Landing

“Where’s the moon?”
Gasping in the dark there,
Caught up in the branches
Through the kitchen window.

I can’t breathe.

*

“Can I come in?”
No, I’m growing wheat
And my herd and flock
Are grazing here.
You’ll have to rot.

Your blood and bones
Will fertilise my earth.

You can’t breathe here.

*

The moon is screaming.
It will keep us awake.
Suffocate us all.

Meme

Me rewrite your history for me
Me tell your story to me
Me your status quo me
Me see you misconstrue me
Me spread like a virus through me
Me sing mosquitoes on and in me
Me misquote and sting me
Me misfire and mistrust me
Me remember history just ignore me

Me meme me.

A Beautiful Response

You could try the recycle boutique
To help make ends meet
Or some avocado on rye
Fresh coffees to go.
And where’s the man I passed near immigration?
Now a lady lounging on a bench
With all her worldly goods in a trolley nearby.  I smile:
Would you like a coffee?
“Piss off, you stupid cunt.”

And lost at sea in tinfoil and plastic
A gull with its guts spills out.

A golden serum on the wall behind claims
It will smooth out all the cracks and fissures and imperfections.

Before we have a revolution

Before we have a revolution can we just be very clear

about who it is we’re fighting and what it is we fear?

 

 

 

Rembrandt remastered

the established are in for it.
frames gone, borders sliced,
the mass is spilling over.
the vivid are dying to escape,
digitally shot and hung.
the stark strokes clean
as on leaving the old master.
happy couples find themselves
together, facing the light
or left in shade. watching
children gleeful, agape, annoyed
how did we find ourselves here
willing to smooth old scores,
pieces, papers, exotic folds,
starched collars, dark eyes
gazing out into a new world
of philosophers and cloth-makers
sailors, travelers, poets,
the old saviours and legends
who steal cursory glances. upwards
outwards, onwards. settlers return
their collective gaze, fired
remastered. a touch, a leap,
a glare, all guns blazing, almost
as aware of the darkness as we are.

HOOP-LA

Shun materiality. Object-
less thus, the two, int-
ertwined like prose and
poetry, reclined to recon-
stuct Rodin’s Kiss whi-
lst Billie Holiday sang
her heart out the window
under a November 1973 mo-
on. He wore a leather jac-
ket, the latest levi flares
and a pair of leather
high-heeled boots as he kick-
started an arc of circles
near the top of a large
canvass. Some fell over th-
e edge but one remain-
ed whole

Capitals

Eight letters.  The harbour is flanked by Scottish hills fired with independence.
Three Across.  New York scrapers barely scratch the low sky.  Four Down.  English seaside resort attracts film and media types looking to impress Hollywood critic.  Something, something, t.  The weather is everywhere and the winds carry ice, pollen, penguins and orcas.
Too far, too fast, and too soon.  On old shorelines people paddle in the footsteps of pioneers, browsing. Anagram.  From all over.
Coffee shop scrollers read all about trade agreements and recoil. They’re already knee deep in beans, grains, brain foods and thirteen dollar helpings of porridge oats.  Maybe a consolatory coffee-to-go for the wanderer parked outside wrapped up in strange looks.

Sparrow

Life is a sparrow

Life is looking at me

Life is the tree

Life is the flow

Life is underground

Like is overhead

Life is the touch

Life is the sleep

Life is awake

Life is rolling

Life is landing

Life is soft like flowers

Life is strong

Life is continuous pain

Life is a smile

Life is joy

Life is in my mind

Life is inside me

Life is the sparrow

Life is looking at me

 

Sparrow