No name #1.

You're so half-arsed

with your half-rhymes;

why can't you be like Wordsworth

half the time?

Consistency is made

through being consistent,

my boy.

Your hackneyed phrases

and your leant-on words

do you no favours,

but neither does using

the unfamiliar.

You misread,

so you mis-write;

wake up!

You're losing sight.

How can something so familiar

become so alien

with time?

You start

and soon don't know when to stop.

The clock won't do you any favours.

You begin to tire of this train of thought;

to use a metaphor:

its wheels are shaking with loose bolts.

Goodnight.

I might write you soon,

poetry.

Goodnight.

P.S. Give my regards to all your

dead brothers and sisters,

and all the ones that will never

receive life,

and all the ones that wait for

well-deserved light.

A breath in the dark.

There might have been a breath.

Who knows?

Out of chaos

comes order,

making more chaos,

for ever.

The simplest origin

leads to the joys

found and seen

in endless repetition;

each new repetition

a new flavour

of something that came before;

only somehow slightly different -

the survival of the fittest

is enancted mostly by individuals

whose eyes are closed to these nuances.

Eyes open briefly:

the inspiration to

overcome fatigue

is often thin;

but I feel that now

I can't close them to the world.

The universe

is self-organised,

and so are we;

and so is all life.

A mirror

inside a mirror

reflects endless

patterns;

life stems from life,

stems from unlife,

stems from chance -

all odds behold a lucky winner

(or winners).

And so we find ourselves

upright and thinking -

at the whims of evolution,

whose outcomes we can never know.

Oh, yes:

the future will be beautiful;

but I cannot say

what it holds.

But I'm sure it holds

endless sonatas,

and many beautiful things

of great majesty.

Let us just hope

that destruction can be avoided;

it will happen.

But great beauty will always come

from the humblest of beginnings;

chaos is both birth and destruction:

chaos is all that will ever be.

So take your chances

whilst you can still take them,

because the chances are

that you might never get to see

rose petals.

Vampires.

Forbade to write about vampires,

you play with yourself under the sheets,

imagining blood to be the sweetest Merlot

with a sweet-dry ensemble.

You cut yourself with a razor,

and pretend it helps you see more clearly;

see what's inside you:

what animates you; all your fears.

You imagine his cold flesh

touching yours;

his lips searching your neck;

his teeth finding the spot.

With a pierce,

your skin cracks.

You realise you've cut yourself again,

and you wonder the fuck why.

Feline.

Curled up in a ball,

your fat, bald stomach shows.

Your expressions are expressionless -

could be pained;

could be hungry;

could be nothing.

Who knows?

But your eyes don't betray you.

You can't smile,

but I know you're happy;

I know you're calm.

You purr,

either trying to calm yourself

or me;

could be both.

Who knows?

I rub your spine

roughly

and you respond

by rolling your eyes back

and shaking your head

like you're having some

peculiar orgasm.

Legs outstretched,

you flex your toes;

your pads - your beans -

aren't as pink

as when you were teeny;

you cover your face as you sleep.

You got a bunch of shit

sticking outta your head;

you've even got whiskers

on the back of your legs;

there's one misplaced one

protruding from your cheek.

You're curled in a little ball;

the cutest thing,

with a broken spirit.

You don't know it's broken,

of course.

When you die,

we might replace you.

Probably not, though.

Who knows?

I bet you sleep so peacefully,

although you probably dream about

slaying field mice

and fleeing from foxes.

You watch your daddy

as he writes his drawn-out

poetry.

You're always hungry!

What are you thinking?

Who knows?

The old sea-farer.

Have you seen my sweet lady?

She's the salt of the earth;

the salt of the sea.

Oh, how I long for old Rosie.

I lost her to the briny deep.

We were sailing out upon the drink,

and wind was riling the brine.

She slipped and she began to sink.

Avast! I sent her 50 feet of line.

Her arm arose from the swell.

It really was the darkest scene.

The choppy water looked like Hell.

I was full of tears; full of spleen.

In a moment, she was gone -

to become a part of ocean song.

I wonder where her bones will lay.

Without her, this galleon seems grey.

I ventured home with my catch.

I let out a throaty 'land ahoy!'

Teary, I reminisced my little girl.

Oh, Rosie was my cabin boy!

How I remember his boyish looks:

his wisp of 'stache and eyes of blue.

All I have of him now is his smile:

my little girl; that boy I knew.

Love.

Love is a morning fog

quickly kicked in the chest

and left to evaporate

in the morning Sun.

It's there for a moment

before unrelenting

reality sets in

and exchanges blouse for sweater;

colour for darker shades.

Love is a feeble dog

with beautiful eyes

and a paling will,

on shaky legs;

still seeking the welcome touch of a

soft hand,

after oft receiving

the business end

of a hard boot.

The truth is,

I don't know what love is.

I thought I saw it

the other day;

turned out to be

just a morning fog,

and the shadow of a feeble dog

passing quickly by my window.

Venezuela.

From favelas in the hills

we will descend upon you

like a swash -

angry, and yet peaceful in motive.

We will wound your tyranny

and your reign shall bleed to death.

we want our Hugo back;

we want our Chavez.

And so in the night

the light of a distant helicopter

signals the light of democracy;

hope is restored once again.

We move back into our barrios

and return to our communities,

sure in the knowledge

that our constitution shall once again breathe.

