18 Oct 2017

Nights I Know

Grit your teeth, love.
It’s come to this again.
Like these leaves falling all over outside,
it’s only ever a matter of time.

The muse whispers in my ear
smiling, biting a sweet lip: What’s two plus two?
This bee that knows better
craves a poison nectar.

As branches go bare, I speak of passing things, of
being better people, and we share that look
of wish and doubt. I have a hundred reasons,
but only one that counts.

All said and done
until it isn’t, as we know full well,
the muse leaves with that goodbye:
I’ll see you round.

29 Sep 2017

Man John

My man John is from round here
but he’s been all over—couldn’t tell
you where. Guy’s tanned
from all the years under the sun,
has this craggy face that tells stories
before he does himself.

My man John doesn’t have a home, doesn’t ask
for money, just once a cup of coffee
if I didn’t mind (and yes, I got him one).
He plays the drum, a little one,
and the banjo as well. He goes around
with them slung round his side, turning out tunes,
this song in Spanish, that one in Hindi.
He asked if I play anything.
I said I just write.

My man John’s been roughed up,
kicked in the face, taking it all in his weary stride.
A song’s a song. A meal’s a meal. Blessings are blessings.
He’s a monk, a bard, out of time, on the move,
always on the move.

My man John is from round here
but I’ve not seen him awhile,
not for a long time.

16 Sep 2017

One I Rely On

Been around longer than any friend or lover,
was once the rock weighing down,
gripped tight as hope,
turned into a snake (little devil)
to slide through ribcage and coil
around a heart that’d learnt to beat
and seize it with questions,
questions, doubt and dread
one by one laid to rest in a graveyard
kept out of need, not respect,
not remembrance,
and after every six feet of earth
the voice from nowhere
and those cruel five words:
never far enough to forget.

15 Aug 2017

Flesh that Resists

I hope these words find you well, for as you read them, I can tell you that I am no longer among the living.

By this point, you will have heard of an incident having taken place. Sources will use demeaning terms to refer to myself, my brothers and sisters and our actions, but remember that they are no more than mouthpieces for those that would deceive. Do you know the plain and simple truth? This is not Judgment Day, but what precedes it.

Allow a dead man to elaborate, gentle reader.

We possessed the means and methods, and had in place every cog required in this, a machine of heaven. The initiation was something beautiful as it was pragmatic. Belongings from the former life were relinquished and burned, and the acolyte received white tee-shirts, black khakis, jackboots and a pocket copy of the Scripture. The young and disillusioned found purpose and grew; the aged and jaded rediscovered life. We became one, remade, the thousand threads of a rope.

The Word roused them from a deep sleep and stirred something within them, guiding them as chemicals dulled their bodily senses, and lay to rest animal desires as they came to see that glint of light and truth. We came one by one to dream little dreams of a divine glow, the white-hot presence illuminating the threshold we were to cross, a new world order, pure set aside from the impure, wheat from the chaff.

Imagine it!

Even now, as the servants of ignorance encroach on this ground we made sacred, we sense that glow around the final corner of this fleeting life. We were never so ready, so brimming with that energy. I can see His greatness in the jeweled eyes of these brothers and sisters, feel it pulsating through every vein.

Let them come and ask the knife what becomes of the flesh that resists. Let them drown beneath waves of righteous lead and cleansing fire. Then and only then can we hope that they find absolution, so let them come. Angels will smile.

Choice

You stand in puddles
to avoid rain, and cloaked in
fear, question cold feet.

4 Jul 2017

∞ (Jar in a Brain)

I jarred my brain.
I took it from a body no longer of use to me,
the only liberation to be had after nude portraiture.
My leftovers converted to fertiliser
feed a grove of olive trees; now
I’m a bio-mechanical trans-human organism
free-floating on the internet debating
with politician, plebeian, philosopher and fool
my status as human in the eight languages
I’ve since become fluent in, inhabiting
transient enclaves to evade unmodified techno-anarchists
who proclaim on streets concrete and digital that mind and body
separated is immoral to the nth.
To be eyeless and see all!
I’m going to live forever.
I’ll now use my final I
and become one with reality.
I have one final request to make of you, corporeal comrades:
don’t knock over this jar—
my brain’s in it.

19 Jun 2017

When in Blossom

They're moving. There's so many out there,
he told me while standing by
the window that casts sharply
light sworn to fade.

Yes, the first crowd, flowing like a river,
all as if in sleepwalk, sharing that same dream—
bright, violent tomorrows, and
why shouldn't revolution be a quiet affair?
What more it is, it is by our designs.

Then the fanfare of the city's
sounds becomes irrelevant
beneath the growing rhythm.
The percussion starts with
    desires chanted,
    rock-shattered windows,
    the dull thuds of tier-gas
    canisters, wailing, wails
        stretched long
        and hoarse
        by hands of rage,
            grief—for what
                but new names and old chaos?

When a tree blossoms, it's not to make a promise.
To put hope in its leaves, you have to forget autumn.