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..

The Balance..

between individual liberty and collective security..

That's The Balance.

Look right look left look right again.

The Balance between individual liberty and collective security.
The security individual between collective liberty and balance.
The individual between balance security and the individual.
The and the individual
Thee and The Balance
Security of the liberty individual
Thee and Balance The between security.

Oh when I hear invocations of 
THe Balnce I flichn.

You Tube Debates

You Tube debates:
It's like watching blancmange wrestle toothpaste.
Welcome to humanity's slug-face.
Heavyweight philosophers pow-wow in the super-dimmest reaches of hyperspace.
So tag-team ringside as blancmange wrestles toothpaste.

You Tube debates:
Blancmange has issues with toothpaste.
Decide - whose side are you on:
The ones who scream cunt,
Or the scholars of the riposte ad hominum.

You Tube debates:
Read the fondue-brained-flamers sumo in the Argument Air-Guitar Corps. Superstore,
A fistful of looking-glass makes through the floor.
War is what they are fighting for.

Apparently,
Toothpaste rejects everything blancmange represents;
Subatomic nanomusings flex, gob and vent.
Goblets of giblet lobbed by hobgoblin boffins,
Doctrines of idiots fling apropos-nothings,
Empathy duct-taped, jealous ferrets stab dolphins,
Starfish are circled by screeching cyber sea starlings.

You Tube debates:
Air bags deconstruct car crashes,
The foaming worms won't eat crow,
Jihadist penguins are torpedoing the ozone layer no?

You Tube debates:
Fang mouths drip-ventilate the crayon-commmandos with invisible-forked-face;
The shafting one-eyed lambs wander the hills of their skewed Jerusalem,
Like blancmange missiles in the wind,
Like some song...

You Tube debates:
Bucking razorblade tongues suckle on their owned bon-mot demagogue's beef - 
Rampant thumbs up for the mutual hand shandies;
As their saliva in clover gushes over poisoned slipstreams..

You Tube debates:
Toothpaste or blancmange,
Whose side are you on:
The thumbs ups or the cunts or the ad hominums?

So sign your squirted jazz pro forma,
Declare whose side you are on.

Haiku

Is poetry
the music without its words
outside its silence?

Office Goddess

She wafts chocolate truffle candyfloss scented skin,
Her fathomless eyes shimmer limpid pools I dreamily drown in.
Her complexion: olive cherry asses milk satin silken porcelain.
She's stratospeheric, serrates the class of Dietrich,
She sashays mesmeric,
She's with a bastard called Derek.

She's the hallowed office goddess mermaid angel siren vamp,
Her hair shivers waterfalling rivers,
Celestial beings bow, hold her lamp.
Her swishing swaying graces and amazes
the trolls, Clarkson's, loup-garous and gargoyles of the office floor,
Grown men awe-struck blinded weep,
Stick needles in their eyes, yet want more.
That's deep.
The rainbow is her staircase,
She rides the unicorn on the subway,
Golden fleece wash over her umbrella,
She's with a bastard called Derek.

Derek is in HR.
Two bling screens flash on his not-hotdesk.
Derek does my annual appraisal,
That's the Derek I hate the best.
So, moving forward, where do you see yourself a year from now?
What skills do you need upgrading?
What added value are you..blah blah and blah..
I stare into distant space,
Where she floats swirling above my fishtanked face.
My brain is an impoding toupee,
My brain is an imploding toupee..

This Eden of tumbleweed plastic plant patsies,
Dry-blown biscuit phlegm and other tea point nasties:
Stinking microwaved day-glo pasties,
Herbal tea used condoms,
Bubonic plague used hankies.

Phosphorescent Guantanamo curdling strip lights,
Oven-ready office-gossip gobshites.
Air conditioning redelegating flu,
There's another weeping corpse-to-be suicidal inside this loo:
The grim reaper's temping here, playing peak-a-boo,
Sounds good to me,
Let's join them too.

Another annual appraisal,
Another horse glue-sniffing this fetid bolted-in stable;
Another century in a day of years,
Three million unemployed: wish you were here?
Who left the photocopier jammed?
Hands up if it was one of us damned.
Who hasn't put money in the snack tin?
Who splattered their soul in the wrong recycling bin?
For this dog the office Christmas party isn't for Christmas, it's for life,
Derek has the office goddess,
And I'm left clutching this plastic knife.

Old MacDonald 2012

Old MacDonald had a mad cow,
Woof woof meeow.

And on that farm he had a mad cat,

Mooo.

_______________________________________________

And outside his farm there was a mad badger,
I'm not mad, I'm just a bit pissed-off actually - big difference.

And standing by that pissed-off badger there was a mad Bill Oddie,
Badgers aren't mad, badgers aren't mad.

And by that pissed-off badger and a mad Bill Oddie there was a baboon,
Kill all badgers I say.

And then there was a punch-up between a Bill Oddie, a badger, and a baboon.
Woof woof meeow moo.

The Shard

Broken flashing lightening glances,
Titanium slivers trill The Shard,
A whirl of pearling rivulets stone the sterling pyramid.

That razor blade summit to slash and bleed the gods;
Pulsing megawatt sunsets Midas,
Them.

Glass spits starlight austral avalanches the ebonising Thames.

This Is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose

This is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose,
And we fit the purpose.
We sing The National Anthem Fit For Purpose.
We fit purpose singing The National Anthem Fit For Purpose.

Singing The National Anthem Fit For Purpose is purpose:
Purpose striving with purpose.

This is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose,
With added value.

We are the workforce that strive to add the value.
We value the value of adding the added value.
No is not in our dictionary.
No it isn't.
Not is not in our dictionary.
No it is not.

This national anthem of our fit for purpose country, [insert country],
Is the national anthem for the fit for purpose country, [insert same country].

