Not Like Dolphins

Moving on from heartbreak, 
Means "letting go..", 
And "moving on..". 

Seize the day; 
Don't look back; 
Earth still has plenty of fish, 
In the sea. 

So move on, 
Because we still have fishes - plenty of them, 
And they're in the sea. 

So watch a film, 
Sob to the songs, 
Eat some more chocolate, and, 
Learn to breathe underwater. 
Get out, 
Cultivate an interest: 
Swim like a shark.
Grow and abdominise some gills. 

I wonder though, 
When a dolphin is heartbroken, 
Do other dolphins gather round, circling, consoling: 
"Let it go, 
There are plenty of humans on the land... 
You just need a good night out." 
I doubt it: 
Dolphins, warm-blooded,
possess highly intuituitive, sensitive empathic abilities. 
Imagine a moping dolphin being cajolled to get pissed to get laid after a curry, 
Or to cheer up because there are plenty of cold fish on the land.. 

No, dolphins would float beside you, gliding lowly above the coral; 
They would weep the quiet with you; 
They would listen; 
They would communicate:
They would understand. 

Would dolphins, though, understand simply letting go, knowing, 
That that thing you once had: 
That special someone, who, once upon a time 
unlocked the moonlight behind your eyes, 
Who guided you to the enchanted and illuminated enchanted forest, 
Really didn't amount to that much? 
See, it was all just an illusion. 
So you should feel okay then. 
You have moved on - again. 
You're as shiny as tin foil glittering translucent beneath the waves. 

And your friends apparently never liked them that much anyway, 
They offer by way of support. 

The heartbreak, 
Plays on. 
Memories, and all their meaning,
You have just let go of, like that - 

Because it's time. 
Seriously, it's about time now, 
You moved on. 
You owe it to yourself don't you?. 

Downsize your depth out here in the sea, 
And if you don't boil down your memories, 
You are only indulging in sentimentality, 
And nostalgia. 

Thus the unalloyed truth pierces the body-polished armour not even a scratch. 
And the treaded water booms to the galley-slave drum. 

A Bloke Of Letters

When I was a schoolboy,
My English teacher instructed:
One thought, one sentence.

But now I'm a bloke,
I'm a bloke.

Drifting In The Drifting Sands Of So

Then the murder itself became itself. 

This was the murder of civilians: 

The villains. 

"But murder?" they bristled, "No. Well, no..", 

So..

So the murder became the killing. 

The killing then became itself. 

Then killing itself became collateral damage. 

And collateral damage became itself collaterally morphed: 

Sandpaper to candyfloss: 

Enter unintended consequences. 

Unintended consequences. 
Unintended Consequences Delta Force.

Unintended consequences is still churning out  its buttery flow, 

But soon the eraser's lingua franca shall again rub out its road; 

Neverland's built-in obsolescence-coda the interposing code. 

For these apparatchiks wing such strange jams in flues of dead life, 

Constantly retuning the lexicon
in the key changes of the drowning light, 

Cast in the colours of the waterboarders' eyes.

This proto-linguistic mash-up, 

Informs the infotainment joker's full-spectrum arcana, 

Redefining and tightening; 

As ideological as Stalinist fag-ends in overdrive. 

Disarming with the Subutteo of words, 

Pumped out like oil. 

Please view the nascent necropolis through magnolia smoke 

and bending kaleidoscopic timelines. 

And, 

Although far-removed in look and sound, 

This globalist hipper hate-rainbow, 

Phase-shifts playfully the ever-unfurling cacophony, 

And deconstructs any moral dilemma fads 

through the fade of the flow.

Lines drawn then renamed: 

Progression; 

Buttressing and counterblasting; 

A conceptual shoe-in for these teratoid playlists. 

Mixtape for the scorching; 

An envelope to elide: 

The language isn't the sideshow - it's the ride, 

It's the ride. 

Painting pictures differently, 

All cloaking-zeitgeist-wordsmith brinkmanship. 

Deep-sixing: 

Pink-slipping the severed deadwood adrift 

to anodyne swamp slideshow jazz-riffs. 

Blastwall wordscapes camouflage the poison ivy, 

Now broadcasting the lounge-sound of the lizards' dream-future: 

Dancers sparkle under supernormal mistle, 

Washing away the latest nano-armageddon to the-so-last-year, 

Drifting in the drifting sands of so, 
The powdery blue sheer..

The Exchange

Her face, and,
Her eyes, her lips,
Pagan life and light and flame.

Gazing through me into her impossible beyond.
Transfixing me with those luminous jet rainbows,
In Timeless Everything.

Christ, I wondered,
Am I doing this to her?
No. She is.

Nothing else to do.
Hearken the tightrope to heaven.

Her lifeforce tripped me,
And into her light I dove.

And the morning after?
I offered to do the dishes.




* This poem subject to change as I'm having real problems with it. Sorry.

Cosmonaut Empurples With Chopstick Aerials

I eat poetry,
It tastes like paper.
Some sentimental poetry tastes like cards.
Blank poetry is good for dieting.
With haiku, you eat one,
then, inevitably, want another one an hour later.

Nonsense poetry, I drink with spoons.
And spoons, like forks, taste moose.

The Cappuccino Captains' Buzz

They're such cowards,
That's why they hide amongst their own,
Firing rockets murdering civilians,
From the rooftops of their homes..

So grab yourselves a coffee captains,
It's time to launch a couple more drones..