Interview With The Commander Of A Western Suicide Bomber

We gave thanks
He was blessed from above,
After all, he died doing something he loved..

He flew in, just like they did:
But they invaded, he defended.
They cluster bomb, we behead.
He was good, he was disciplined;
He was no tearaway, he was a good kid.
He was funny, loved his playstation he did.
Oh, what was his name again..? 
You know, it was two weeks' ago,
And as you know
a lot has happened since then..

I Had To Write This Poem

I had to write this poem 
because I thought of this one great line,
What do you think -
will it stand the test of time?

Well, I had to write it down
to deter other poets stealing this idea;
You know lines are clutched from the atmosphere,
Or they fall like apples, spill over like beer.

I had to write this poem,
Because I thought of this one great line;
Like a beat messiah,
My acid milk turns to wine.

And now I feel fine, and your pleasure
in my one sparkling line.
I had to write this poem,
Hidden in this gem of a line.

Official Merchandise (Shut Up And Sing)

The only thing we learn from history:
We rarely learn from history;
The nihilists know a thing or two;
The hereditary privilege we deserve?

So face the morphing lineage,
Will the next generation be so different?
Carnivalising ancient lore, truth to power.
More graves, more public inquiries, more sellophane towers.

The Power learns their history:
Feed the believers a simulacrum of history:
Fine myths, folklore, official documentaries,
And a thank goodness we have our culture preserved.

So musical chairs plays you again,
Tuned to reflect the diffident muse-godheads.
Inside numbness outside sound:
The rolling parades;
The phoned-in outlines of revised promises of greatness.

And yet more memorials to more sacrifices.
And fresh blood trades shiny medals, praise and prizes.
And the kings and the queens and the presidents salute the fallen.
And the minute of silence silenced by an anthem.
And some trapped doves released escape a now Kitch Athens.

And the lead marionettes tightened heartstrings snap in the aisles;
And the anointed default-heroes' kids urged to shut up and sing:
It's the least we can do,
What's the hell is wrong with you?
Can't you at least join in?
They died for you, for what we must believe in.

So the only thing we learn from history:
Keep your blessed eyes on your crown,
But please move on, you won't fall down;
Chant reflexively item-listing hymns:
Tradition, Family, God, Country, Freedom, Loyalty, Liberty.
And Sacrifice, make some noise!
This new history has some history.

Softsoftloud

A brisk twenty-minute walk everyday,
Means you are up to eighty percent less likely to die early from coronary heart disease, 
diabetes or cancer.

Whereas,
If you stay at home snuggled all comely and lovely and very becomingly sultry
in your TV dinner chair,
Avidly reading my poems,
You are, excitingly, one-hundred percent less likely
to be killed by a vicious pavement cyclist, 
Meaning you won't die early either;
You'll probably die late,
Which is better than never.
Or is it?

I think your choice here is..
There are no guarantees in life.
But that's your choice,
Which is no choice,
And your only guarantee.

Look, it's quite possible a really vicious pavement cyclist might even appear an unbidden subject of my graphomania,
But would this be your choice?

If a vicious pavement cyclist rides unbidden on one of my free verse spaghetti motorways,
Please don't worry;
They'll probably be immersed into the depravity:
The vicious pavement cyclist might awaken in my Poe-like dreamworld
Himalayan flesh-pot-deep in empty and meaningless sex with the Yeti, 
Which according to nature programmes
is the worst kind of empty climactic sex you can have with the Yeti.
(I obviously wouldn't know, having never done that kind of thing.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Or the vicious pavement cyclist, Camp X-Ray style,
Might be force-fed a lobster through their nose via a pair of tights -
A disturbingly unwashed pair of tights previously worn by 
celebrated and legendary theNeoconstrademark sticksman, Dick Cheney. 
Allegedly..

Or the vicious pavement cyclist could be gently encouraged, inverted commas, 
to sing a Coldplay song backwards
while bathing in a jacuzzi of porcupines who are all in a really bad mood.
(That's the porcupines, not Coldplay)..

Or the vicious pavement cyclist might end up in a forced marriage
with a bidden, totally bidden, squeezed and empty bottle of tomato ketchup..

And no ordinary squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup either.
No, not that kind,
But a squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup with a terrifying superiority complex,
A passive aggressive personality,
And a not entirely healthy interest in grandmothers who smother themselves
in living Anunnaki jam,
Then dress up as pirates to ambush and kidnap naturists astir in the woods attacking carbon dioxide and Cliff Richard songs, Softsoftloud,
As if Cliff Richard is in Mogwai,
Which he isn't, never has been.

No, there's nothing wrong with Mogwai,
But there's definitely something wrong with Cliff Richard being in Mogwai.
But not as wrong as, say,
Mogwai being in Cliff Richard, unbiddenish, Softsoftloud or otherwise.
Or is it?

Curve Ball

A burglar stole my debts.
So, now that I can afford counselling
I have nothing serious to worry about. Hmm..
Now isn't that, in management-jargon, called a curve ball?

I hope the burglar doesn't have a crisis of conscience,
And return my debts back to me.
I'll change the locks on my door,
Make sure the bastard doesn't get in..

Maybe he'll be worried that as he's stolen my debts
I'll worry about having nothing to worry about.
I'll live.
I'll soldier on.
Don't give it a passing thought Mr Benign Burglar.

Can you get counselling for that:
Worrying about having nothing to worry about?
Maybe on the west coast of the USA,
Near some New Age practice in Yellowstone.

And if he goes to prison,
He should receive counselling.
Although these days, things still being the way they are,
The newspapers would have a field day,
Things being the way they are.

I wonder has there ever been a time,
When things weren't the way they were?
There's a conundrum for existential historians to worry about.
Not me though;
I have nothing to worry about,
Except worrying about a burglar returning debts that he stole from me.
What a selfish world this is.

Redacted Charlie Hebdo Haiku

                                          
                                           
                    





 
          

Heroes

   Never meet your heroes,
   They might be greater than you feared.

*   Never meet your heroes,
    They probably hate you.

*new and improved update

 

One Tragic Poet For The Admiring Damsel

this poem is on the tip of the tongue of the quill of these keys
this blank migraine screen taunts its winking bar at me
blinking and taunting my flapping imaginings
this blank migraine screen
a white-inked haiku lost in the snow
metaphorically speaking obviously

a molehill visionary
a pedestrian bewildered
that's me
like an empty wine bottle in a tea-total country
like an alanis morissettian simile about irony
ironically

it's like a poem when all you need is a pizza
it's like a rabbi wishing an imam happy easter
it's like a terrible lyric writer trapped on the moon in june
it's like a vaccum cleaner sucking into a dirty vacuum
but you outta know it's not like getting a blow job in a hospital theatre
or any kind of theatre for that matter
don't you think

but wait
don't read another's poetry my muse
sit down
allow yourself to bask in my enlightenment
damsel
adjust your wispy gossamer attire
twirl your tinkling hair through your delicate fingers
admire my downcast ruffling eyelashes
sparkling with the tortured bard's unforgiven tears
lay beside me as I read my new work
unbidden..

I'm a daffodil, I'm lonely, I'm wandering -
A daffodil wandering like a candle wanders in the wind -
on a hill
like a cake baking in the rain.
Isn't that so simple to see?
Why don't you understand me?
I'm a daffodil wandering, figuratively speaking, not literally,
Like a candle on a cake in the wind melting in the rain,
Like a train pulling something quite profane.
But why?
I thought we are all the same.

oh even if i say so myself
that first verse is phenomenal
and in one drafting too
what an exceptional poet i am
a first verse jam-packed with all the poetry goodliness
similies metaphors wikipedia
figurative imagery and allusion
sadness to suffering
elegance and originality
lashings of pathos
a sprig of madness
all invoking empathy and eroticised abandonment in you lucky lady
my musk never stills
cuddle closer damsel
we could have bliss for the next two minutes
four if you're really lucky
succumb my lovely

but first i must roll up my sleeves
this second verse won't write itself
blink your adoring gaze at me
i rock you see..

I'm a candle wandering not unlike a cake,
Now in the sea -
A cake in the sea,
Like an invertibrate - possibly indubitably, absolutely.
I'm a man, a daffodil, a cake, a train,
I'm a Maya Angelou poem,
Flooding in all the seas soaking in the rain,
But all in the wrong way.
A fistful of fish,
Don't be sexist.

I'm every shrimp yearning to be free.
Most women can't handle me,
Like a tree, green policy.
There's the door,
There's nuclear war.
Oh how nice:
No trees anymore, and no more of my poetry.
Now what kind of a world would that be?

oh wow i'm cooking now
this could well be my magnum opus
fetch me a silken cloth my damsel
wipe my glistening fevered brow
i musn't dither or slumber
well not yet
verse three throbs inside me like a sagacious vegan..
Nuclear war used to be bad.
I say we've been had.
Aren't we all tragic cakes left out in the windy rain,
Aren't we all daffodils wandering -
Wandering and wondering, running,
Like bewildered walruses of warbling pain?
Running under the mushroom,
And where there's wandering daffodils there's pain but no gain.
Isn't that what they say?

lucky damsel stay
why do not run so from my boudoir..
Guitar solo: waah waah waah uuhhhhh

Wave your light sticks:
You're fixed.
Poetry class dismissed!

Revolution Solutions

This borderline, the click,
Before the wayshower deiform projects his munificent rays,
A revolution-this, a call to arms-that,
A changing of the ways.
But first this ad displays a small box;
It states:
You can skip this ad in five seconds,
Monetising straightaway.

And in this valley of steaming mindfulness,
Lip-syncing sexily against the masonic symbols and signs,
This grand design masterstroke ignites the tinder-lit honeycomb,
Baptising innocent minds.
Draped in the kitsch visage of silk-screen Che -
Another nougat prophet fracking that socket-rocket -
Chocks away!

Pray then - I mean for the Fukushima fisherman, Gaia souls,
The Lord is clearly out of control,
Observe the Agents grin of kick-back lode,
All brought to you by.. relational codes and global modes,
Composed by the self-anointed, the chosen:
The nexus-intelligence loaded against you,
So generously urging you to believe in Love.

Though noughts of plenty lash against the Astral One,
The gnostic gnome shills the sun.
And bone collectors of Soul flower-press the sold,
Sipping leather scented acoustical saffron, chanting:
Everything for a reason happens.
Puppies paw for the crystal-pumping soldier:
Outlier outreach machine, the phantom inside the rage;
Another fat shepherd somewhere bedazzles calves under chemtrails.
And all that Love?
You paid.

The language of re option revolution,
Utilised to advertise corporate solutions,
And/or revolution.
The shedding Blue Star Kachina leaves Draco.

The Countryside Poetry Reader

If deeply moved I be to write, how wondrous this idyll is, so very, of countryside-poetry-life  hyphenated,
I would instill uplifting mustard windmills (sparingly) within such sagely mystical oranges.

So, of no particular butler nor daffodil, be:
A parson's egg nog wallow,
thatched burgundy meadow, glamorous frisky mallard, beekeeper's Plaster of Paris, 
my fern banshee for your two liminal hamsters,
jolly cahoots with the hopscotch ducking expedition, chief daffodil scrutineer.
Dimpled impish rabbit, cravat, sheafs of swaying church bells.

{end of part one}

You see?
Let's continue;
It shall become clearer.
Hedgerows and damp knees dappled, conservative blazer, 
Antichrist's mattress and hostess trolley adorned with his and hers;
imperial luxury verdant candyfloss thumbscrews.
Bertie won a lifetime supply of long-life jim-jams;
he couldn't believe his eyes.

Pay attention, I will be asking you questions,
No smack-and-tickle at the back!

Sprightly motorcar driving gloves, publican's distraught wife, her tawny owl embossed on glossy note paper.
Cricketers elbow, game bachelor's frosted tip snapping like Queen's crystal in the infamous anaesthesia Donkey blizzards of '53 -
and we'll say no more about it.
Headmistress's tips perky in satin,
fowl lawnmower with revolving gnome clippers,
parsimonious knitted atheist mittens;
scone, tramp.

Cups of Ceylon tea served in traditional Roswell saucers.
The thwacked balls on dominatrix leather.
Conserve tweed jam.
Unbecoming flashy door mouse.
Plimsolls of royal hooligans' pince-nes, King Rameses, garrulous banister, Elan Creams,
received Latin cabbage (Cambridge), the last days of the gravy merchants.

