25 Jun 2016

Cold hearted

I am told sometimes
By those few closest to me
That I appear unfeeling
It goes from accepted joke
to truthful criticism
And I disagree

Cynical maybe but not
Defeated by any of them
I remain unbroken by the rocks crashing
At my sides
Nor taken by the saltwater

Not harsh or inhuman
Although the humans – well…
But still not cold
Quite the opposite in fact

My heart
This heart I feel beating
Now in my chest

Is a raw nerve

An open wound

It is a raging campfire
Burning through a rainstorm

And it must remain lit
Otherwise I look around and
All of this
Will dampen it to ash.

24 Jun 2016

And then the churches lock their doors

And the people ran
Not away, but toward the altars
Towards broken bread and cheap wine
Towards Him

And so consumed do the buildings become
Overflowing with single celled organisms
That white collars swing thick ropes across the
Great wooden doors
And heave them together
The mourners and preachers and believers
Stuck together like one holy puzzle

Man woman and child
Are closed in and safe and
Proven right
At least in their own minds
The shared mind
The terrified mind

Friedrich would laugh
And Wilson and McKenna
And Bucky Fuller
Meanwhile the ghost of Voltaire, pisses
Down onto the ornate steeple and roof
Those inside exclaiming ‘praise heaven for
The tears of god!’

And outside
On the shining cobbled streets
We few are left with
All our hearts desire
The space and freedom and divided truth
Anarchy and love
With no sirens or flags
No clowns dressed as dictators
Our own version of the world
And the world as it should be.

3 Jun 2016

There goes me, really really slowly…

Dan is a weak swimmer
Dan wants to live surrounded by the largest waves in the world

Dan is a liar
Dan wants to be loved by everyone

Dan has weak legs
Dan wants to get stronger

Dan has a bad memory
Dan keeps drinking red wine

Dan doesn’t want to copy Bukowski
Dan can’t help but write the way he does

Dan is scared of black people
Dan is scared of white people

Dan feels pity for the hundred year old Indian man who lives across the rd
Because he can see himself when he looks at him

Dan hates his name being written or spoken over and again

Dan loves too much too often
Dan feels too little too often

Dan wants to get paid for his poetry
Dan hates journalistic and professional writers

Dan idolises Gallo, and Dali and Billy Childish
Dan wants to meet Robert Anton Wilson

Dan gets on with women better than men
Dan needs to get more red wine

Dan is a potential murderer
Dan is full of ideas and hope for the world

Dan wants to just stay in bed a bit longer
Dan wants to turn over after the alarm clock cracks his head
And sink into blonde hair for 2 more beautiful hours of sleep

Dan is a scoundrel
Dan has confidence that things will be ok
Sooner or later.

(circa 2006)