FRAG POP X 2

if i might be
as pretentious
to say

i drew
a picture poem
in the garden
today

~

the goalies
thro their shapes

like theyre mapping
points of constellations
in a green sky

the ball 

an enemy moon

SIT ON THEIR BACKS & DONT LOOK DOWN

how DO you write a poem ?
the poet asks google

finding no shame
in such
a tumbling down

tools are tools are tools

& the elephant in the room
shes been there too long
& all her calves are grown

THE WAY THIS IS GOING PT 1

 

the way this is going
is -

soon a poem will be 

one word

maybe two
or
a
nekrasov full-stop ripoff

placed just so


~

till then -

theres a red haze
natural but it dont look it
around the solitary cemetery tree

&

the crows there gaze askance

at the laminate stone markers

locking the carrion away

READ BY NIGHT & SHTUM

another poem
lost to the darkness

lost in the long
mindside hiccup
before sleep

when the pens were too far
& the hands too weak

only the night knows it now

moon audience enough
& 
he/she is always back for more


~


too much of what
i
think 
up
to
say

well 
it bores me shitless before i say it

keep shtum lad
keep shtum

& this ?

this -

well 
its plucking feathers
out the hurricane

TUESDAY HAIKUS

i write a poem

i pick my toes

extinction on the news


~


tight smile over drinks

embarrassment 
bouncing 
back

cracked bell tolls

from parablesblog.blogspot.com

2 MORE HOME POPS

SPRINGWINTER

bare foot
on the
back lawn
the energy
feels
weird
in this springwinter

outdoors
is
like
under 
the thunder carpet

all waiting
for a boom




RIND IN A KITCHEN SINK

poem came
last night

a puffer fish ether mumble

inflatable castle
back brain inaccessible 

too milky weak
for
this
pragmatic & robust
grey 
wall
dawn

from thelife-animal.blogspot.com

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

YESTERDAY RATED AND REVIEWED

he said
retrospective
is
the
past
in
a
blister-pack 

i said yep -
diary becomes text book
a clearly labelled map
a useless luxury even 

its
so
we
know
what
went
on
he said 
cos at the time
its
anyones
guess

like this - he went on - we just talking some shit here 

i know i said
but
now
its
a
poem

from arthistoryteachingresouces.org

RIP FLY 2

dead
fly
by
the 
bog

still as a mortuary photo
or
crime scene file pic

black
shining silver
bottle green-blue

pretty 
in natures brutal 
easy-to-miss way
        
maybe 
he
escaped a UKIP house
to
die
on
the
floor
of 
my liberal fantasy

he would deserve 
some kind of toast
for
that

and this poem
will 
do

the adventures of mr fly from www.inspirefusion.com

WHAT S A POEM ?

i am full of doubt
unsure
and
lost

is this the start of a poem 
and
has it a point
to be revealed ?

i have a book by harold norse
the cover is marked
the mark is shaped like a lightning bolt
it looks like it comes from his nostril
flashing out onto his stern moustache

are there poems in here ?
it says there are poems in here

theres one that seems to be
an innovative
description of ejaculating in nature

thats a poem !

my efforts seem small town today
maybe i need a wider brush
more garden sitting
and
less
tv

i garden sit
no tv

now i know what a poem is !

a resistance of formality
an untamed yelling thought
caught
fresh
in
its
creation 

before habit diffuses it 
into another bland pigeon hole

before its pinned down and spayed
by domestication
history
peers
or
wine

harold in the 1950s from haroldnorse.com

3 AM BATHROOM

poems
seem
the
farthest from my mind 
today

their
easy
dance
difficult now

but
still
this
one
threw shapes at me 
in
the 
3 AM 
bathroom

from itv.com

WRITE A POEM HE SAID

write a poem he said

wot now ? i said

yes now he said with words from this instant ether

ok i said and wrote 

coffee ring table
holds
cheap electric eye
and
a
black
board of burst words
and
my
struggle hands
hungry for rest but hungry for something else too
light with exhaustion
empty
like
balloons
they
tap
out
surroundings/room buzz/cold feet
and
the still-world painting on the window glass
thats
split
sometimes
with children and a cat and the blur of vans
and
the silence in here
is
desperate for a song
and 
everything 
will
wait

ok he said you did it

i did i said but it needs work

it does he said but thats ok

throw up into the typer at at dawn ? i said

and clean up at noon . . .

the classic typewriter page