Category Archives: Poetry

‘A Good Walk’

Did this one a few days ago but forgot to put it up. I’ll date it from today since I don’t remember which day I started it. It’s partly literal and partly intended metaphorically, if you’re wondering. I think the line lengths are supposed to match up visually somehow. *shrug*

A Good Walk

nothing heals like a good walk

i say this to myself frequently on rekhovot streets
as pain flares in my leg

maybe i’m just making it worse

new boots new cane ace bandage and stubborn
i will walk it out or not

but it will never stop me walking

‘Be’er Sheva Wind’

This bit of rubbish was written a couple of days ago. I thought I should go ahead and post it since it does share something of my recent life here. *grin*

‘Be’er Sheva Wind’

the wind roars in the windows
on the eighth floor
or the ninth if this were america
it is not

the air is cool and clean
it dries my clothes
blows papers off the table
frightens the cat
ruffles my hair

i gaze into the distance
the concrete university
a hospital
neat housing tracts

there is a calming quality here
the desert and city merge
and i think briefly
i could live like this
the cat smiles

‘Of Oil and Nuclear Weapons’

‘Of Oil and Nuclear Weapons’

We’re meant always to be
afraid
of terrorists, Communists, Islamists
and especially of bombs
nukes
the only country to use one of
these horrors
is obsessed with protecting itself
from
the fruits of its industrial
imagination

five years ago George Bush
invaded
and occupied
Iraq
a major oil-producing nation
by telling Americans to be
afraid
of his chemical weapons

more recently John McCain has
argued
that America should bomb
Iran
another major oil producer
to stop it from
making
nuclear weapons

two years ago North Korea
a brutal
Stalinist hell-hole
built and tested a
real
nuclear bomb and to-day
Kim Jong-Il got his
reward
no more trade sanctions
no longer listed as a terrorism sponsor
free food and fuel oil and
direct foreign investment

no mere accusation
of clandestine weapons programmes
this time we
know
where the nukes are
this time we
know
where they were built
but look
there’s no oil in North Korea

American policy is nothing
if not
consistent

‘Talent’

The shower wrote this one this morning and it told me to write it down. I think the shower is picking on me, but I’m not sure.

‘Talent’

I am
a no-talent bum and I
break every decent rule of
poetry
when I feel like it and
I don’t have anything original to say
anyway
do I?

I mean, Allen and Jack and
Buk and
Corso and Creeley
have already said everything worth
saying
haven’t they?

I am a third-generation
third-rate
Beat wannabe
who somehow feels that his words
are worth preserving
but they’re all just so much nonsense and
tripe
aren’t they?

who needs talent
anyhow
any monkey with a computer can get
published now
even if they don’t have anything
interesting
to say

‘Discursive Nonsense II: Gypsy Tea-Bags’

Meandering thoughts posted on the AI Web board late at night; archived here for your chuckling pleasure.

‘Discursive Nonsense II: Gypsy Tea-Bags’

Detersive phosgene balloon entity envelops consciousness.
The tub is filled with Jello® and smells of turpentine.
My sexuality is everyone’s business, he said with a grin; ask me anything!
The signs are clear–there’s going to be trouble!
‘Knocked the wheel into outer space… threw him into the paddy-wagon… beat him…’
The water is green and brackish, evanescant horticultural miasma.
She said she was over eighteen, officer, I swear!
Madness is the stuff of earwax and sprinklers; my wife is ill again.
The computer demands a sacrifice!
I remember Sally Lunn’s buns–in business since 1680.
Frolic happy puppeteer in ice and bandages; sing prosodic bouquets.
‘Immanuel Kant was a real piss-ant who was very rarely stable…’
Nuclear power tastes orange train in plastic diaper bag keyboard tray.
The music was slow and ominous, roiling over us in waves of blue and white.
I love the way a woman’s hips sway as she walks.
Wooden models don’t look much like the real thing.
Electric light flicker flicker flicker on the corner table glow yellow and die.
Gypsies do not like tea-bags.
Compact Discs are too expensive; they should sell licenses and give away the media.
Apoplectic transfusion of rhythm and blues brings personal satisfaction.
Cursing in Yiddish is more effective; especially when talking to bees.
The dancers took ecstasy to stay awake–the rhythm spoke of Mars and impending War.
At night, there is only peace, and tranquility.
At night, there is only madness, and decay.
She is slipping again; control is going, the dreams are coming–pain!
Peter Murphy sings of heartfelt isolation over Turkish instrumental mayhem.
My journal is almost full; the pages are covered in mad scribblings, sign language.
Form and motion, chaos and corruption, indelible iniquity, and rhyme.
Caedite eos! Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.

‘Discursive Nonsense I: Music Is Ideas’

Meandering thoughts posted on the AI Web board late at night; archived here for your chuckling pleasure.

