Don’t Mention Angels

Angels have
Untrustworthy
Faces.

Angels are children
Seeing us as
Ice cream.

My grandfather
Had a serene
Lived faced –
Stayed up through
Night
Thinking about God
And death –
What you’d call a
Real angel

The Redhead on the Bench

Poetry, I thought, is far removed
From this man I see every day,
Bearded redhead sitting on a bench
Staring into space, hunched over
Outside Gregg’s hurried munching
Of something given to him.

This man has it all (or nothing)
And he tells and retells the story of loss
Plainly, sincerely, unapologetically.
He does what he does and
Where and how does he sleep at night?
Is there a light nearby?

I’ve seen him share the bench with others,
Perhaps a fellow homeless friend
Smoking a cigarette angled away,
Their knees never touching and yet
Shoulders so relaxed
And free –

Yes the pains of living
Have soldered skin and sinew into blaring
Expressions of saintliness.
Such a man makes immortal
The battles in one’s mind
And a bloody reality that flashes by.

The Gatekeeper

I am the samurai
Beast inside your purity
Whispered the drunken
Gatekeeper
And you, you
Will eat yourselves
Like wild dogs.

The dead survive
Amongst the living
And you’d better
Listen and listen hard
At the head of
A carcass or
Head of an angel.

Bought a House

Bought another house
Closer to the river
Where I can see the peasants
Drown.

God bless them…

Bought another villa
Next to the other one
And right next door to the
President.

He’s a laugh and a
Half…

Looking to buy a palace
Beneath the heavens
Where the only way is
Down.

(Don’t be jealous,
Come and visit,
Bring gifts,
Credit cards, loans,
Real good deals.)

Will find the money
To renovate my homes,
My sweet sweet homes,
Terrible,
Yes,
But it’s so hard being poor,
It is it really is
Impossible to get by
Oh my poor poor children:
Devastating.
And
You’ll never know
The pain, the true true pain
Of living with only
Four homes, three cars and
Two vineyards, four dogs,
Three cats, two cockatoos
And a wife.

Everything, Something and Nothing

We live in separate rooms
Each to their own, fair enough,
Equals.

We take what we need and when we need it,
Whether it's a slice of pizza or a slice of affection
And we don't give back. Democracy.

We walk down the street like morons
Not knowing what to do and where to go
Or whether to escape like Gauguin.

And secretly or openly we discuss escape
Like we discussed the meal last night,
Quick and microwavable.

What will we do
There
When the only thing we can't escape
Is us?

Who's going to love us and accept us
When we've spent our time
Denying
Us?

And all the beauty, the landscapes, the sunsets,
They won't make much sense to us,
Just like modern art,
Vision, principles or dignity.

Welcome to London, friends.
We won't ever talk as I've forgotten how to
And we won't ever feel, no, not really,
As we've paid out our feelings daily,
Whored out our emotions for survival,
Given everything in return for something.

If I Could Burn

If I could burn I would.

If I could strike out
I would.

If I could tell you what I need
I probably
Would.

If the night allows
And daylight shudders
Under the touch
Of a magician.

The cat shivers
Fear
And beauty lies not in
Words, art, music,
Creativity,
But definite
Unpredictability,
Heavenly draught,
The terrifying sense of
Losing.

Tarkovsky and the Reason

The camera moves
Perhaps

Oh it moves
You know why

There is a reason
For this, for why
Tarkovsky smoking
His lungs dry

And the freedom –
Pretence

You are but
Directed

Sit there, absorb
The light

Because vision’s never
Dull, it’s limited

Not vibrant, psychotic,
Driven to results

Nobody could possibly
Comprehend

There is a reason
For this, for why
Tarkovsky smiling
At the sky

The camera comes
Back to see

A magnificent moment
Of triumph, of tears

Then goes like that
Can’t face it

No man should ever
Be blessed/forgiven long

For now you can appreciate
The moment, the story

The catechism,
The solitude

The ache,
The afterthought

Devotion,
The senses…

There is a reason
For this, for why
Tarkovsky and
The last goodbye