On a good day…

Wellington, on a day like this,
Is child bright, glitter spilt views,
Obscene greens and solid true blues
Boldly outlined, ten out of ten,
With a fine black felt tip pen.

The wolf is an industrial complex.

I am a girl.  I wear a red coat.

I am simple.

I am a wolf.  I am naked.  

I am industrial.  I am complex.

I am an industrial complex lurking in the woods and I would eat myself, in a word, whole.

I am a noun and a static verb.

A catch.

I run wild and engender terror and fear.

I am oil.  I am a weapon.  I am waste.

I am feasting my eyes and I would swallow us both, whole.

I am wolf with teeth, claws, and paws.

I am a hopeless cause, dependent on you.

A lifelong sentence, this dreadful vigil, waiting for the woodcutter to tear me apart or

pull me out whole.

A Pact

image

I make a pact with you, loved one –
come sooner than a thought.
Slip through earth’s fine skin
With the metal you wrought.
Tender out the flesh, and cap the scabs
Til all our plastic-ridden seas run red.
Smooth our bodies with its petroleum,
So slick we’re floating with the dead,
Soft sludge, this, our chartered mausoleum.
We sign nothing but the bottom line.

A new nursery rhyme

This song can be used to help children learn about neo-liberal economics.  You will need a cake (cut into thirds), a farmer, a banker, an oilman, dice, and lots of hungry children!

 

The farmer wants a slice

The farmer wants a slice

We’re gambling with the economy

We’ll give him a slice in a trice.

 

The banker wants a slice

The banker wants a slice

We’re gambling with the economy

We’ll give him a slice in a trice.

 

The oilman wants a slice

The oilman wants a slice

We’re gambling with the economy

We’ll give him a slice in a trice.

 

The children want a slice

The children want a slice

But they’ve gone and gambled it all away

So we’ll give them a roll of the dice.

 

 

Private School

Child who plays in ever-decreasing circles

on land of values unknown:

A piece of a puzzle some of us borrow

and others of us will loan.

 

Gone

I’ve softened.

Gone.

I like the believers

And seekers, the sellers,

And dreamers, the singers

And dancers, the raconteurs,

And prancers, the scoundrels

And shakers, the arguers,

And haters.  All makers.

Shifting their weight about

Sifting the soil,

Trading traces of themselves,

Their spoil.  Left unaccounted.

 

It’s only the hoarders in the corners

Quietly accumulating, stagnating,

Fossils and rocks, counters,

Sinking their claws, stalactites,

Deep inside the earth’s skin,

Guarding, guarded, waiting,

I can’t stand for.

 

 

We will evaluate

We will evaluate,

We will evaluate.

Calculate the decile,

Into obscurity,

Your score,

Your means.

The long and the short

Of your poverty,

Your dreams.

Invest in our teams:

Medical assessors,

Educational directors,

Accountants, all,

And their guards,

Protected by the law,

To reveal, bit by tiny bit,

The luck of your hapless draw.

Should you query

The results,

The theory,

We will evaluate,

We will evaluate,

We will evaluate.

Play

I preempt
How they’re
Going
To bounce
Off
And then?
Cave.

I pitch
And feel
The
Weight
Of it,
Drop.

Bow
Softly strung
Gauge
Mood
Then?
Run.