The Procedure
I admire the
surgical skill with which
You performed the amputation
I see no foreseeable risk
Of a subsequent infection.
Pet names have been euthanized
The quarantine on memories seems sealed
If some erupt I will certainly, as advised, cauterize
With red hot steel.
The symptoms will persist, that I foresee
Insomnia, loss of appetite, walking in a daze
No concentration, apathy…
Time will heal more fish in the sea, and other clichés.
No pharmacy balm to numb this. Alcohol!
There's the rub, antiseptic, that burns as it cleans.
Damn the side effects to hell.
Let the flames begin.
For Marc
When Bolan made to play,
In a forest hushed,
Breathing elementals sat
In leafy beds,
Gentle, curious,
In still evening air.
No enemy scent and so they settle in
Relax in warm comfort and wait.
The mists conspire a while
And glow, anticipate.
Then in time they hear: chooga chooga chooga
Cat Black and Beltane Walk
The sky was sleek and indigo
A fine grain field of blinking stars
Some sweet smell
Of jasmine or thyme
A tiny waterfall
Is in the know
Cool moss crickets chirp and buzz in the breeze
Giggling water burps
Leaves spin round between wet moonlit stones
Barefoot girls in white dresses look for
Tadpoles in the pools
Shadows of the knotty trees
What is this place called? I ask
The Imp just holds her breathe, puffs out her cheeks
Blows me a raspberry and runs away.
“The devil!” I say, as she looks back, wanting to be chased on a
spree.
I stroke my white beard, and see Mischief, that nimble lad, will
oblige.
I light my pipe and reminisce, in smoky reverie.
Sweet Soft Death
They tempt us, O Thanatos, with Mayan calendars and Y2K
I’ll bang you as they whimper ‘God Save Us!’, and march a fool’s
parade
Before I’d have to descend into the catacombs where they store the
fruit of skulls
A library that is, with shelves of tomes, the world, my oyster
rotting in its shell
Worm-eaten smell of must, gouged out holes and rust.
But now, I just “Wiki” it, and avoid the dust.
I call your
name born in hushed deliverance, shallow and breathy like on a
dying man’s bed:
Come to me, when are you coming O Angel, Sweet Soft Death.
No? I’m passed by, stood up at the Gate? It’s not my time? I
thought you were a friend.
You broke our date, how must I live? Here we go. Here we go again.
Opus minimus
It begins in joy, but ends in tragedy, a minor opera you might
enjoy:
Born in mirth but transgressed and he fell. Oh, he fell to earth.
Apprentice to a dying art, then master of a dead one, he played
the part:
Adept of the ego, schooled in a dark market, commerce, deceived by
shadows
So fell a bit more.
A dim light, persistent, grew, spoke -
“It’s all a
vacuum and a void. God may be Great but I am bored. I walk this world in weary
wonder at its folly and wish to strike it with my sword. When I light the match
it is my life that I light. And do
wear the mark of Cain. Die brother, die.”
Spend your days laughing at these spinning orbs I suggest.
Asymmetric wobbly things aren’t they?
Do I give up the game when I see now two? Go forth Gaianeer. Pioneer.
To Mars! There is Curiosity which is our eyes and Apollo which was
our baby feet. But put
away such
childish things, and look out!
Because there is no ‘up’. Just…out.
I get my mail on planet three, in a backwater part of a plain
galaxy.
And screwing up this wet dream of Jeannie as we proceed, oblivious
to gravity.
The curtain soon falls, no Deus Ex, just velvet draperies.
The ETs we await like angels shrug their alien shoulders and move
on at intergalactic
speeds
Not all experiments succeed.
Peppermint Moon
The moon is a dinner mint on a platter of sky
The sun? What a flamer, but we like his energy and Oh! he cooks so
well.
I’d like something basilly in a thin rue,
Steamed clams, scallopini,
Or gnocchi au vino delicieux?
The lemon zesty afternoon
And the tides that break bread
And laughter in the hollows where the bumble bees go in.
These are just some random treasures
Small trinkets
to give to a girl.
And the moon is
serving, well, by moonlight
From a shiny silver
platter. On another world.