What poem shall I pluck from the air today
A poem that kills…
Poems don’t kill.
They once locked up Lorca
and Pound was a Nazi
and Whitman was a queer old fool
and Morgan was a tad quiet and queer
and Mr Gray was all over the place
A poem should be like a large open door in a stuffy room.
(Look! If I wanted a house I’d buy one…)
my hearts sinks to the depths of its hole
it burrows there, defends itself, mocks itself
sensitive mushy peas in a cracked bowl
O laugh laugh!
The time is now to live
and tomorrow to die
and our eyes meet
ten thousand stranger
eyes and we each a kind
of eye shake hand look
touch see as we pass by
passersby
(Can you tell I’m horrible noastlgic?)
It is these passing moments
which form a kind of glue
of kindness a kind of yes
people aren’t all evil
and whole evil is not
all man
and men are walking sky high
and women higher still
all leg and arm and flesh
and organ
all a kind of solid music is body!
all a kind of lyrical rush is
crushing the moments together
a reflection of here we are alive
once more again and again
My heart is a vast island with
many dark corners and several parrots
and ten million well intentioned citizens
O love love love tge world does turn
come on sensitive poet
show me your panther eyes!
and bite at the air
and prove to me
you are alive with man!
pluck the aimless poems
starwberries of the imagination
crushed one by one by one
and the blood is colour
the tombstones real