Mercurial street nun smoking a man-size cigarette under gas light,
her ruddy cheeks at play.

Beetroot doctor, romantic phantasm (with gout), nesting goats, mysterious gas explosion, vermilion meandering moonbeams
- perfect weather for secret maggot breeding.
Moth, awning, spry, fisting, bedash, badass.

***----****___~~=~~___****----***

Countryside -
Oceanarium saxophonists dwell under freestyle apple trees plucking low-hanging balloons, scherzo.
A napkin and the milk urn always in verdure-blossom.
Nearby fish bunting hangs above the ottoman airing violet fillets.
A "person" with colour pudding marble islands 'pon her nose jamboree.
Enid Blyton is.

Nostalgia: turpentine rations, and
Nothing beats that simple, unadorned joy of feeding crispy fleas to the budgerigar after gargle practice.

The army major plays dominoes with the poodles, custardly.
"Very" into conversations slipped in like marble tooth nylons.

How he glares comfortably at migrants singing songs about soda magnets,
As the sun-dried margarine sky blinks in European sing-song aftershave!

With the emphasis on -ing:
Snow falling over roman tattoo parlour ruins.
Words hidden in the undergrowth for the thrill of it.
Moth, awning, spry, fisting, bedash, badass.

As Needles Rotate My Eyes, Another Movie Trailer

He's back!

He's a cop.

She isn't. A. Cop.

He's a guy.

She isn't. A. Guy.

He's got a wife and kids.

She hasn't got. A. Wife. And. Kids.

He's on the right side of the law.

She isn't. On. The. Right. Side. Of. The.Law.
He's a vegan..

She isn't. A. Vegan.

He's a sagittarian.

She's not. A. Sagittarian. 

But. They've. Both. Got. A. Secret. They. Share.

A. Secret. That. If. Revealed. Would. Crash. Both. Their. Worlds.

Their. Whole. Worlds. 

Because

A. Secret. Revealed. Is. A Secret. Unconcealed.

Jessica Fawn-Comely... Antonio Badass.

In.

Cash. Cow. Cliche. Maverick. Cop. Movie. Twelve.

Not starring.

Gemima Romcom-Manniston.

In all theatres from next week.

The Latest Jimi Hendrix Lyric From A Parallel Earth, But First, The Weather

See that polygon-shaped cloud
seemingly floating upon a silvery sheep,
Next to the lilting stream-snowing sky tower,
Tumbling time a snow cascading spiral lily,
Dripping wispy cotton cumulus slip streams?

Pillows of steam tripping out the blue,
A three mile high ladder,
A flask of honey dew;
Jimi Hendrix, a parallel earth, playing the sitar,
And an alien astronomer there ponders the indigo cigar,
And wonders if out there -
in the parallel,
Jimi Hendrix plays the guitar?
Wow, she chuckles,
No way, that "out" would be too "far"!

Reality is as relative as your future-life grandma.
She rear-ends endlessly her four dimensional metaphorical reverie,
Drunk on sherry, probably,
dancing tipsy on a light beam.
"You know sonny,
Space gravity actually comes from the sun.."
The cosmic cop laughed, let her go
But confiscated her plasma guns:
Entering Orion, no entry for weaponised nuns.
Pharoahs' terms of love teem out their third eye
One and one is One:
The sun behind the sun:
Quantum Entanglement on stun.

So,
Here's a Jimi Hendix lyric from the parallel Earth: Moscow Sitar Baby

Moscow Sitar Baby
I sipped your rice through your nectar gravy
The slow boats to the Phobos obilisk
Drive this octopus crazy
Moscow Sitar Baby

Moon string metaphysics
Greek goddess inside the Antarctica pyramid
Black hole slips on a banana skin
You, my astral sun of Agartha
Let me be your ice rink
Moscow Sitar Baby..

The phobia obilisk
Is like a groovy stick of liquorices don't you think?
Moscow sitar baby
And I don't mean maybe..

[Track 3 from his latest Akashic record,
Cosmic Mermaids Calypso the Rosenbridge]