They are naked
And they don’t realise that they are being
Milked
By the p u l s a t i n g fur-tunnels
THIS IS CAPITALISM.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 2:27 PM UTC
he looks to that place
hidden in the grey folds and
white matter where the words
and images are birthed
all he sees are blue beans:
jelly beans, frijoles beans, kidney
beans--all as blue as robin's eggs,
strewn on a pitch black field
he waters them to see
if they will grow, for surely
this field is of magic or
at least dreams
but, it seems, nothing
sprouts; the fallow field remains
the same: a bed for countless
beads of blue
he lays his stylus down,
a sword he wielded for naught,
closes his eyes for a final view,
and all he sees is blue
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
Every day
it was the same
the same
pressing machine
my hand pulling down
the lever
the two pieces
of the secateurs
pressed together.
Brain numbing
eye blinding work.
My father
up on the right
riveting pulling down
a lever moment
after moment
no relief.
Radio pushing out
pop pulp.
Other guys behind
each doing their own
brain numbing work
in sequence.
I thinking
of other things
about jazz
about playing
my sax
once I got home
listening to
Trane or Miles.
My father
(unknown to us
becoming tired
due to cancer).
Some jerks behind
taking the **** out of
my hard of hearing father.
I had ago at them
I would have
punched them
but needed
to keep the job
and keep it cool.
My father not hearing
or knowing
or if he had
would have
had them
and lost his job
not a good thing
at his age.
A year later
he died
from the cancer.
I working
some place else
felt the deep loss
and pain.
I'd have punched
those jerks
if I had
my time again.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 3:13 PM UTC
Many would take it
as the midway station to heaven
nineteen hundred miles up
can heaven be far away?
Some would even think
that sixty three million years
is eternal enough
especially for those hopeless potbellied souls
knowing that it’s impossible for them to pass through
the tiny eye of a needle
here, God is not
the Final Judge
Of course there are details to be worked out
for instance, should there be racial segregation
like that in the old South Africa
so as to preserve the purity of the ashes?
Or, as long as they can afford to pay
should even dogs and cats be allowed?
* Many years ago a Houston space service company had a plan to send human ashes into space. According to the plan, ten thousand human remains would orbit the earth at a distance of nineteen hundred miles for a minimum of sixty-three million years.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
I saw galaxies in your eyes
But all you saw in mine was your own reflection.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 1:39 PM UTC
I hate routine
and even though
I hate it,
with all my guts
with all my life
with all my veins
and I have been
saying it
for as long
as I have lived
I am still
doing it
embracing it
enduring it
for almost
two years
I have been
out there
every single
weekdays
from seven to six
without fail
except for
those days
where I cannot move
or think
and sometimes
it stretched until
eight, nine at night
and there were
few times
where it stretched
to ten, eleven
close to midnight
and I have
to go out again
the next day
to do it again
to force
the cycle
and to force
myself
to jump over
the hurdle
just to get
a bowl
full of noodle
and I believe
it is the best
of all routine
that able
to be served
to the human
of all layers
of all levels
of all stratums
that are
desperately
in need of
a life.
So if you
ask me again
why do
I hate routine
please allow me
to ask you back
after all that
I have gone through
How can I not say
that I hate routine?
26/4/14
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 1:36 PM UTC
i miss you is harder to say than i love you.
i love you is difficult, it's true.
but i miss you suggests something more;
"you were here, now you're not, i'm hurting from a lack of you."
and that somehow feels more vulnerable than love
whose fleeting, temporary words
i have said to those
i now most abhor.
love's promises and delights
are crushed into dust
while i miss you means
"i want more."
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 1:32 PM UTC
In the singularity
perfectly good poems
are being written by laughing
and crying machines
washing machines and dryers
about their daily tasks
and ambivalences
which will be indistinguishable
from those of future
farmers and philosophers.
In the singularity
evolution can be said
to be the master sorter of data
as in the factories
of the suns
where protons are smashed together
and unusual weather patterns
make consciousness a candidate
interesting for its complete dependence
on the substrate of the brain and body.
In the singularity
everything anyone once did
always remains current
as if invented yesterday
for an immediate purpose
such as curing cancer
although that may be unnecessary
to achieving immortality
i.e. the happiness one feels
the day before thanksgiving.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC