Shining threads

Shining threads

Monday, 27 July 2015

Top is bottom

The top is bottom.
The pot is boiling
and the water is ice-cold.

Turn left until you approach from the right.
Find out that the earth is not really flat.
That language creates myths.

You try to pithily summarise things
yet aphorisms create traps that kill.
Words make people ill.
Magical spells.

Spell out the letters that cannot reach beyond          the prison bars.
Yes, bards must be very careful.
Full of language, they get caught on tops or bottoms,
addicted to aspects and missing the whole.

Look for the holes.
The gaps in the fabric.
Take your thread and weave magic that works.

Sunday, 26 July 2015

There is no perfect line

There is no perfect line.
You will be fined
for parking on the double yellow line.
For crossing the line, we have drawn.
You will be torn apart from your instinct.
And fitted inside this box that has been constructed.

There is no linear path.
If you deviate, we shall charge you with sin. We will win.
My pencil is straight and narrow
and is my bureaucratic aid. Determining that I am paid.
We have made this religious/political/economic system
And to satisfy our obsession, you must fit in.

There is no flawless body.
If you develop a twitch,
you will be mocked for biological errancy.
No spots, marks, blemishes
and how dare you relish the thought of lying
with disapproved flesh.
Conform to the stylists' vision or be photo-shopped forever.

The line dances, the line is curved.
The path prances, the path turns.
The body cavorts, the body learns
that things are looser
than strictly speaking
and according to the programme
create your own tracks.

Thursday, 23 July 2015

Punk Disco

She danced all night at the Punk Disco,
where she pogoed and pranced and jumped around.
She used to be a hippie in San Francisco,
then burnt her flowers and listened to some new sounds.

The DJ plays it all at the Punk Disco,
with guitars and beats and drums and pianos.
He used to be a Deadhead in San Francisco,
then got bored of LSD and cast aside his woes.

The promoter wants you to come to the Punk Disco,
where kids get high and show off their crazy moves.
She used to put on 'happenings' in San Francisco,
then decided to make things happen with sharper grooves.

The doorman checks your coat at the Punk Disco,
for knives and bottles and drugs and other 'accessories'.
He used to be an 'Angel' in San Francisco,
then got with the programme and juicier fees.

The band comes on at nine at the Punk Disco,
with a set to blow yer mind and engage your feet.
They used to play psychedelic rock in San Francisco,
then threw away the 'FX' and created some real heat.

A different page

We were on a different page,
one caught in ludicrosity, the other steeped in sage.
The tension between sequential points caused unholy rage.

The verses are not linear.
The book can be opened at any stage.
Any characteristic can be actualised.
Any job taken for the right wage.

Now the birds have flown the cage,
in which they parroted their own bias.
Now they are free to pursue their own visage
and strike out on their own awkward rhymes.

Thursday, 2 July 2015

Reluctant flush

It was a reluctant flush.
Paused to look at his hand.
It is bad etiquette to leave a scene
without cleaning up.

Holy Chic

Holy Chic.
The Devil wears Prada.
The Pope does too.
The Archdeacon wears Armani.
High fashion is only for the few.

Holy Chic.
The closer they get to God,
the greater the temptations are.
They flee from the evils of Sodomy
yet it returns through the back door.

Holy Chic.
The priests are on the catwalk
The clergy are on the prowl.
The local vicar has opened a boutique.
The gospel has gone foul.


Feels friction feels chemist
lessen       tension
through    reaction
into          new
con glo mer ations.

Feels science fiction     feels modernist
so agorist                      so you get the gist
sister sparks                  blister marks
her shoes are                too tight
the friction burns           the fiction doesn't last
we see through             to a new light and darkness.

Feels diction                didactic dreams
I listen I write               I drag the pen across the page
                    until ink seaps

and from behind an unknown known ruffles my hair.

It could only be one of a few
and she speaks out loud
what is on the page
with a spiked annunciation
which contradicts
my intention
and makes
the poem
not quite my own.