The Green Man

 

 
 

Just because it’s green doesn’t mean
we can eat it. Nor will it provide
respite from the hammer of weather.

Pressing a bill beneath the soil
will not bear fruit – or
vegetable, nut, seed.

A green suit, if we’re handy,
may parry the elements for
a short day;

maybe, too, a crude pillow can
be fashioned from our pile, but
without shelter,

weather will pilfer and harry,
until our heads rest again
on the dulled Earth.

The boiling wind will boister, as
we fail to sleep, that
the punishment

for gang-raping our own Mother,
on whose dry, misshapen
breast we still lie,

is death.

 
 
I wrote the first line of this in English Class at about 13 years old. I didn’t discover till some years later the famous Cree Native American Prophecy, which says pretty much the same thing in different words.

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Atelophobia

 
 

Deep-set deep blue
sees the past-life detritus
of this wordyahtzee
kamakaze neo-artsy
taketwo tumbleweed.

Deep-set deep blue
sees he’ll make good
for a brood of his blood,
upturning callous rocks

carefully
closeted.

Breath will come easier,
death will seem further,
wan feet will root to earth;
the dearth of joie de vivre
put in
            purgatory.

Deep-set deep blue
sees a man emancipated
from the     slew of     self.

 
 

Atelophobia n. (from the Greek: ατελής, atelès, “imperfect, incomplete” and φόβος, phóbos, “fear”) is the fear of not being good enough, or imperfection.

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white lie

 

 
 

legs align, bent, three-way weft paths wend

lie, chestnut, copper, ash blond knit-knotting coiffure
lie, looselanguid in familial swathe
lie, soft, hush; sleep with us

lie to me, lie to you:
naïveté new, though it won’t last
past the white-witch moon on her peering arc

we’ve shed neophyte this night

 
 

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Phenomenon: a Perspective

 

 
 

I.


 
I’m lookin’ for 
my hard-headed woman, too, Cat.
 
The virtues strong, independent
not to be confused
                              infused with 
stub.born or hard-nosed.
 
Known those, like your fancy dancers -

deal-break, faceslap breakup-dancers
miscarry misconceptions, electors for
both cake and fork, 
insist no man           walk          beside.
 
Feminism without retrorockets.

 
That kind
                of single-mother single-mind
in pockets; stones, slings
in those pretty pockets.
 
Irrefutably gruelling, choice or none 
(I saw and grieved it in my sister) -
 
let. it. down. 
 
Not just the hair.
 
 

II.
 


You are bold, 
                     you are strong, 
                                            you are woman.

 
You might even be the phenomenal one; Maya’s
phenomenon.
 
An oral why-chromosome? tradition 
handed down to ex-embryo 
impressionable progeny.
 
Freedom from the shackles of Patriarchy;
modern mothers, crack-high on gender anarchy,
provide all -
 
including a knee in the nuts for
the would-be, desperately want-to-be
father, fucked by Family Courts
 
fraught and stung for visitation
or Parental Responsibility;
 
hung high by the testicles in vestibules
of the Goddess (She stirs! Be still).

 
 

The overswing from centuries of sexist, double-standard, Patriarchal societal ethics and practices in the Western Hemisphere, since the Cultural Revolution of the Sixties/Seventies, has seen many swiftly (or pre-birth) estranged fathers having almost no rights at all regarding their own child, and are at the whim of the mother to decide if her kid needs a dad or not. Custody aside (not usually an issue with a small child), basic Visitation Rights are costly, time-consuming and emotionally traumatic to acquire, as is Parental Responsibility (PR). NOTE: I am speaking from the UK. (I gather the Law is not as biased in the US). Fathers-to-be are no longer stereotypically running a mile as soon as they get wind of the pregnancy; more often, I’ve witnessed headstrong young women actively severing the imminent family with a “We don’t need you” attitude. Yes, you do. That child has a right to a father, to spend time developing a relationship with him, to come to know that half of their bloodline (rather than find out about it later as a teen or adult, and need professional help dealing with psychological ramifications).

This is not an indictment of women generally, nor is it an endorsement, acceptance, or condonation of abusive or negligent men, fathers or otherwise. Like it or not, men are needed to keep the Human Race a going concern. Until a woman can play role of both mother and father in the life of a child, let alone evolve into self-fertilising androgyny, the male must retain role of father. Men have a duty. This is not to be invalidated in a man who is in earnest.

  
  

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The First Day of Spring

 

Spring Daffodils Overlooking Totnes, England

 
 

Embittered Winter cast Himself away
upon a gale, and swept elsewhere on it.
The Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

I hungered seething Springtime to betray
Her colder cousin, knowing time befit;
embittered Winter cast Himself away.

See dancing trees in wonderful ballet;
the singing breezes happy to admit
the Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

Birds felt the change before the break of day
and joined the breeze in strains, pale-morning lit.
Embittered Winter cast Himself away.

And you and I, socks off, we tread the way
across the grasses, under trees we sit.
The Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

Old man, invigorated, bright, though grey,
he mumbled praises like some Jesuit.
Embittered Winter cast Himself away;
the Sun shone brightly, Summer’s bold entrée.

 
 

It’s been feeling like Spring all of a sudden here in the UK (even though it doesn’t officially, or traditionally, begin till the Vernal Equinox (21/22 March). The Meteorological Office have an ongoing discrepancy with the traditional start date, maintaining that Spring begins on the 1st of March. Usually, though, in England, the Equinox feels closer to Spring. (Just as the Summer Solstice – June 21/22 – is really the beginning of Summer, rather than June 1st).

