BURN SOME OLD BILLS
Lost it all to some I-cloud brunch
folk devil all twisted up from booze
mangled rotten insides stupendous fork in the road.
that will teach it to think
all sparkled up bruised ripe business
ripe for plucking
let’s go there
no here no there
call up everyone
smack the gin off peak
clean up wipe off
you’re done here
have a piece of paper
sunny day melatonin feast
strike shoes on peeling into winter.
VERY FEW KILLER WHALES HUNT LIKE THIS
“Make it magical”, for God’s sake!
Blood iodine reconfigure the rolled stone. It walks and talks. Free to squander everything from sheer lyrical delivery. Rub ointments over national grief light the litmus paper. Inspired by terrible muses’ dream talk so the day begins.
Hovering while drones wander about filming. What unimaginable reality could we inhabit somewhere else? Talking over diversions we slide laterally into bandit country. Sweating up the gravelled veldt; hoping the tyres will hold out.
It’s all talk of course unless it’s making money talk. Scratch the track of the owl bedridden tourniquets bloom upon new build efficiency. The hotels are fully booked. The grip tightens on the leash, dogs lurch at you every time you pass; suspicious and aggressive. Like the police at the roadblock, don’t run anybody over the say, benevolent gun fingers' twitching.
ACTIVELY ENGAGED IN THE ACT
The desperate hours begin with
‘i will write for nothing’, thanks Tom
do anything Go Swimming
but face reality a slow self-education
books, a yoga mat, difficult childhoods
fitting in trouble
always know no other
that heavy metal age
iron maiden fantasy rubble
Plant a flag on unstable ground; signs describe what is real but we’re still none the wiser.
Re-think these rotting days will last forever. So much time to get nothing done in. What pivotal moments will occur?
Accelerate into Autumn
overnight lightning pinned electrical bouncing from blue walls.
So much rain; have we flooded?
Trying mid-morning to gloomily transcribe the blood pressure behind the eyes
into something relatable or even readable.
What’s up with that anyway?
Poetry that keeps on asking questions that nobody could answer ever.
Easy, right?
New voices merge in noisy interaction, like the magpies and newly arrived green parakeets. On their way to the forest.
Slowly, delicately, with precision we pick apart the day; attend to what needs attending to; “show up”, as Adriene would say.
To be present in your own life sounds absurd but so many are not.
How would you know anyway?
Questions unanswered.
