Requiem for the Living

Modernism's return,

the fatigue of existence,

bury the living

in hopelessness,

flowers might grow from dreams,

the death of the eternal

zero point

might sow a vision.

Eyes fixed on the distance,

the grave invisible,

the horn of death now

so clear

and so loud.

The marching has begun.

But where are the marchers?

Steel, Flowers, Future (eternal life)

Whatever the crest,

I shall be riding it,

borne forwards

by the winds of destiny

triumphantly,

eternally,

the 21st

century.

(Only kidding.)

My Gift

With poems of clothes

I spin myself a gown,

I wear these colours

for you:

I hope you like them.

Free

Water and a seat,

a river and a log;

the sea of the sea,

the bog of the bog.

That's all right for me -
I claim my claim;

I get mine for free,

give each

its given name.

My City

The strange thing about Brighton is
that everyone takes it so slow,
the buffalo
stampede
so quietly here.

Any other city
would spin on its head,
its thread
threaded
that much tighter;

but Brighton is quieter,
slighter,
mightier

than any city on wheels.

Brighton is a hush
of colourful mouths,
a blush
of colourful blouse,
the rush
of a single mouse,

but, my god,
it seems to press in
so tight.

You're Invited

Empty laughter
comes from the fullest lips,
and pointed fingers
grow like sunflowers
from the gentlest hands,
their large 
yellow eyes
like beads watching the sun.

Bukowski

If a child could write,

Bukowski.

If innocence,

tarred black,

glistened white

beneath the moon,

Bukowski.

If a child's words

were knives

and it

spat

at the womb,

Bukowski.

Youth (for Hank)

youth

is a white horse

running into the hills.

as it runs,

its legs become

supple, strong,

terse,

like the tendons running through

the most brilliantly simple prose.

but then lines begin to develop,

sink

into furrows,

its legs buckle.

it dies thirsty

beside the clearest stream

never seen,

and the nomad's eyes

weep

as he looks on

past this scene of loss

to the gloaming

descending down

on

the white fields of nirvana.

The Calling

my heart aches,

my heart sings,

my heart wants to

leave

the confines of

whatever four walls

pin it in.

I have 

a higher 

spiritual calling.

a moment in suspension

a cloudy sky is powerful:
there's unbroken tension in it;
the colours like a bruised thumb,
some god's thumb,
some inker's thumb,
tinker's thumb,
that bruise spilled outward
as clouds
in the act of creation.

crepuscular rays come and go
as cumulus stray,
and the sun blends 
the earth
in yellow yolk.

A bright reflection,
a sky full of tension,
a moment
in suspension.

The 80s

Duran Duran

were hungry like the worm,

their eternal squirm

a squelching in my ears.

Tears for Fears,
the eighties peel
away, old wallpaper
not pasted sufficiently.

Come on down to
the Waterfront
to drown yourself
or drink to your health.

And maybe you'll see
the iron skull
of Mrs Thatcher
glaring back at yer,

the sea the colour
of bad money,
slowly bruising grey
under a perfect sun.

On the organisation of words

If you were to look up my bowel

you’d find

the ugliness

of bad punctuation:

distended hyphens

with gaping mouths

and dumb

pointing fingers:

look at me,

I lead you somewhere

and I’ll show you where.

All you need

is commas

and full stops.

Semi-colons

are for the faint of heart.

Hyphens are like

boulders

perturbing the stream.

To dream, to dream, to dream,

perchance to write,

beautiful, complete sentences

that speak and give light;

but sometimes

you have to break your own

rules.

The ugliness of extrapolation

A galaxy at one end

a turd at the other;

light shines on all,

and what a shame that is.

In Archibald MacLeash's breast pocket

Poetry is like a flower:

its conditions for growth are

invisible perfections

and its season lasts

only so an hour.

Poetry sweeps the air

in searching for the sun

but often finds

only dust.

A ragged wound

in pain is spun,

its petals blossom

out and red.

Poetry is like a flower

bled of its essence,

yet still it stands,

its story to shower.

Poetry is a flower, a flower

only to show;

to tell would be impossible:

it has no mouth, only hands

and to touch

is to know.

Capable

The universe is absurd,

which is why we must

fight

against it.

The universe is quite beautiful,

which is why

it’s so painful

to conceive of.

Like angels born of flame,

a heavy mix

of fire and ice;

darkness and light

the name of the game –

tunnelled towards death

like weary-pawed mice.

The swagger of youth,

the dreams, in fancy dream’d,

snagged by the root,

an idle spray of leaves.

Do all you must,

the power in your hands

is like cutting, jagged dust

calling you to make a stand.

Each day is like a howl

from the lonely wolf’s lungs,

as, alone, your time you prowl,

each hour its only one.

The universe is absurd,

which is why we must

fight

against it.

The universe is quite beautiful,

which is why

it’s so painful

to conceive of.