LIKE FARTS

pressure builds
like stormhead

then releases
like avalanche

like life does
like farts do

like the week does
into weekend

like death is

cos death
is breathing out

if
its
anything

pic from homeadditionsremodelling.com

THE ROCK STARS ESCAPE

  bowie
   lemmy
 lou reed

  and so on

that awful two-oh-fifteen/sixteen music cull

   well i am tempted to say
 it looks like
        they got out 
     at the right time  -  legends anyway and dead now
                             we 
                              may 
                            be 
                      their bad dreams

  now the teletubbies hold the nuclear briefcases
 and we tear the earth a new arsehole everyday 
       like mad gods on red bull
                       on teenager testosterone
            like we got a Home World
               elsewhere 
           sunny and safe for later

                   when we Dont

        or am i
  just counted and logged 
   home in supermarket pants
     desperate enough to impose an order
          on
        the chaos
 when i pull others up for doing the same

        the square peg 
    goes in the round hole
           if you got a club hammer
 and dont mind splinters in your eyes

            so
             i
           list
          out loud
        all the horrors 
           bowie
          lemmy
             lou reed

          and so on

 that awful two-oh-fifteen/sixteen music cull

           lived thru
   chugging chords  and class As  and magic

     and
   depress
    myself 
  even more - i am putting out a fire
                with gasoline
 and its like satans greatest hits out there

      well i am tempted to say
 its not the events so much maybe
      but the level of awareness you have
          when they occur . . ?

     is there peace 
  for my hurtling and loose mind 
         in that hiccuped brainjag ?

      i show the day my back
     in a check shirt again  -  unironed 
                              buttons missing off cuffs
  and i go down to the wild pergola
         where
           i
           can
          see
       nothing
        but
 free wood and worked wood
      tumbling leaves
  and springs first palette mix
         my still hands  -  ink and turmeric under my nails
     and my troubled feet
  in second hand soldiers boots

            and try not to Think 
           
             At 
          
          All

  but even my farts sound sad today
     mournful like a steamship foghorn
   in the last days of a golden age  

from the-indie-pendent.com

POETS JOB