social media

 social media

mute

the filling in a sandwich of platforms

the image in imagination 

the invagination of a thought posted

in the chameleon of a reply my colours refracted

back the thought bounces unrecognisable 

i can’t be bothered and yet i do

reply by 

mute 

muttering 

remember that tough old man

the one with the gammy leg who used to swim

across the bay in the winter

well he’s dead i said

but they were dead or

mute 

it might be a sign

a toothpick spits out a poem

and the napkin page is soiled

but unsigned

is something else i posted 

mutatis mutandis

don’t you bloody dare 

resurrection redacted

 resurrection redacted

where redaction is changed into guns

rifling through meanings that were not meant

or not meant to last 

but simply to imply by those lies 

for explicitly was frowned upon 

misinterpretation yawned wide

truth to be swallowed whole

mastication a fornication

the chewing of the cud of bovine excrement 

not meant for the herd but for the polish

on the nose ring of the bull 

led by the lanyard of the slaughterer

the hoofs clattering loud on the 

high roads of the moors of fraternity

one after the other the lies were laid down

under the feet of the gadarene swine

at the top of the precipice of their time

for perspicacity was not for them

or to ask who knows best

for the answer would almost certainly

be redacted

steam genie

 steam genie

he went to the nursing home yesterday

today the upholstery cleaner arrived

painful memories erased 

the photographs are polished bright

her tears blearing the shine

once he scored in the world cup 

now he is playing extra time

we are all offside 

he takes the penalty

three score years and ten

and ten and ten

the pump roars in the steam genie

like the crowds used to roar 

arms raised he punches the sky

i want the toilet please 

the dance of the seven sunsets

 the dance of the seven sunsets

of course it’s not blood ~ period

not all blood

you know how it is

you clean the house for the next guest 

and your hands bleed raw on the pumice rag

on the coming down of the stairs after the slow climb 

of not finding the jewel at the end of the pearl necklace

tipping the cups and reading the coffee grounds

one more scratched day on a life’s sentence 

for soon all the cherries will have been picked

the tree will be bare and the floor dry and rustling

so many trees bleeding the red sap

so many swaying to the same wind

the axeman avoids the wet trees

to build a house a home needs seasoned wood 

not too wet or dry at his defoliate touch

shiver me timbers jim lad and a bottle of rum

she is a sea of seasons and no mistake

fed by the recalcitrant tributaries of the red river

two ferries crossing that same river passing in mid stream

meet you at the island at the end of the cove is the cry

up shit creek without a paddle he thinks

but then he remembers

jam and scones and cream in the secret garden

the tide turns on its ebb and builds again to the flow

it’s spotting again 

oh please don’t rain on my parade 

again

as the north atlantic boils over

as the north atlantic boils over

the electroencephalogram of a near death experience 

a febrile convulsion at the opisthotonos of disbelief

asystole is the line taken by the gainsayers 

resuscitation refused ~ cremation direct

please pay your invoice in advance 

thoughts on a poem by r s thomas

thoughts on a poem by r s thomas 

and some fell on stoney ground 

his words weeded away by the wind

some on shallow ground turned

in a grave attempt to reach the sun

while others ploughed on unaware

that the field’s nurture was a rare gift

on an early morning the weeds that flowered

were the harvest of his souls

kwangtung

 kwangtung

kwangtung me a house with a gate to a beach 

pebble me in driftwood along a bank of tall tales

of shells and of anchor chains and spume ridden passes

seven seas of boats drawn up hidden in grasses

kwangtung me a river slow to rise fishes

and cows standing in buttercup meadows

with flies taking the sunlight up down into places

where overhanging is a pleasant presence so deep

then lay me a moon a shimmering long

with reeds nodding to bats off hunting my sleep

and settle me down with a thought of a melody

to sing kwangtung home again home again please