Poetry
Transgendered Anti-Christ and World War pt. Three"
first published in Troublemaker Firestarter vol. 666
is there ever anything more / Beautiful
than that head-high, eyes-bright / Jaunt
thru homely lane pockets spilling / Pale hormones
heady dreams of how my / Voice might spill and
seduce a Lover when autumn turns and the season of
ball gags and / Cuff sets meanders thru our Yard
i try and hold simple / Memories like these
and not the / Chunky half-digested truths
that / Turmoil in my tummy like
am i the transgender
antichrist?
in dreams / We soar above rose-studded
fields /
but i do not dream / Anymore / Do you?
we have thawed / Another brusque winter
far from home on lean / Beef patties
gleaned from the / Grocery store waste bin
Like / this mornings’ news
detached as a drone / Strike into the dark
and myself / Only able to fondle in recollecting
when drones took only / Pictures of lives
Beef /
the Real One / Who carried you home blessed be he
& offered kindly rife futures / And parts only to say,
“i cannot dream anymore / only drone evening into dawn.”
& even / Beef like
yesterday’s ecstatic lip how / Everything
used to seem so much / More
today’s tongue A growl / i tip-a-tap cold /
Counters
dreaming as i scrawl this purpl’d prose my / Displaced
lover
in fields /
dreams / Perhaps of cottony days on a more distant shore
& i must wake her to / My lover displaced again
by careless / Gin-grin & families who could have just
asked /
because i don’t dream / Anymore i decided i’d stop give up
entirely i stared at the / Wall twenty – four hours bent
& didn’t move my / Hands i refuse / Mealy scraps
any more /
Cos / there is a grander Time than any face /Could stop
instead i perform for the / Voices of a province / Both wide
and small / Who remind my noisy brain i am / Never alone
for them / i ask quite loud /
“Am I the transgendered
anti-christ?”
suddenly / Remember we moved to a
village / Walls thin
& / i Wonder what all the
absorbent corn lain on
bare tables
may make of
that.
Poem no. 9
first published in Troublemaker Firestarter Vol. 666the geese are saying
fuck this,
I’m never flying North again.
what a time to be alive;
when the creatures of the wood
whisper screams, and over-fed squirrels
forget to hide from
women with pointed nails.
i commune with my wily visitor,
or is the visitor I? hoping in haste
to make departure from what is,
to others, i guess, a rural paradise.
hoisted on a lonely CruciϮx of time
on which we worry bodies hung
early. Anyway, we run on winter and
learn one hyper-local idiom
at a time. And i think it’s really neat,
Did you know cigarettes
meant sex, like, the whole time?
Songs For a Family, Found
Song for Lara
Sweet packages, neat with no string
Still, bound with care.
Seven metal rings,
Adorn delicate digits.
A bride of humour,
Stitched together
With magic and slings
And science and then,
What darkness, what light
Is yet to be known?
What’s jagged, unsung,
Oh, yesterdays child,
Your picture in soft light.
Oh, dove-like princess,
Whose arctic sting
One would be remiss to forget.
Oh, gentle wind,
Watch out for cyclists
Who flit past car doors.
Drift off now sweet,
A Monday noon snooze.
Sipping dry gin,
No vermouth.
Song for the Moon
Moon flower
Grown by adversarial
Thorn.
Memories of care
Spill from this brain,
Water from
A jug too full.
My moon flower, resting
Through darkest night,
On boughs of delilah,
Your gentle heart fills
Emaciated souls with
Warmth so profound
We may never know.
Though burdened by
The fruits of labour
That fill our lives,
Moon flower,
There will always be time
For love.
Song for Lips
In sunstruck brilliance
You shine, a gentle force
Of nature engulfed.
The leaves may change
In your tender heart,
But always rests true
Fierce conviction of stone,
And the love of tender grass.
A chance encounter
One lonely night,
We drew together.
And then,
Again and again
And again.
Undeniable, inscrutable charm
Spills over your
Bubbling being with
Razor wit on manic lament.
Crowded bedrooms
And empty halls,
Venues blessed by
Benevolent spirits
Not yet known.
Vacant rented rooms,
Alive with inspiration
Of wheeling minds.
Babble and gossip,
A thousand nights
With no end in sight.
Most of all, I recall
The honeyed need
To draw close,
To jump start this robotic heart
With the thunderous jolt
Of your most human spark.
Taller than mountains,
Deeper than seas.
Some candlelit profession,
Through a corridor
Of subtle hearts.
Feelings with no names
Rise from foot to crown.
We wander there,
How dear, a casual frown.