appealing to the wrong audience

i don't know where i am anymore
anymore than i know where you are
this disconnect between writer and disseminator  
strikes through words with scalpel blade precision
surgical laughter turns into a litany of proclamations
an irregularly shaped pearly glow surrounds the darkened disc of the moon
and you have fled into the night with your tail between your legs
to drown as you always planned

i can't possibly help that can i?
it doesn't matter how many of your faces appear on my screen
each one is an unread book that i will never read
reality is a complex mycorrhizal network of incidents
propelled from where we came from
from where we cannot imagine travelling to in our dreams
when we have lost our grip on our racing pulses
when silence explodes in our dying skulls

can you see that day?

a death in a zen garden

she found him next to Buddha and his two attendants
arms and legs outstretched like a beached starfish

the gravel had been freshly raked to outline his body
an unlikely death scene in a serene zen garden

some say his master had orchestrated his funeral
others that the truth was known only to the willows

but next day his body was gone and the gravel raked
in patterns resembling waves and rippling water

only the words of his poetry and songs were echoed
the meaning of it all concentrated in the ensuing silence

she that had meant everything and nothing to him
taking her own last breath and reaching for his hand

isn’t this the way death dreams our eternal slumber?
on the point of everlasting meditation, of no return?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

in death

i.

in death we shit only soil
it’s our daily diet of darkness
the hours and minutes are meaningless
light is but a distant memory
we feel the tickle of worms
wending their way between our bones
the weight of the world pressing down on our silence
a grave and lonely eternity

ii.

after that it’s everlasting
and you can never come back
not even on the tail of a comet
as a once in a millennium visitor
your memory will just keep on travelling
fading and fading and fading
until perhaps you reach the end of everything
or the beginning of something else

takeaway.

hung from a pendulum thread
dental floss thin
cuts the skin
like an overladen shopping bag
swaying to
swaying fro
in your hand the essence of being
a takeaway life
curried strife
songs of swings and roundabouts
playground fights
bullied nights
the muted television in the corner
lights the room
dares to presume
that all is well with the outside world
lottery cash
dolphin splash
but the time bomb is reliably ticking
heart beats
death cheats
an aluminium foil tray of sickliness
piled in corners
sleep disordered
heard every scene and take before
every stanza
every mantra
none now apply within these walls
for silence reigns
where nothing’s gained

Resurrecting Ghosts

These ghosts we resurrect from the past
to reconfigure into modern-day icons
airbrushed and reconditioned to match new agendas
grainy truths hair-sprayed and touched-up
now repackaged and rightfully repurposed
for no other purpose than to further our objectives

Slot them into a new time frame as we choose
shift the perspective and reinvent their relevance
but however right-on the message we might preach
there’s no denying a vague rewriting of history
or the plagiarism of facts by poetic fanatics
for no other purpose than to further our objectives

Look, free speech is dead, the internet just killed it
amongst all the babble voices are falling silent
silenced by the very mouths who fight for so-called justice
each position polarised beyond all sensible reasoning
and to think we resurrected those ghosts from the past
for no other reason than to further our objectives