But the future will always be uncertain:

it seems the giant above us

never sleeps.

I love everyone.

Even in your quietest moments,

I feel you,

and behold you;

I love everyone.

All my friends

are superheroes

with immeasurable superpowers,

and they cry in the night.

I love everyone

and I love the developing

nature of reality,

unfolding before my feet.

All my friends

are superheroes

with eyes like diamond dust,

spilling out when they look down.

I love everyone,

even in my most confused moments;

even when I don't smile.

I love everyone.

All my friends are superheroes

with dulled powers

they've forgotten how to wield.

But I still love them.

And I love everyone.

They're mathematical equations

carried on a breath of elation.

All my friends and enemies

are superheroes,

and I love everyone.

Mumbai.

Walking the streets

are haggard children:

far too torn and ragged

a picture of youth;

feet hard with miles

of incessant walking -

like somnambulants endlessly

walking through infinite deserts.

Their eyes are broken,

but somehow still full of

the colour of youth.

Their faces are beautiful,

and yet tell of a struggle

that's been wreaked

since time's conception.

They sell anything they can find;

steal anything they can find -

just to buy lentils and rice
and keep clothed and dry.

Sewerage lines overflow

into the streets,

and children

bathe in the water.

All's not well in Mumbai,

or Detroit, or Flint,

or Wigan, or Bristol,

or Beijing, or Ulan Bator;

all is not well.

Your whitener,

and your methamphetamine,

and your presciption pills,

and Valium and Zantac and Vicodin;

all is not well.

It's part of a culture

that we're creating,

but which we'll never know;

it carries on like some shoddily written tragedy

shown in a broken theatre;

God bless the world.

Baby teeth (haiku).

Baby teeth, you grind

softly; you dribble: eyes wide

at the thought of food.

Baby, you grasp with

chubby arms; arms like the fat

of the early world.

You smile, but frown

as you teeth; I soothe you with

smiles, rum and milk.

You clasp my finger

and play with my hair; amazed

at textures unknown.

One day, you'll have

your own babies with their own

baby-toothed smiles.

And one day, you'll

again feel the walls of the

world, in awe of them.

But you won't be trapped;
the world is your oyster; make
sure you flesh it out.

Walls cannot hold you;
neither can I; but baby,
please remember me.

Baby, I love you

like a loved-up artist loves

his unfinished work.

I love you like I

loved the bottle; I've now

traded vice for love.

Choice (haiku).

Choice: not for choosy

Hands; they tend to fumble at

Straws - wine flows elsewhere.

Nature poems.

Part 1: the seeing.

Penned nature poems

in the darkness of twilight

for your child's pleasure.

Purple sky streaked with

milk, and a Moon of pale death

throwing light on trees.

The outlines are framed

in front of mountains and creeks;

carried down river.

Part 2: the calling.

Coyotes beg the

Moon to come down and play; far

from its starry friends.

The trees seperate

as if channeling nature's

will; wind scowls: deep tones.

And the night is writ

like it's for my eyes only,

and I write the night.

Part 3: the being.

Nature poems: my

play thing, in the dead of night;

when all has made winks.

Submerged in deep sleep,

but hearts thud in baritone;

in my mind, I hear.

Water is the life;

for the life of me, never

might we become merged.

Part 4: the becoming.

When all is quiet,

I see your eye above the

trees; you call to me.

You whisper in my

ears and caress my senses

with autumnal words.

When my eyes open

I can smell your life and waste,
and I see clearly.

Iconoclast.

I thought I was an iconoclast
Until someone came along
And smashed to pieces
Everything I thought I believed.

My vessel drained
Below half empty
And I was left
Feeling aggrieved.

But I'll fill myself up
With new information
And I'll get back
On the road of truth;

I'll look at the world
Once again
Through piercing blue eyes
Without ruth.

Tired.

I'm too tired

to concentrate

on why I can't concentrate;

it's like drifting

in and out of sleep.

The words seem to pulsate;

the characters seem

to exchange places,

like they're playing

a game of musical chairs

with my mind.

Too timid to jump;

too bold to land with grace;

too lost to find my bearings;

too tired to dream -

I fall into a nadir of sleep

and wake with a heavy head,

filled with delta waves

and a dull landscape

of endless grey.

Illegal alien.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere;

they say I am wrong;
they say I don't belong,
but all paths must meet
in the end.

I've been on the road
for most of my life;
looking for any place
that'll take me;
any place that'll take me -
any place I can lay down my strife.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold and on my own.
most of my family's dead;
the rest have mostly flown.

Won't you take me tonight?
I'm cold
and all alone.
All alone.

All is not well
where I'm from;
It doesn't seem that much better
elsewhere.

But you could change my story;
there must be good people
out there.

I don't have much clothing,
but I'm willing to work.
Don't turn me away
because you feel you've been hurt.

I've got no place here;
I've got no place there;
but I'll find my place
anywhere.

I can't speak all that well,
but I am strong.
My dignity is not
for sale.

Just because you've lived here
longer than I
doesn't mean you can commit me,
commit me to die.

I am a being.
I have a heart.
You have no right
to tear it apart.

I've been running all my life
but I've yet to find
a place to call my own.

I've the right
to settle where I like;
lines drawn in dirt
won't keep me from my throne.