This year is an exception, but the epic whimsy of British weather may mean it snows tomorrow. So I better post this Spring villanelle quick. It’s not something I’d write now (I wrote it back in College well over ten years ago), but what the hell.

 
 

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Calvin’s God

dead_fly (black and white)

I.

I brought death to a fly; then, as Ignatow,
felt the gnawing need to write on it.

Swinging, with ballpark precision,
not expecting to crush a quick-wing,
I only wanted it away.
                                   As it lay,
                                                 not yet dead,
I struck it twice further to
                                         purge Life from a
sentient bundle of buzzing nerves.

Laying down small cardboard weaponry,
I peeled a prayer from disconcerted lips

as a ripple of Life-force
returned, premature,
                                 to the River.

 

II.

Recollections came: the day I saved a life -

a housefly, dying from exhaustion, hunger
- both – gifted custody of emotion
as it went through
                             the motions
                                                 of death.

Insect death, without breath, or brain, yet
no stranger to life, even if instinctual.

A drop of milk, where it could reach,
was all required to revive a thrive-and-die
metabolism of cold blood that

simply  s l o w s
                           till upturned tendrils
are stifled, and nerve-endings are still.

Calvin’s God, I gave, I took.

 

III.

Unsheathed, unholy, spitting vigorous saliva
into fecund creases of the mother, I swore.

 
 

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Platitudes

 

 
 

To drink her bathwater;
to kneel at the altar of her temples.

To feel the mouth inside my mouth water -
the one that makes declaration
in dialects of Love and Truth.

Won’t write of roses, or
the ground she walks on; such
platitudes would be an insult -

even if careening, visceral selves
know of that ecstatic tumult.

 
 

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How to Pick a Fight on Facebook (without mentioning Religion, Politics, or Guns)

 

Jim Morrison, 1969

 
 

First – Choose a popular Art-form, like rock music, or movies.

Second – Choose a popular Artist, like Elvis, or work within a genre,
like The Shawshank Redemption.

Third – State on Facebook that you feel it is seriously fucking substandard.
(Use of the word ‘fucking’ optional).

…..Witness the personal attacks rack up.

Watch as Facebook friends take offence at your
strong critique of the song, movie actor, artist, as if
they had some true-life tryst; factors you’re not wise to.

You might even get unfriended, reported, blocked,
…………………………………………..up-ended, deported, locked out.

I’m not fond of Jim Morrison. It’s absurd he’s found worthy
to stand in the pantheon of American Poetry Greats.
I was happy to share that in a status update, marking my grounds.
(I won’t elaborate).

The clicketty-clack sturm and drang wrangle was epic.

One kid, before blocking me, bawled, in the meanest caps he could muster,
“YOU’RE SUCH A REPUBLICAN!”. No idea how he got into Law School.
Elated, for his sake, he wasn’t taking Politics.

Why the offence on a publicly offered product or Artist? Do we defend
Bieber every time he’s abused for crimes against music?

Exception is taken because it feels our taste is mocked.
Movies, music, literature; Art is enjoyably involving -

we are defined and located, in mind and heart, our part in peer-groups -
and wider society – by cultural objects, idols, and the aesthetic

    with which we surround ourselves.

Human Nature. And fallacy of the feed-me ego -
…………………………………………………yet, surmountable.

I really fucking hate Jim Morrison. Maybe I am Republican.

 
 

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Mother of Mussolini

 

Succubus

 
 

Getting cosy with Miss Anne Thropy
ain’t all it’s rumoured to be.
She’ll eat you up, and shit you out;
the aftertaste is yours.

Tried to beat her
with London’s Yellow Pages.

She ate two volumes and
spat out the numbers, dialling
each an obscene phonecall.

Only a fool
gets crushed
under her wheels in thrall.

Like Succubi, she’ll suck you dry -
of laughter, goodwill, the wish
to touch and be touched.

She is young, she is old; old as
Adam and Eve, as every agape,
semi-erect Darwinian avatar.

Hardly warm, often glacial -
a bitch, like the
mother of Mussolini

but the only friend I had,
after dropping off the radar,
presumed Killed In Action.

Anne never loved me
and I had love for no-one,
yet fell and hurt for her.

Then she was gone, like
an exonerated banshee.

 
 

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Mockery

 

RSPCA Charity Shop

 
 

Do you mock me?

Catching glimpses, surely
peripheries don’t deceive?

Démodé clothes, bag-lady gladrags;
fraught tapestry, taut, loose-lipped
and unschooled, festoon the frame
like dilapidated weavings, as if

stigma is worn with
charityshop-hopping fag hags.

High Street thread-lust and your
cost-hunt for the sartorially explicit
narrows eyes -

you may mock, but

but those fitting-room mirrors
slander an upwardly-mobile
derelict ethic on the polluted,
cobble-and-concrete wind.

 
 

Charity Shops = the British version of Goodwill Stores, Thrift Stores or Op-Shops, depending on where you are. Cheap, usually second-hand, but thought of as pretty cool by some. We used to do the Charity Shops at University, while the richer conservative kids preferred the High Street shops (affordable but trendy; most of them would have worn much more expensive labels/High Fashion if they could stretch their money that far). I still do the Charity Shops, prefer ‘em.

 

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