I began writing poetry as a teenager and never stopped. I read poetry, my all-time favourites, are Marina Tsvetaeva from Russia and well, dozens of others.
she windes me up
to the point where
I am little pieces on the floor
Contemptuous and weak
Until I am a shitbag
Of dead leaves and snails
The rotting wood of an old fence
That cats jump over
Throttled dead like a pink balloon
Emptied of breath
A carcass for a vulture
The wet remains of a dream
She windes me up but I do the same to her i think, unintensionally.
The world woke up from death
And had to start again
And set the slaves of poverty to work
Forgetting they were men
It collected all its blue prints
For the third world war
And with an assassination or two
Stuck them on the barn-house door
the world woke up from death
where millions of soldiers died
and marched them back to emptiness
forgetting all them lies
it took a decade or two
and many wars in-between
to get to where we are now
where every-one wants to scream
the world woke up from death
to a broken victory
exhausted and in shell shock
nothing given for free
no rewards were given
no promises were made
that didn’t involve the labour
of people back from the grave
the world woke up from death
pale and with hunger pains
from the threat from nuclear weaponry
from the hail of acid rain
from the overheating skies above
to the over fished ocean and sea
with their heads placed on backwards
so the future wouldn’t be seen
when the world woke up from death
like a biblical prophecy
they took one step forward
and said what will be will be
and in each and every country
a new conflict began to appear
and soon every man, woman and child
began to live in fear
you can turn your head to the side again
you can live with whitewashed walls
but unless you reconsider your plans
the world is going to fall
I’m living in the aftershock
I’m surfing on a wave
And when the ocean stops to rest
I’ll be deposited in a grave
Dylan McGough was a giant
A scruffit, a hobo, a queer
Dylan McGough was a monster
Who all of Germanies beer
He was flabby, leafy and angry
With a rifle slung over his back
He made a new sun
Where there just wasn’t one
From fire, spit and the old anti-black
I have forged
A path to your door
Through the jungle of jive
I have forged a path
to your door, your door
what will I do, but to
lay siege to you
that’s the way it goes
Honesty
Brings you pain
So I’ll never
So I’ll never
So I’ll ever
Be honest again
Can you be honest to a liar?
You can try
If you can
But she’ll
Take your truth
And destroy you
She’ll think you’re
A weak man
I wrote her
many letters
Trying to make her see
The only way
To happiness
Is to love
With honesty
I tried to steal her love
With a red rose
Bouquet
She told me
I was honest
but men
don’t do – that -nowadays
Soon she said
-She’ll be happy
-And it made her happy
For a day
But I told her
One too many truthful things
And then she ran away
What is a good person?
They don’t wear badges
They don’t have certificates
They’re not necessarily religious
They don’t necessarily take on great responsibility
It’s not in their nature to advertise goodness
It’s not in their nature to campaign for goodness
They try to guard their hearts
They try to share
They quietly rise like air bubbles in water
They call round for you when no-one else will
I would not accept help
From anybody
Especially good people
When good people
Let you down
It can be more damaging
Good people were allowed
to hurt you
For goodness sake
A strong wind was blowing
The air was filled with human hair
It covered your face and your anorak
It blew along like a great flood of human hair
Men were dismayed
Women screamed
Everyone was losing their hair
They woke up as bald as babies
The wind blew across the ground
A hair storm filled the whole sky
Hair was trapped in the trees so they looked like heads
Hair clogged the drains and the air vents
What’s worse, if you ventured out
You immediately breathed in clumps of hair
Brown, black, white, blonde, long and short hair
And you began coughing and gasping for breath
Like the hair that’s trapped in plug holes
Like the hair on your pillows and duvets
Like the hair you vacuum up from your carpet
Like the hair on your cot collar
A great hair filled wind blows from east to west
Overnight it had taken all the females hair
All the perms and peroxides and hair dressed hair
It was blowing it away, taking it away
Everything was grounded, aeroplanes, peregrine falcons, bats
No one went to work
This wind blew for several days and went where no one knows
People stayed indoors and locked their windows tight shut
It was the strangest, most surrealist thing that ever happened
No one has been able to understand it
A whole generations hair blew away in a great storm
Blotting out the sun, the moon and the stars
Oxford street
World class shopping centre
You go from
Corner shop
Outdoor market
Supermarket
Mall
Hypermarket
Shopping centre
Oxford street
The question is why? Swarms of people go there. Half a million strong. It draws more people to it then the Woodstock festival ever did. It’s a festival, a consumer festival.
Walk through the crowds. Half an hour or more to walk from one end to the other. There are more styles of negotiation from a single person who dodges around people to a couple who stick together, break apart, come back together. A family who stick like glue and who’s progress is very slow. I’m sure you can add more to this.
From the top of a bus, you see the swarm of people like the eddies of waves, the great oceanic currents of water passing by each other.
Why? Why do people come to a great shopping centre in their ant like millions to pound the street like herds of wildebeest. Is there more to it then just buying something. As you pass thru the crowds you are in contact with thousands of people all looking for something. You are in a great crowd of people all wanting something. You are among hordes of strangers flocking together like starlings. Birds flock together for display. Do people also flock together also for display. They interlock together skilfully negotiating their passage and their part in the human movement. But not quite fulfilling it, not quite reaching the performance they would, if they co-operated more.
But not to the fullest – you walk not exuberance, the sense of fun, the joy that you see in flocking birds, not in Oxford Street.
There are more people in the streets than in the shops
If all the people in the streets went onto the nearest shop, it would bulge at the seams.
There are some classy stores, but there are also fly-by-nights. People love both.
Where are the spiritual places? Don’t see any. Not a spiritual inclination in anyone.
Humanity is here in all its sin. Here is a template of the Broadway to destruction. Though let’s hope not. Let’s hope God forgives all these people here to buy and sell to join in the shopping mania, the flocking of kind. The flocking of kind to do what? Create displays? No, stuff themselves, yes. Insatiable desires of the human heart are here depicted
There’s no Mexican wave, no dancing in the streets; no attempt to find the elusive human display like starlings. No display of joy for the life we have, no godliness.
Yes, but maybe you can find that pair of jeans you’ve been after, maybe you’ll get that pair of shoes you saw someone wearing. Or maybe buy a great new spangly T-shirt.
I love Oxford street, the experience of being there, it’s fun I suppose, but I do wonder.
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