Back to the garden

Let’s go back
to the garden
and start again
she said

You’ve been saying that
for the past fifty years
he said

Yes but this time
we can try harder
not make the same mistakes
she said

Just you and me
like it was in the beginning
he said

Yes yes
remember how beautiful it was
and how innocent we were
she said

You’ll have to give up eating apples
he said

Oh come on
you don’t still believe that old story
you know your old man never liked me
from the first minute you set eyes on me
she said

Well you know I’m tempted
but the truth is
we’re too old to change our ways now
he said

You men are all the same
you always have to have the final say
things never change
she said

I’ll see you around
she added

Creation Blues

well I’m sitting down here on this park bench
throwing some crumbs of worldly wisdom
to my waiting flock of feral pigeons

when a gang of youths run through my faithfuls
shouting fucking pigeons and fucking vermin
they scatter, regroup, whilst I watch on

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me

well they goose step off, my peace restored
until a fat boy and girl begin to toss
their fast food packaging upon the grass

a hooded figure dashes out into the open
thrusts a shiny blade into their bulging guts
packets of white powder falling from his pockets

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me

well I’m sorry to say, all Hell was then let loose
wild people appearing from many dark corners
brandishing knives and fighting for the powder

I turn to see the trees being chainsawed to the ground
great plumes of smoke drifting across the park
dog barks, police sirens, gun shots, explosions

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me

well it felt like this was the end of my world
oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph I cried
deliver me from this evil that I created

but the words were silent, my voice had died
no-one was listening
they thought I’d lied

I got them Creation Blues man
Oh yes, I got them Creation Blues
Them Creation Blues have come for me


What if God has already died?

clinging to life
despite unquestioning faith
trying every treatment and trick
in the good book

taking medicine and praying for miracles
noting that neither appear to be working
money can only buy a little more time
a precious commodity

already borrowed more than half a fair share
and to be afraid of dying or admitting failings
unable to reason with creation’s end
sand through fingers run

I would be happy to go if I believed in something
I’ve always thought life is harder if you have no beliefs
Is God answerable to His own God?
What if God has already died?

nothing matters
we bounce along life’s potholed highway
avoiding oncoming traffic and unexpected
t-bone collisions

clinging to the wheel
we hope and love and cherish whatever we find
the best adventures are the ones in which we forget
the beginnings of poems about death

a meaningful existence is only fleetingly glimpsed between the chaos of our everyday lives . . .

I sit down to write
and a fly joins me
higher pitched than a bee
it does what its name suggests
but in random unsettling bursts
that interrupts the flow of my
early morning creativity

I feel the urge to kill it
even though it’s doing no harm
as no fresh meat sits on my desk
waiting for it to wipe its dirty feet
and puke and chew and contaminate
as all good flies must surely do
at the first sign of anything nice

and is my poetry worth more
than the life of a simple fly?
would my swatting hand deny
the validity of my poet’s mind
when espousing my just causes
and berating those who do harm to others
in the name of peace and harmony?

thankfully it drifts away
and my thoughts return in full swing
despite the washing machine
choosing this moment to begin its spin
and build to a crescendo that resembles
the creation of the universe
many millions of years ago . . .

. . . silence . . .
a black hole moment in this day
when the meaning of it all should
come together perhaps in these last few
remaining lines but the fly returns
and I place a bet with some certainty
that within a day or two it will be dead

lying on the window sill
legs akimbo as if caught in the act
of a complicated dance that went wrong
and caused the little fella’s heart to collapse
and there end it’s life in a futile last ditched attempt
to right itself and continue being
something sentient and reasoning

if that was ever possible . . . ?

this is not an explanation

you won’t ever get me
the paint drips, the splodges and splashes
the poetry, the way it all comes together
through absences and curiosity
sometimes I am here, sometimes not
I am zoned out, cigarette in mouth
white t-shirt, big sky landscape

you won’t ever find me
I might be here in front of you
I may even talk a little, mumble things
wander off down a meadow path
to the lake, fish from the jetty
howl at the moon, laugh at my reflection

you won’t ever own me
the money means nothing, nothing
it’s all worthless garbage, jazzed up
comes from god knows where deep inside
I puke it up, regurgitate it, spew it forth
without control, an emetic

you won’t ever heal me
wherever you hang me, try to kill me
document me, hero worship me
my life is an endless spiral of creation
I am the devil, the dark angel of dreams
the thinker, the painter, the poet, me