We live here in this glorious land of reasonably predictable climate,
Occasional floods,
Mild nuisance droughts,
And it seems, slightly more unusual weather patterns.

• (verse probably most applicable for UK anthem practitioners only)

We tolerate our children and our elderly (not very fit for purpose);
They're inappropriate.
Must we live with that?
We love our fit-for-pet-purpose animals;
We eat the unlovable uglier ones lovely.

•  (should your fellow countrymen prefer to love children and the elderly, not pets, feel free to modify this verse as appropriate; ditto, if your countrymen prefer consuming normal, cuter animals instead of the pointless uglier ones)

We religiously add value to our added value.
We have no atheist unbelievers in value-added value.
This national anthem with added value,
Is fit for the purpose of adding value.

We fit-for-purpose delightedly,
We hosepipe-ban in this promised land when only absolutely necessary.

• (for residents of hosepipe-ban-friendly countries, or countries aspiring to hosepipe-ban-friendly status)

This is The National Anthem Fit For Purpose,
With added value value value.

The ploughman,
And the blacksmith,
The mason,
And the carpenter,
Toil with their hands:
Good and honest men with honest plans,
No longer fit for purpose.

We are the national anthem.
We are fit for purpose.
We blue-sky correctives to add to the value-added purpose purpose.

Impossible is not in our dictionary.
Cannot is not in our dictionary.
Nothing negative is not in our dictionary.
Not for nothing is nothing not in our dictionary,
No, not nothing,
Not nothing now,
Not nothing never, not never.

Big Society Solutions For A Sustainable And Responsible Europe

[wasted space]
From QE4 all poems shall be cut sensitively and responsibly.
All egregious poem-waste must be emphatically reduced by profound percent.

Please note Big Society(B.S) must set the intention to eliminate
all the underutilised wasted spaces between words,
Including the profligate misusage of entire lines of ostentatious emptiness between verses.
And honestly, when was that ever a good idea?
For example, see this space?

Shameful.
One verse - one thought: one poem.
All poetry from now on shall be actioned thus:
One verse - one thought: one poem.

The elimination of between-word vacuum:
In poets' bling, space between words,
Should help reduce our in-dwelling toxic national debt viably;
Fewer words and fewer spaces between words means debt reduction.

Eventually all "the words"(t.w) must go:
Words are extraneaous imposters, getting in the way of delivering poetry efficiently.
(Please don't swallow their propaganda).
One would hope a day will come when the good poem will consist only of its title,
Blended by licensed Immutable-Sound Procurers,
Delivering the tender sound of thought, the one thought pure, thus:
No verse - one thought - one sound: poem.

And the poetry of one day will become itself so efficient,
Its raison d'etre will surely be annihilation of itself,
And who would argue with the ineffable poetry of that?
No thought - no poem - no sound: 
Poem.
Done.
Beautiful.

Blowing away the cobwebs of text;
The hyperbole of the hypertext of poetry elevated to no text:
The purest hypertext.

Perhaps, perhaps,
If only ancient Greek poets had imagineered such prudent economies,
But their poems became so big they simply weren't allowed to fail.

So,
Please write me a Japanese poem on these bagpipes.

..mmnnu..nhhnumm..hh

Yeah, that'll do..

By The Gaze Of My Goldfish A Ballet Dancer In A Spaceship Pirouettes Bubbling Gravity

I've written a,
Poem.
This one.

I'm not sure,
If it's,
Oh, you know - any good?
Do you think it's..

??.., 

Don't worry. I know, I know;
It's all so..so..

..when I've recited my poem to my pet goldfish..
Yes you heard right, my pet goldfish,
He nods his head for three human seconds whole,
Then he swims around inside his little glass universe,
Musing and acontemplative.

Acontemplative -
What a word!

Round and round he goes,
Five or six times he goes.
Then,
Like he's been bolt-blue-struck by lightning,
He mermaids; vaulting, water-winging:
A ballet dancer in a spaceship pirouettes bubbling gravity..

His gaze just floors me..
Water floods his eyes.
Oh those water-flooding eyes..

He is the goldfish with water in his eyes.

So we flow, we flood, we glow.
I willingly recite this poem again for my devoted goldfish,
Easily generating the same emotional feeling so it doesn't come off as rote.
(I'm no hack stand-up poet gruelling in some lucrative, 
but ultimately soul-destroying poetry arena tour.
I hope and pray that will never happen to me,
And if I'm not careful, it could,
I know it could.)

The goldfish and I reiki duplex-hours hourglass.
He swims,
He stops,
I recite this poem,
He gazes up at me for three human-seconds whole,
Then swims around his little glass universe musing, acontemplative..

Oh and how his little puppy-like gaze floors me.
I feel privilileged to be floored thus by the gaze of my goldfish.
(Please imagine for one moment,
A poetry-loving, puppy-eyed goldfish,
Living inside a goldfish-bowl-universe gazing through a tear.
I know you can do it,
Close your eyes and imagine..
..with water in his eyes..ayearning..)
Ayearning..

Ayearning -
What a word!
With real water flooding in his eyes..

We become this for hours and hours..
It's so lovely..

So both of us end up with water in our eyes,
Like we're overwhelming ourselves,
But in a good way -
Not like Tony Blair.

I'm a man.
I cannot display my emotions to a woman,
Quite as freely as I can to my beloved goldfish.
And I'm not sure if that's a good thing,
Or a bad thing,
For my goldfish.

For my goldfish,
If I was a traditional haiku poet,
Here I would observe,
That my goldfish has the scent of cherry blossoms,
But I'm not,
So I can't..

Don't they say that goldfish can't understand poetry?
Well they would, wouldn't they?
Goldfish being such a modest bird..