ON THIS SPINNING ROCK OF TREES

dont
get
me
wrong

we ARE 

brewing up 

a Bad Storm
in a sports direct mug

but lets get over ourselves
& read the room

cos theres an elephant in here
burning

FEAR EVEN TO ONCE GLANCE

now

the
system orchestrated mindset

demands rolling explanations

for absence from the day machine

&

it

comes

out

as

a beg / a whine / an excuse

& pleas for understanding

when

i should
be unapologetically ill

a still turning 

burning windmill 

on the overlook hill

sacrificed to home experiments

& slo-mo soft-blazing 

a strange new trail

thru the heart of darkness 

where half the healthy fear 

to even once glance

THREE HAIKU POPLINGS

the burning men

passed out waiting on the rain

say their robert paulsons

~

tv eats the time

the garden gives you back

patio & coffee


~


trying to art is all

pennies on the railway track

misfires of the soul

THE FIRE & THE FLOODS

world is burning  

world is flooding 

this fails to balance out

at 

least

the great lazy pandas

fucked themselves out of immediate danger

at  fucking  last

TELL THE CHILDREN

dont be a poet

i tell the children

or BE a poet

but youll have to put your balls on the page
where
they get caught by staples

so dont be a poet
be an earner instead
cos theres no money here

or BE a poet

if you can be mad and wrong
and write down the truths
that
a
year or two later
can still shake you
in
another
typing morning
sending your words across the world
in the hope theyll meet paper

we need poets

i tell the children

but it doesnt have to be your job

or BE a poet

i tell them/cos every job finds its man

and if the world burns your edges
like paper thrown in the fire
and the contents or your bathroom cabinet
can
fascinate you
for
a
lost hour
and
nothing that bubbles in the clock ticking surf
is
concrete unless you hold it tight
or
write
its
madness down in bursts like epilepsy

then
be
a
poet
and catch your balls in the staples