REAL OUT HERE TODAY

the man
sat in the garden again

plastic zen
amen

~

waiting 

with a used canvas
for the roses
to bloom

& when the pigeons come

noisy & graceless
he notes in pencil 

on his scribble pad 

how real it is out here today

TYPER IN THE WAY

ego was so epic

he had to put it out  

out there in the front yard

just to get a clean breath

& the rag & bone men

well they rang their hand bell

& they took it away

~

& Plastic Zen was born 

Id in the ice box

   music player on

   typer in the way

NO SUCH THING AS A BROKEN TAP

 

never list the faulty devices

do not name the broken things

because

there is no such thing

as a broken tap

they only are

as they will be

& maybe were

in a plastic zen sort of way

~

plumbing is mad jazz

because 

theres no such thing 

as a broken tap

when 

the 

oak is acorn & stump

is tinder & coal & home

so never list the faulty devices

& do not name the broken things

photo Garden Peeping No 1 from the Dagenham Archive

LOCKED GROOVE

sat 
on
top
the
w h o l e  w o r l d

animal quiet
in
a
green delta
of daisies

back brain searching
for a red panic button


~


obsolete aerials 

medication tweaked 
&

r e a c h i n g 

  out 

 there

leave smudged memos
in
the
acoustic zoo
reception
suggestion box


~


receiving 

receiving

a dim clot of beige hum

over
over ?

starlight
playing
hooky


~

i am mindful & mindless

valium coffee
s t e a m i n g 
in hoar frost

plastic zen i call it

a 
locked 
groove

surprise
of
dubious worth

from youtube.com

SOFT OFFICE MUSING

NAVY BACON

middle aged man

bits like bacon

his attempted epics
an
obsolete navy
in
the
bottomest of g-plan drawers

chain of command
in the 
gunwale
gutters



YELLOW CV

on a yellow post-it
he writes

cv
unkilled 
innocent 
culpable

he knows
its destined for landfill

so he adds that too

destined for landfill

& throws it
where 
the worn socks
go

blood gone under
the
troubled bridge



PLASTIC ZEN

his unapologetic pragmatism
comes
out
like a drywipe whiteboard smear

Plastic Zen ! 

he cries
refusing to define it
for reasons
he refuses to give

strange bedfellows
strange case

he lays down
bridge over
troubled blood



SOFT OFFICE

inside
the
soft office of bad naps
he
rhetorically semaphores
ambiguous questions 

with
the
delicious

admiralty grey

jersey sheets

the press
&
the public
imaginary resentful

from anbg.gov.au

MOUSE MADRIGAL 3 - SCHOOLS OUT FOREVER

DISCLAIMER

i dont know what a poem is.  i wouldnt presume to know what a poem is.  i forget what a poem is.

limerick-

there was a young man called dagenham
(tho he wasnt really)
who wasnt actually from dagenham
(its a place)
he was called ford
(tho he wasnt really)
he didnt drive a ford
(he didnt drive anything)
there was a ford plant at dagenham
(its closed now)

see ?

sea.

so poems- mistakes and a glue gun.  a treaty on demarcation zone minutiae written in the fidget trenches of the eternal war of blessed blamed cursed crimson existence.  an inscription on a longsword slicing all the phantom and branded umbilicals.

i remember a rule-
persistence.

i remember a rule-
resistance.

so poems- an idea laid with class.  a remembered event invested with the importance of diminished years . . . the curse of the rosy glasses.  catch it if it lets you.  or track it for months for years thru the slimy undergrowth of yesterdays unglorious murk.

so poems- rain in the morning.  a lovers yawn.  a cats paw.  washing on a summer line.  jism in a prism.  ibsen in prison.

gypsum.
krypton.
jism in a prism.

so poems- an investigation of the motivation of the population in copulation.

cos someones doing it somewhere at any and every time of the day.  liquid soul.

so poems- commiseration of deliberation.  misappropriation of defibrillation.  the consternation of the factotum.  adoption on probation.

my war gone by.  i miss it so.

so- see ?
sea.
   
when its a stale wall, all a stale wall, no cracks in there to mine, i look out the window.  

i climb the shoulders of misanthropes.

the wall defends itself and i know nothing.

i read guff and buck.  
i read james elroy.
i read backwards.
i read me and wonder.
wonder and me read i.

so poems- a by product or end product ?

so poems- i have lost what they are.  so i read.  on the toilet.  stuff out one end and in the other.  i see if i can recognise one when i see it.  the poems.  not the shit.  tho some days . . .

and theres some kind of gulf thats crossed when you open a book.  rewards are a crapshoot.  force of will.

haiku-

i write a haiku
forget how many syllables
still pond water ripples

see ?

sea.

words are nothing without an order.  except for some . . . like pandemic and exit.  i am one of shakespears monkeys.  i wrote his full stops.

so i leave the mess thats not a mess.  i take a breath that is a breath.  i breath in a mess . . . and play music out the player- borrow someone elses breath-mess.

so i manufacture broad advice- cherish the many and any gendered rocks we lean on.  dont live for heaven.  its not there.  its here.  and its fucked.  unfuck your corner everyone.

make it up.  blow smoke on it.

now i am always saying that.

write something.  persistence.  it will have its own curve if its true.  you have to listen to it.  have to see.

sea.

like its a river.  ride it out to sea.  see.  and abandon it well before land falls from view.

sea.

dont try.  do.
if you cant do.  do anyway.  lip read your heart beat.

dont do - do more.

i am in a kerfuffle.  an echo bubble.  and the banter with the voices- gone clabby and awkward.  like someone i worked with six years ago next to me on the bus.

to paraphrase the stones- its only poetry, but i (think) i like it.

i hope it likes me.  for realsies.
should i ask it ?
or watch tv ?

see ?
sea.

welcome to plastic zen.

from fanpop.com