Friday, March 29, 2013

What's Right Is Easy

I'm decked out like a fucking Christmas tree,
With red lights on my forehead, mostly lit
(The way I was when I agreed to it),
And strings of popcorn hung all over me,
With angels, and a goddamn bumblebee
Stuck on my shoulder, and some other shit
I don't have names for. There's a little bit
Of treacle on my cheek, that I can't see.

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
I sway in windless calm, devout, irate,
Pretending that I chose not to go straight
In protest at this crooked world. What's right
Is easy: I shall wait here half the night
And then impale myself upon the gate.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

The Wound

The wound is now infected. Now we wait
To learn how strong he is, whether his blood
Fights off the trouble. Will we see the flood
Rise in his gullet, will a world of hate
Expel our better feelings, will the gate
Swing open for our demons, the spring bud
Die in the summer, in a patch of mud
No bigger than my fist? Is it too late?

This is a bad world, delicate and sour,
As mean as fear, suspicious and repressed,
Unpleasant and distasteful. From the best
Down to the very worst, we waste our power,
Pretend we understand, until the hour
When the infection surges. It's a test.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

What the Girl Said

Remember what the girl said: Make your bed
And lie in it. I asked uncertainly
If she would share the blanket's warmth with me,
Which didn't make her laugh. She only said
What women say. When all desire is dead,
When nothing's left but uniformity
And chrome smiles, visit the infirmary
To have your blood, and maybe eyes, turned red.

She warned me, when I tried to walk away,
That I would never free myself from this,
Not knowing what I was about to miss,
So I turned back and offered, once, to stay.
She said, "That's pretty good, as raw display,
But no, it's not enough. We'll never kiss."

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Lone and Level

Around the massed decay, nothing remains
But pride, so we fill ourselves up on pride:
Look on our mighty works! What else beside
Holds so much promise? I have had chilblains,
Exhausted my poor bladder, filled the drains,
Gone legless drinking ale, my brain freeze-dried,
And soaked my liver till my soul was fried.
An empty pride leaves particoloured stains.

The sand is in my pockets, in my shoes;
We desert travellers know how to drink
(Tea, whiskey, milk, whey, cabbage juice, and ink),
Sing best when we've been overwhelmed by booze,
But also value silence, and a snooze.
Proud as I am, I don't know how to think.

Sunday, March 03, 2013


I have invented football. What a sport!
We kick each other in the testicles,
Consume too much deep-fried comestibles,
Drink endless lagers, till we heave and snort.
Exhausted players on the tennis court
End up in overcrowded hospitals,
Where they get treated just like animals.
Stay home, and fill a snifter with white port.

I have invented sonnets. Poetry
Existed, but it had no proper form,
No keenness of expression, and the norm
Was babble, nothing more than history
Without a soul. Now everything is free,
Sin conquered, and my wife's feet have grown warm.