Thursday, October 21, 2010



Under a full moon’s wrestling beams through cobby grey clouds
The village is ghostly
and mostly blue, like my mood.
Not so much eerie, as weird is the moonglow at 4 a.m. in January.


The world has stopped:
A short reprieve from distracting views
And news of who’s screwing who
and other non-truths.

The moonglow is happy-sad and peacefully disturbing.
Even dog-barks end in echoless stop.
Like everything in January at 4 a.m.
Under the moonglow.


In time, everything ends.
So the full moon is timely
The blue snow sublimely
Whispering the great unspoken truth.

Monday, October 18, 2010



How patient must I be to be
as patient as the tree ‘fore me.
He stands and stares and doesn’t care
(it seems) that I must move and it behooves me to say
his patience is trying mine.
I’ll stand here too and sometimes bend a little
Or thrash about or out and out scream at passersby,
But no, it’s not the same for me, tree.
I cannot spend one hundred years like you
To do nothing but defend myself,
Avenge myself, sleep and wake and never delve
Into other occupations;
I haven’t the patience or inclinations
Or subtle consternations as you.
Yet you’re magnificent and I am not
And ought to be so much more for my troubles.
I saw an elderly couple (almost as old as you)
Stop beneath your belly to admire your magnificence.
I desire of it,
Sit and stare and tire of it,
For I can’t ever hope to be
As great as ever you, old tree.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Not So Funny

Not so Funny

In great distress you tell me that the planets aren’t aligned
So I tell you that the problem is Uranus
And I laugh
But you don’t
So I moon you but you don’t get it
So I explain and you tell me I’m an ass
Which I think is funny but you’re mad
Because you said a joke without wanting to.

Funny how things have changed.

Friday, October 15, 2010



He keeps his regrets trapped in an old tin cigarette case
Which lies under a pile of worn-out socks in a dresser drawer
That sticks.
He coughs up blood and guts and spits smutty curses at Polaroids
He took of sluts who posed stoned sucking bottles of Wild Irish Rose
And pricks.
His breath reeks of lies and contempt and unkempt morals
Which wheeze over blackened teeth and dribble down his chin
Into a rat’s nest beard where his tongue reaches down
And licks the stains left by never-healing wounds.
 He curses his memories,
Rehearses his future and butchers his past
Then, for lasting effect: pulls the trigger.

Thursday, October 14, 2010


I’m not rich: I’m a poet.
I’m not famous: I’m a poet.
Haven’t you heard? I can take a word
And find another that sounds just like it
(except for right there maybe),
But baby I’m cool
Don’t fool yourself
And stop drooling at the size of my words
Oh yes! My words are small at the start
But I know the art of benevolent wordplay
And dare say display sizeable lexicality
And I’m a cunning linguist.
Just when you think I’m saying one thing,
I’ll tell you that I won things
At the fair as I whacked the mole
(if you know what I mean)
There. I did it again.

I’m not feared: I’m a poet.
I’m hardly revered: I’m a poet.
But not a know-it-all
with the where-with-all
to build a big life and not blow it.
I build rhythm and rhyme
And might sound quite sublime
But all my wordly possessions
don’t amount to much
Which is fine, for I’m a poet.

I’m a poet. How do I know it?
Well you might see delinquent youth
but I will see the naked truth
Where you hear thunder in the sky
I hear a tortured you and I
Two old people holding hands?
Enthalpic powered wedding bands
I feel the sound of broken hearts
Where beauty lies in two-bit tarts
And see in nature desperate pleas
For us to drop down on our knees and pray.
When you taste sour
I find you sweet
I taste my food and you just eat
And eating away at me is the darkness on this earth
The constant darkness
that no-one seems to give a shit about
and they roll in that shit and come over
and put their shit on me
and stink up my life
and they leave their shit behind when they go.

I’m a poet
because plants are alive
And diving stock markets make no difference to them
Or to the sun or to the stars
or to the way I feel when I see you in deep thought
when I feel I ought to help you
but chose instead to hide and watch because you’re mesmerizing.

I’m a poet
Because love doesn’t die, it just changes,
Because emotions have endless ranges
And the danger of loving is losing
And a poet lives the bruising;
Loves the bruising

I am not unscarred: I’m a poet.
I am on guard: I’m a poet.
Spread the word: I’m a poet.

Monday, October 11, 2010

No Thanks

This Thanksgiving weekend offered us the perfect day: 10/10/10....3 tens, and tension mounts as I count the days since a truly perfect day. 

Again and away through the bibulous tide of the village rules by which I must abide I'm tense to ride it out, and shout "FOR FUCK'S SAKES!!!" at nothing in particular and only in my mind, for out loud I shroud my disdain by calmly asking for the gravy to be passed.

This Thanksgiving weekend I am the turkey.  Stuffed and baked and torn at and fought over and I offer only a wishbone.


So others may fight with their might to o'erpower the other, their brother perhaps, and I lapse into the disgrace that is the race in this village, to lose.