Two poem: one old, one new

Days Gone By

A meeting at the pier;
she is beautiful and bitter
with footsteps, counting and counting. Too many.
Dead lovers guard the edge,
packed like sardines
solemn and protective. Harshly beaten by nature.
They are etched.
for our memory sake.

The writer scribes the city's heart,
a visionary sense of time and space,
defined by memory
and memory defined.
Souls that float like islands
to connect.
A sigh, a kiss, a moment.
To wait.

27/3/10


Identity, Identity

Iconic cool status;
that's my aim in life.
Screw the police; their masters too.
Nausea creeps in and I reek,
counter moving the consumer economy
-they advertise ideological normality-
I bought mine for a tenner.

Nice poem. Great response,
hardly politicized at all.
Provoke me and i'll ask you why
we don't like reading.
Tough nosed, hard edged
identity poets.
Let's construct
our own society- patriarch;
a snapshot of the contemporary.

That's different to your PM.
This is crucial... PM is just a period,
its just a time. Engaging.
Engage my deconstruction
of meta narratives.
You have to debate. Ask me.
There are arches, they create our beliefs.

We lost faith in God,
cultural enlightenment. Logic and reason.
Civilisation is under threat.
Truth is not in laws.

We will get rid of I:
-ego consciousness-
Realism is rooted in
reinforcement.
When we remove
omniscience
God is gone.
Fractured voices emerge
-polyphony-
We will navigate seamlessly.

7/2/06

Old Soul Song.

I possess an old soul

of sorts.

Captured in this form;

concrete and mortar. impotence.

of sorts.

This venture finds no remorse.

Heart and soul

a cavernous dwelling

grating and grating.

I read the masters;

all their divine wisdom in verse

in verse. I read.

of sorts.

Hughes- your Sylvia sweetens

me. Your iron tombs fail. So empty.

I search lyrical freedom:

that meaning in words.

I lust your lead soul.

Your mercy is sweetness to me.

of sorts.