Monday, 20 February 2017

SEASON POPS


1.

smells like spring inside

tv talking to itself

sofa 

blanket


2.


springs solvent abuse

after winters cooked bark

flying
birds
of
time



Image result for spring smell








Friday, 17 February 2017

BUCKOWSKI AND ME AT 43



i read buckowski
on the toilet
magically putting 
my guts in 
the plumbing

read his poem
about being 43
about the $22000 
in three months

his grey hair 
and pot belly
typewriter
in and out
of hock . . .

i stretched out
on the pm bed
on my side back
against the sun
hands in an 
almost prayer
in front of me

the endless 
lexicon
of workers
and managers
out there
behind me
making their
desperate moves

the little cat
comes to join me
so i know
i am doing 
it right

he lays down
in a mirror image
of me
his paws out
in an 
almost prayer

his claws touch
my fingers
his head rests
on the same pillow
his pot belly
his few 
grey hairs . . .

theres always 
poetry
endless poetry
behind the closed
curtains
and in
the dust

always fables
of the
storm cloud
written
by the
unkillable
husbands of
the moon . . .

my grey hairs
shaved away
my pot belly
slumped
same as
the cats
like two 
half empty bags
slung on the bed

he keeps his 
illness in 
check
eating right
doing his time

and so do i
and we close
our eyes
together
against
the incredible 
size of 
another
afternoon
and all
the things
to do






Thursday, 16 February 2017

MAYBE IN BOLD - A POEM POME



  these Werds are inadequate 
  just a scribbled attempt . . .

moans the Poet over his breakfast eggs

  they come out so quiet
  might
  as
  well
  be
  a
  silent yell of breath

the Poet looks at the uneven prongs on his fork

  but such breath 
      such yelling would only
                         invite
                         dull
                         questions . . .

and the Poets eyes widen in fear  questions . . . but

  they can question the Poet
  but they cant ask the Poem

the Poet cries in victory  in vanity  (?)

  and the Werds had purpose once again
  like distance
  like stone

and freed the poet Wrote of animals ;

     now  these quiet animals 
   naked and woolly 
    have the dignity of weather green statues
     in  their living silence
  in their unattempted poise
   
   and
    there is mystery enough
         i think 
  in their multipurpose bleats
  
    they speak hard with their huge eyes
  and with 
       honest  and easy
   and  unapologetic
    habit
  and appetite 
      and action

and the Poet laughed all the way to brunch




Image result for talking animals
from www.tvtropes.org