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A meditation on monoxide

The siren’s singing bowl

Ear drum burst and a voice lost to concrete dust

 

The roads are littered with writers

Dead from the onset of spring

Poems half-written lay crumpled beside curb stone

Blown along by the final winter breeze

Pushing them down drains on its way out of town

 

And as magnets repel one another

Heat pushes instinct away

Blue sky raising dead spirits

Somewhere to lay heavy head supported now

By broken neck

 

How happy a world

A distinct lack of madness as interest dissipates

Interest in anything out there in the gleam

All so clean and naked

Truthful and honest and painfully dull

As

The summer threatens without storm

 

Just more yellow

More tomorrow

When

Really

Hearts seek out the nourishment of bones packed in ice

Sinew as lichen for the carnivore poets

who wander the landscape seeking darkness and thunder.

 

The roads are littered with writers

Dead from the onset of spring

And there I lay alongside

Them.

 

 

 

 

 

Anything

In a moment of fleeting sanity

Caught between the door closing and

My opening it again

A pause

And as though a fervent prayer

Escaped me via sacred breath

I looked to the ceiling and simply exhaled

anything

To nothing and no one

With no expectation of

Response or favour

And then it was gone

Like a bottle in the ocean that holds

A one word note

And I have to no avail

Spent the remainder of today

Trying to understand what it means.

Nasrudin

Get yourself a day

A week or month

A year if you can

When standing at

The cliff edge

Remember that the water can kill you

Or catch you

In the same way your fear

Is a fire that can

Cook your food or burn down your house

Use it correctly and do not forget

To breathe

I repeat this often

Everything you think to be right

Is right

There is no opinion to which you

Must concede

Base all your decisions on love

And power and belief in every

Single thing you have not yet accomplished

Tomorrow is not the following day

Or the next

Nor the one after that

Get what time you can

Scrimp and save for it

Con someone out of it

Grift for it

And

Maybe the horses will sing.

Too good, too sober too clean

The grey hairs in my amateur beard

Have finally outnumbered the black

It looks a complete mess

Not one thing or the

Other (I will shave it off tonight)

But thank god for these aches and pains

And lack of remaining melanin

Thank the deviant pagan gods

For 48 hour hangovers

For stigmatism and a delicate stomach

Because I look around me now

At the young people

Of which I am no longer one

And this I only recently acknowledged with any grace

They are turned on not

In the traditional sense

Tuned in not

In the classical manner

And my god do they all lack character

What has happened to our last hope  

When they all know

Exactly what line to follow

What job to get

How to get it

Exactly their direction home

What to wear how to eat

Who not to fuck

Adorned in the correct clothes

As though they fell out of their mothers like that

Blinkers on to any dangerous asides

Jesus

How do you ever reach functioning adulthood

Without first joyfully running the gauntlet

Of a semi-professional degenerate?