‘Discursive Nonsense I: Music Is Ideas’

The hand creme on the countertop is empty; the mirror is stained and cracked.
This election will be stolen just like the last.
Are you sure you want to move the read-only file ‘foo’?
I have a great big pile of photos and I’m sorting them out.
Ben & Jerry are burning in hell for making good iced cream.
‘If Hitler invaded hell I would make at least a favorable reference to the devil in the House of Commons.’
80 minutes remaining.
My confusion is apparent; the text is deconstructed; you’re all I have left.
Thomas Jefferson may have been an Aspergian but he was still a slave-owning son-of-a-bitch.
I want the GIMP to be as good as Adobe Photoshop; is that too much to ask?
It only costs 16 cents a minute to call Iceland, but I don’t know anyone in Iceland so I guess it doesn’t matter.
Like the Rascals said, I’ve been Lonely Too Long.
School starts on Monday; I must prepare the neutron bombs; call out the militia, there’s a war on!
My fedora is getting dusty; I should wear it to-morrow to work.
Two jets crashed in Russia to-day–a lot of people are dead.
Linux shell-scripting is fun if you have nothing better to do; I always have things to do; boredom is the first sign of senility.
I want to live forever, but only if I get to keep my books and my records.
‘I don’t know which will go first – rock ‘n’ roll or Christianity.’
I miss the Sainsburys Local and my 44p Evian and my Mars bar.
‘Free Willy’ was about a whale.
John Kerry is a corporate whore but at least he’s more ashamed of that than Bush is; I want to cast my vote for Jello Biafra.
I hate getting spam; I always think it’s important when the computer beeps at me… but it’s just another spam.
I am a vegetarian.
The average rainfall in the Amazon Basin is 80 inches.
Maurice Gibb is dead; out here on the perimeter there are no stars; this message will self-destruct in five seconds.
Black Sharpies smell very good, but only when they’re new.
Ich bin vom Sprechen nur auf englisch m¨de.
My bed is cold; I want to climb into it; it wants to climb into me.
Music is ideas.

‘Six O’Clock’

This is a topic I haven’t hit often in the past, and nothing that I know of like it has survived, so here’s a nice little anomaly for ya. Actual day of composition lost.

‘Six O’Clock’

I was there at 6 o’clock promptly
the movie started at 8, so
we had time to get dinner

but I was no sooner in the door than
she had my trousers open and
my cock in her hand

she was horny as hell and didn’t
give a shit about the movie
I didn’t either, anymore

we made it as far as the couch
then she was on top of me and
I was inside of her

we rolled around for the next hour or so
then I got up to make us some coffee
we sat and talked until 2

when the fire had died down we
pulled some blankets from the closet and
went to sleep on the floor

‘Bus’

No, I’m not a homophobe; why do you ask?! *grin* Seriously, this is a caricature based on something I’d witnessed taking place the night I wrote it. Get over it.

‘Bus’

We were on opposite aisles but
he kept giving me “the eye”

I tried not to notice
squirmed in my seat a little and
tried not to look in his direction

I thought,
“I’m not threatened here,
I can just ignore him.”

But then he came and
sat down next to me.
“Great, now what?”
I thought
and tried to keep my head turned away.

He persisted;
he didn’t notice that I
wasn’t interested, I guess.

When he put his hand on my leg
I thought,
“That’s it,
no more of this politeness shit.”

I turned to him and said,

“Take your fucking hand off my leg
before I break it off and shove it up
your ass.”

He turned kind of pale,
looked at me like a wounded animal
and jerked his hand back

muttered, “Sorry”

and got up to leave.

I sat there for a while
thinking
I might have over-reacted a little.

Shit.

‘Monkey Shit IV: Lost Children’

As the title says, it’s monkey shit. *smirk* This is one of a type of nonsense ‘rhyme’ that occurs to me with some regularity. In the past, I have spared you, the fragile reader, the sight of this sort, but I am getting older, bolder, and colder. Deal. Some time in 2004.

‘Monkey Shit IV: Lost Children’

all the lost children
drink martinis dry
and play backgammon
with the squirrels

all the lost children
have skeleton keys
and stay open
with the earls

all the lost children
wander martian valleys
and assay pergamum
with the girls

all the lost children
break down and cry
and spray shannon
with the churls

‘I Remember Capistrano’

Yet another that doesn’t need any of my pointless blathering to introduce it. Written one day in 2004; who knows when.

‘I Remember Capistrano’

I remember Capistrano
on the night you left
The wine was red- a merlot
our table was in the corner and you
looked stunning
your hair was done perfectly and
your dress was new
I should have suspected, I suppose
but hey, I was in love

You met him in the supermarket
of all places
in the produce section
His eyes were like jewels, you said
mine are just coal
but they were for you
How did your life go, with him?
did it last?
were you happier?

I sat at that table for a long time
after you left
and watched the street outside the window
cars and people, trees
Where would I go now?
How could I start over
just like that
after being with you?
I was out of matches again

The years passed and I
got over you, I guess
but I never forgot and
not a day went by that I didn’t stop
to wonder, just for a moment
where you went and
what we could have had
together
if you hadn’t met him