses,

In the forest and the home.

The dead are not dead.

Listen more often

To Things than to Beings,

Hear the voice of fire,

Hear the voice of water.

Listen in the wind to

The bush that is sobbing:

This is the ancestors breathing.

Each day they renew ancient bonds,

Ancient bonds that hold fast

Binding our lot to their law,

To the will of the spirits stronger than we

To the spell of our dead who are not really dead,

Whose covenant binds us to life,

Whose authority binds to their will,

The will of the spirits that stir

In the bed of the river, on the banks of the river,

The breathing of spirits

Who moan in the rocks and weep in the grasses.

Spirits inhabit

The darkness that lightens, the darkness that darkens,

The quivering tree, the murmuring wood,

The water that runs and the water that sleeps:

Spirits much stronger than we,

The breathing of the dead who are not really dead,

Of the dead who are not really gone,

Of the dead now no more in the earth.

Listen to Things

More often than Beings,

Hear the voice of fire,

Hear the voice of water.

Listen in the wind,

To the bush that is sobbing:

This is the ancestors, breathing

an angel without eyes to god

she was an angel i did not expect
birth of thoughts induced
by booze and drugs,
looking at her gazing through glass
grimy fingerprinted silica,
overlooking a fire escape and alley,
those eyes almost burned
vibrant and echoing
i let her in,
in awe of beauty loins aching
hair pushed aside she smiled
obliged to kneel and bow
kissing feet so clean unspoiled
standing knocking over empty bottle
about to curse
she touched my lips,
unbuttoning the dress she wore
falling to the floor,
this was fantasy so amazing
full breasts broad hips,
flesh so tantalizing ,
without yearning felt cold pinpricks
in my neck associated with fear,
black wings extended from her back
dark feathered  satin
part of her form
backing up slowly
as she began to sing so softly
a lullaby that evaporated my life
with every word

Magpie Tales

Omar Haukkson Undying Love / Ódauðleg ást (2011)

http://vimeo.com/28735348

as ever letters

a carpet salesman late

after being lost on the interstate,

was not the best person

to be looking over my still body

as if he could flay the skin

from my meat and wear it

for a ritual of life,

the only corn was creamed

in a can somewhere in a cupboard

high up,

funny as i lay there

i would think of this

instead of some higher philosophical

thought,

book of swatches at my side

fumbling over cell phone

dialing nine one one,

why was i so aware

then again why i was so dead

and when did the moon appear,

six thirty the meeting was to be

damn carpet salesman,

i had died waiting

how stupid,

come on i would wake up

and realize i had dozed in the chair

the one my cat rebel would steal,

now i thought of the letters

in the draw,

but these thoughts

where slipping my body was vacant

was the brain going now

switching off to a dim point

as tv sets used to,

shit i hated being this aware

and i love the carpet salesman

for trying,

but my ex wife would know

those letters

of feelings i had

and would mourn me more than i deserve

the tunnel exists as does the echoes

this is it i am on the express train

so hot it was getting hotter

is hell getting ready to greet me,

closing internal lids of thought

pain wracked limbs,

cracking sound

last human thought as i left my egg

as a four legged ancient

with long snout and tail

slipping into the swamp

a new persona

a life begun anew

 

 

 

 

the defining spark

those roots grab you back

coffin laden on barley

lifted on the wind,

your voice  i heard once

as cars exploded on the streets

and police batons fell,

i grew listening to you

embracing my heritage

not strangers to a landscape,

scattered  with grass seed

upon heavy peat bogs,

alone with your pages

paper yellowing in the sun

i got to know what

rhythm made the music inside

and caught magical light,

you where a viking

a warrior of words

forged by the great anvil,

i still read you

as many do

your place is deeper

than sinew and bone

you are a molecule

of a fresh soul

coming to a brighter

day

Seamus Heaney
1939-2013

fireproof monkey

elastic bound thoughts

contracted as  would a boiled egg

overdone,

 

helios hepped on jazz

found the stroke of sidewalk

blocks of bars and strip joints,

 

mind breathing everything

eyes registering the glass windows

of long to come

tomorrows,

when her kiss come

buick grille jaws of hell,

 

elastic could not tighten

anymore flared with worms

and a solitary fly,

noise flushed red of wanton art,

 

could i be a titan

writhing on that couch

with string hearted blonde

ivory lonely care

without tending priests,

poor dumb altar

with genius of my soul

her and my footsteps

made us kings and queens

of the carnival

and slumberers of the

dreary city doorways