Prophet & Gain

question,

when religion rubs

itself over some

pornographers joke.

I see you...red faced,

licking G-d

with a big gee,

just in case.

The War of Art

Rustic hues, on canvas lift

the barrage, then the tonal shift

indifferent to the textured strain

of scratched in men, who fall again

Invictus, through poetic wake

a parable, for no ones sake

the rhythm running through the line

that failed to hold, despite the rhyme

Exposure, in a brittle light

the kodak, and the bakelite

a glossy situation turned

to weekly sales and children burned

A Dream of Pyongyang

A Dream of Pyongyang

I Took a walk through old Pyongyang

a package tour, a secret sign

a party of surreal control

four hundred floors for me to climb

Consider, I was led by Kim

to forge a statement tall and slim

I made the point, he failed to see

but made the point right back at me

I sat by Leonard on a tram

and noticed when he tapped my hand

the beauty of his weaponry

the beauty of some prophecy

Hymm

Sweetest is the evening

that entertains a lie

a blessing hid in open view

a curse laid in disguise

we carry on together

though neither of us bound

by winters holy sorrow

nor summers needy crown

I follow you, and even though

your heart cannot be bound

to winters holy sorrow

and summers needy crown

She whispered in my ear something warm and sharp Fixed circumstances aside, I felt my way along dark promises soft issues broken lies

Your body wrought, with senses light
and eyes that saw a shadow
of another time.
I kiss the dark beneath each one
then trace the lines around them
with my swollen lips.
It wasn’t on my mind at all
I swear I only touched you
in a certain way.
Yet in the past I coined the phrase
that formed very core
of notoriety.

The Moon lay on its back
as if the rushes of love had
exhausted all patience.

Rumours of death slipped
unnoticed from the lips
of children, while Erebus
danced from one slaughtered
family to the next.

There’s a war coming but not like the last
The pigeons are painted like doves for a laugh
Everyone’s frightened but nobody cares
The zealots are moving, they’re marching in pairs

They’re marching for freedom, marching for fun
Marching their boots to the ruin of a drum
Marching to motivate, marching in rhyme
And the whole damned world is marching in time

There’s a war coming just over the hill
It’s almost upon us, but lies very still

Nostradamus made a subtle
Declaration, no rebuttal
Terror from the infant mewling
Danger from a different schooling
Watchmen rattled, with a yearning
From the book, denied the learning
Ages gone in tangled armour
Crosses on a rotten banner
Hail to thee, Mohammad’s calling
To the evil empire, falling
From its place of latent vigour
Points the gun then pulls the trigger

Dickens was dead: to begin with.
And social necessity rotted
in the neighbouring plot.

Poets’ corner was best ways
more crowded, yet no candle
burned, or heart held vigil.

it’s a pain in the chest
but ignorance cures all

eventually the mind
wanders, and dwells

on less significant
mortalities

like the gun she carries
for sentimental
reasons

minus one shoot
when she's stroking
me home

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