Chopsticks with de Sade


It's not that I am cold to you,
Or take back what I told to you.
It's merely as an afterthought
That I should practice what you taught.

And though I am a gentle guy,
With baleful, but expressive eyes
Profound beyond your mortal skin,
Dumbfounded by your saccharin.

But here's a poem just for you,
Though not the one I wrote for you,
Intended as an anecdote
With clever lines for us to quote.

It's bouncy in a secret way,
Concealing what I want to say,
So clasp it tender to your heart
And then cut out the perfect part.

Forgive me when I'm cold to you
And forsake what I told to you.
It's simply as an afterthought
That I should bury, what you taught.

Go tell my Grandfather
That nothing was won
No freedoms held
The fascists have
Disembarked
And we are
All Jews
Again

My love, see the sky
Boil grey, and the ocean roll
As the wind breathes lust
From the west

Yet we spread, black tipped
Like angel fingers
To caress
To caress

Perhaps the phrasing of the lie
Was not the full extent
Of where the circumstances led
Where purity was sent

But cast an eye of perfect scorn
Your scrutiny entwined
In reams of everlasting love
And poetry unsigned

It’s not the art of sanity
Transgressed upon my part
But merely sensibility
Refusing to take heart

And if I’ve used this line before
Forgive an old cliché
That drips soft from my silver tongue
Unhidden but betrayed

So ask the critics as they fall
Upon my book of lies
Which deeds of mediocrity
Did each verse plagiarise

Yet if I stand accused of hope
I’ll solemnly declare
That truth was always spoken of
With no poetic flair

In doggerel or clichéd trite
I formed the catalyst
That wormed its slinky silver tongue
Between the lips you pressed
Upon the rose that only blooms
When Venus fills the air
With seeds of latent wanting that
We scatter everywhere

my culture slipped
as we walked down
fish lane, past girls
with the short skirts
and Hellenic sandals

pasithea sang from
doorways, offending
those who had already
given of the brightness
and now felt pale from
want and wishing

street cafes bustled
then cups shattered
as coffee beans
were ground
into one last
cappuccino

then just in time
I stepped back
into character

poets may gather
at graves
whence sprung

rhythms
of baroque
tonality

testing patterns
that flow
then break
like waves
of emotion

scoured
by eons
of negatively
charged dust

it goes

My Nightingale lay naked as
Her tongue fell out of tune
Bereft of less simplicity
She’d foraged from the moon
That shone its tainted cherry light
With nothing more to show
But invitations to my bird
For silence down below

I painted
you from
perspectives
that defied
definition,
as you
lay poised
for posterity

Scatter my ashes
when ravens decree
that time is an oracle
perched on a tree
whose branches will fester
one warm afternoon
so praised by the sun
but denied by the moon

They want my precious metal for
For an effigy that’s planned
To stand upon a burning hill
Then name it as a brand
For every fear that’s packaged up
And labelled as control
To bless the population with
The freedoms that they sold

Once I’m in control
The non-smokers
Will be sent to
Huddle listlessly
With the harlots
And drug dealers
In urine soaked
Doorways, while
I light my Cuban
Cigar and puff
Away my life

It's not
that I
don't
believe
in G-d
I've just
not got
round to
renewing
My subscription

darkness
waits
the
trap
sprung

silence
slips
softly
between
tongues

Caution –Contains hot liquid

Down at the park
God tossed big sticks
to his favourite dogs

picking mushrooms
to boil in a tasty goulash
he invited me for supper

I had no appetite then
but wished him
bon appetit
as I sipped
a takeaway
Latte

Husband doing chores wearing his wife’s negligee

Extolling the virtues of a cynical disposition, he reclines
in his righteous dependency. Not for him the stoic indifference
of the TV judge, or the sheep like bleating from the
sporting spouse, each despised with equal smugness.

As it was or is, so shall it always be.

So they cancelled the old time dancing on account of
the weather, but Johnny Cash was playing on the radio,
which suits him fine. It’s his age though, he never used
to get these social malfunctions until they killed Saturday
night, and half buried the body so the memory would linger.

Rainy days and workdays always get me down.

His Father said as much during disagreeable lectures.
But he’s gone now, except for every morning when he
winks from the bathroom mirror. He knew all along
the old sod, but never gave the slightest warning of the
troubles to come, damn them all to hell.

The more things change the more they’ll stay the same, or not.

So he sighs, and tries to embrace what must come to pass.
But it’s all weird, political correctness gone rogue and hunted
down like a rabid bunny, what’s up doc! Now time coshes
with the blunt reminder of the tasks at hand, as he takes to
his chores wearing his wife’s negligee.

Six hundred savage defeatists
Brought about a slight change
In national morality

Gone, all the bee bop
Rogues who once stood
On every parallel corner
Twirling sweaty bandanas
Round fat pig greased fingers

Banished, all the subversive
Swingers, who terminally
Undecided, rocked the boat
One beat time too often,
And floundered with
A cheery wave ta ta

the more
I write
the less
I become

words slip
unrefined
from frail
imagination
flowers unfurl
to be molested
for literary beauty

and lovers caress
for the pleasure
of a dirty old
poet

Snowman

See the snow, how it falls like confetti
On a union of concrete and frost
And it sits like a sheet of obsession
With the comfort that comes from remorse

But the snowman you built to remind you
Holds a grin that he carries with pride
And the pipe that you gave him to ponder
Was the gun that you held at his side

So you garnished his coat with some buttons
That you bought from a charity store
And you fastened each one with a warning
How there never could be anymore

Now your snowman stands solid and silent
As he patiently waits for the thaw
That will come in the times of pretension
For he’s only a snowman, that’s all

Pass this tongue-to-tongue

I have escaped
persecution
for my contempt

oppression
for my indifference

intolerance
for my indecision

and betrayal for my
Indulgences

Gather in the Lilies white
Before they fall like snow
Upon the frosted rendezvous
We tainted long ago
Before our breath began to freeze
This promise in the air
That winter’s lonely shawl be cast
Some miles away from here

This Thing

There’s no victim of fashion
That wants to keep warm
By the fires of penance
Put out by the storm

As it blew from the mountains
Rolled in from the east
And became the great engine
That swallowed the beast

Yet the heart that it powered
Knew only to well
Of the secrets it wanted
But never would tell

To the fury that wallowed
In certain disdain
Of the love of its savior
It never could chain

And the love that they plundered
The critic’s delight
Was a star that was polished
To glow every night

Now the star that we follow
Is screwed to the line
So they know we can follow
It, time after time

One momentary lapse of precision

Reclaim something, something solid
Something that meant little
But was attractive for all its
Demure presence

Then breathe it, wash in its unimportance
But most of all treasure
It, protect and then deny it
Because it is a provocative

Thing, yet a tangible intangibility