Tuesday 30 June 2009

willed to work

-with a
--well
---worn
----warm smile
-wondering
--whether
---writing
----with her
-----who
------wonders
-------where you are
--------when you've
---------wandered
----------wistfully a
-----------way
------------with
-------------words
-wishing you'd
--write again and
---wondering
----what it takes

to break that block /

-------------------

Wednesday 24 June 2009

1969 Dodge

My dad once pulled a promise
from me. He said
But you'll still speak
at my funeral, won't you?

What can you say to that
kind of question? I mean,
it's not even one you can dodge
at all. Not at all. No way.

Tuesday 23 June 2009

cost-of-fatal-bullet

CNN reports from Tehran:
Parents of those killed
in protest
made to pay
$3,000 "bullet fee"



Opine, opine, opine

the blogging day -
sick-bag full of it

sycophantic slop
bilious barf
atrocious tripe
piss-poor poet-puke

flush fucking wanky words
down, down, down

Monday 22 June 2009

Bringing it home

Three Fiesta doors pressed muffled shut

Like punches wrapped in towelled fist

The dent of gravelly footsteps crunch

Inside boundaries of rhododendron missed

3am provokes each flicked switch

To trail live curses in bleary wake

Not until the bolt rasps back

Does patterned pyjama armour take

- and grasp -

the third of five dull thuds

The Police Service of Northern Ireland say

they are investigating the shooting of

an unarmed man at his home in Shantallow

in the early hours of this morning.

They say his wife witnessed the attack.

In other news...

Mere words,

Penetrating


Neda

they mourn the voice of Iran
but I heard only silence broken
by anguished screams embracing you
as final pumps pushed red horror
from nose and mouth

Neda, unrushed and acquiescing
you seemed to accept your fate
until your eyes revolting
shot upwards to stare
in terminal complaint

You were courageous and beautiful to the end.

Neda Soltani ( Persian: ندا سلطانی ; born 1982, died 20 June 2009; age 26–27)

This is it


The day has come
grab the bull by the horns
or else
your life is gone
seeping away
drip by bloody lethargic drip
till you find yourself stretched thin
in one of Heysham's stoney graves


critical naiveté

critical naiveté

Sunday 21 June 2009

Tokyo Station: Maronouchi Exit '03

I watch him trickling along
side Mr Self-Important
a balding junior
babbling in sycophantic hops

skips
and jerky
jumps

all toothy smiles and sweaty scrapes
bowing low
as he's casually dismissed without a break in
stride

WHO CARES

your mind races and you write a poem
not understanding the compulsion or caring what others think
not that you are beyond caring more that you are moved to do it in a way you think or feel is real without commas

you know what I mean?
do you care?

like that poem Raymond Carver penned about the dying dog anyway it died and he buried it with his cares

that word again oh dear cropping up like a badly-scripted poem


Followers?