I STUMBLE IN AND OUT OF THESE NOWHERES

I’ve uploaded three more poetry recordings on soundcloud. The links to the recordings follow the texts of the poems, below.

1. Untitled.

Has the James Bond feature ended for the rest of the world, or only here in the politically-correct playground? How tough are you when the framework’s gone and the gameplan changes?

I know I’m not so tough. More like jelly in the freeflow zone. Everything’s running corporate, and the money’s good so it feels like freedom for a while. A kind of stayfree freedom, a maxi pad and a mini dress.

What kind of place is this, disposeable politics and people, they can tap your energy flow and misdirect it – it can feel good in ad heaven, with the right combination of chemicals and expensive entertainment.

You’ll be self-actualized until you hit the ceiling and your craft breaks up. Life’s one big fucking compromise until you can’t figure out who you were when you started this senseless ascent. Even heaven was designed by and for a bunch of pricks.

(Audio recording of this poem here.)

2. AFTER THE BALCONY

Pretty Polly a prostitute gone to the revolution, turned symbol.
Her songs give men courage.
And what of the others in the fuckery amongst the mirrors,
The transported visitors in costume, and the beds?
It’s the other, penetrable yet opaque to all knowledge –
Silent because it’s her power.
Accusations become noise.

A half-forgotten dream tavern beckons
In the snow and steep village hills.
I stumble in and out of these nowheres.
Judge not, police not, soldier not,
A man armed with his own indeterminacy.
Searching in an entirely unconscious way
For my Pretty Polly,
Up there at the beginning of it all.

(Audio recording of this poem here.)

3. Untitled.

All that glitters in Robert Johnson chords –
White blues without words to express –
So simple
I’d do anything for her
But she won’t do nothin’ for me.

I could try to forget about her
But I’m in the wrong place.

The experts can read poetry and prose and know the author
Just by the style . . .
So much for ‘blind judging’,
So much for contests,
So much for competing,
So much for a level playing field
“The day you get weak for a woman is the day you’ll surely fall.”

I brought it all down on me
Never be happy never really live again.

And where are the images?
Where the transfixed heart, the dying rose and dagger,
Where the ugly tattoo?
The sky the sky the sky in winter grey,
The streets the streets drab with winter rain.

(Audio recording of this poem here.)

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