A BLOG OF POEMS: THE WRITE HEMISPHERE

a fox looking at a fox by a fox

REARVIEW

 

What a way to start your day

With Lou Read looking out

For you, ‘I’ll be your mirror’.

 

Fly away on his dirty Blvd.

You don’t need a busload

Of faith to get by. I’ll keep

 

Your graveside clean Lou.

LINGUEST( HONOUR)

Kayto came from Japan to fix

The fault, electronics engineer.

We sat around a long table. Him

At the top me at the bottom,

Kayto and I got on like a fire

We didn’t need language.

The English ass hole said it was

My fault, Kayto stood up like

A Basho figure said foxy no go

And sacked the English asshole.

Took me to the tabletop and we

Sorted Iit out. It’s been thirty years

Since I remembered this, here’s

To you Basho a solder splash.

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CURRENT-SEA WAVE OF POETRY

 

 

He gripped the rubber coolant band

And sipped from his well-stained coffee

cupThe wounds on his back/bottom were

Roaring red like a severe sunstroke but

this was below the skin he sat upright

behind his blacked-out curtains.

 

Allergic to the sun, his bedsores 

began to calm with the coolant crème 

put on by the caregivers who called 

four times a day, he felt his wounds 

were leathered.tethered he thought in 

Art-music-poetry.

Like Icarus who flew to close to the sun

He flew to close Event horizon darkness

Within dark the Tao- true pathway

 So he thought but he wasn’t going to

shove his view down your throat.

Like the hide of pigskin, he wrote

In a collection called ‘KILL HOUSE’.

He lived for his image poe-artry as

He called it. Although his bedsores -

Were bedsore his filthy real poems

Gave him hope in a hopeless world.

 

                  Man-shell.

 

A massive stroke left him this way

Paralyzed- flat on my back like a gang

of four Paralyzed-damaged goods at

At least I’m not a silly trivial pop song

He thought I would hate that.

 

I-car-us poetry made him whole

                 

                    Black-hole.

 

 ri

ART

 

My pomes don’t have an agenda

I’m the only person in the world

You can trust.

 

My mind is blank of

Love and hate

Right-wrong

Good and evil.

 

Words are like

Petal flower

Creating blooms

Without emotion.

 

Drink, piss

Eat, shit.

Use energy

Sleep.

 

Art comes from in-

Side, out.

AUGUST1994

A SONG

 

The gardener awoke after years of depression

And looked to the clear blue sky above him.

Slipped into his cold black wellington boots

With the butt of his spade he dug up the roots.

 

The nettle that stings he tore from the ground

The thistle that thorns he dragged from the mound.

My god, what a nightmare where have I been

Pain shot through his heart recalling the hatred.

 

He threw it to compost, saying the garden is sacred

His scythe he took up and cut through the grass like

A high wind tearing flags from half-mast, as he

Reached near the soil, the grass was lush

He sat down remembering his mother’s touch.

DEATH IS MY LIFE BEFORE APHANTASIA

 

 

I have been living this morbid hell for ten years now

Trying to find some meaning in this dark matter.

I can’t comprehend why I am still here, why didn’t

They just let me die, you have to have something

To give something to life and these words are all I’ve got

And they are meaningless, I’ve writ them over and over

And over again.  Looking at them from every angle but

I still come up with the same conclusion, why.

 

Can you imagine living without dreams or memory?

The world has nothing to do with you, you are lost

In the void of a moment, the world rotates out there.

There is no God, ghosts or angels, manifestations by

 Imagination there’s no Jesus fairytale or Mickey mouse

Or Santa's imagination is created from dreams.

 

There’s only you lost within the four walls of a dis-

Abled bungalow.  The fabric of life, you're general-

Relativity that bends and curves your space-time.

I live in this real reality, the first time I did this

It was exciting to be alive forming words to form

In a formless mind and truly amazing that I woke

From death but these words are written years on.

 

 

Like living in a suicidal moment, you can’t commit it

Because it’s all you have and you have no right to

Kill nature’s time because it’s locked into you.

It gets so sad and lonely in this world, the world

Outside my time doesn’t seem to understand

It’s like life without the crunchy bits of life like

Love, lust, desire, etc., the uncontrollable urges.

Life without an adrenaline rush, I can’t really explain

This is because it is me.  I had spunk in abundance

Before the stroke that stole my memory.

 

Not the substance of spunk but the attitude, and emotion.

I’m locked in here without memory until the day I die

I live in a negative capability, so if you can think like me

From the only way around.  Suicide is life, darkness with-

In the darkness that we I will accept someday.

Seems you can’t live without a little bit of bullshit

I’ll get there one day or time will kill me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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