God is God and only three letters
not odd
God was meant as an oath,
a curse or something even worse.

God,
to have gravitas should have had
twenty seven letters in his name
something to get your teeth in
some name to make you believe in sin.

But it's rainbows over the underpass
put on the gas and turn up the light.

If I had a job as a gardener or
a shoe shine man
I could clean up the borders
and **** out the spam

God being God
and three letters
knows better than I
why I'm not.

Little peons slave and toil
To afford their bread and oil
Think themselves independent
Enriching landlords with their rent
‘Never mind’ their want to say
‘I’ll soon be on higher pay’
But rich or poor when clock does chime
They see how slight they have of time!
Still they plod on the machine
Ruled by bosses, sly and mean
Stuck in themselves they cannot see
‘Oppression don’t happen to me.
It hits brown folk in lands afar
I’ve a wife, a house, a dog and car!’
But halt ye peon, stood alone
How much of your self do you own?
Naught! The rich man rules your fate
Steals your labour for his estate
By the time you’re thirty, grim and worn
Your dreams are dead, hobbies all gone
Your soul is grey, your hope is lost
To feed a parasite your cost
All for that foolish arrogance
Pushing down those without a chance
You gave your life to corporate *****
Whilst mocking those on benefits?
Ha! How cruel this web of law
And the warped logic you never saw
For all rulers are ******, after wealth and fame
And you got played at their power game.

So pull your head out of your ****
Stand by your fellow, and your class!

silently moving along with
the movie


It's only Thursday I can cry if I want to,
the song sounds like this

and when I'm under
the water in the bath I can miss that
Thursday tickle that trickles down my spine

'That's another fine mess, said Ollie
golly, said Stanley

say Ollie, did you ever think talking like ****
was less manly?

No Stanley
I never did.


This is how Thursday flows in and flows out of me

Stanley and Oliver stood there to laugh at me
I can't for the life of me find any life in me
I think that I want to be me in a Friday.

Say sayonara
see ya later
adios amigo
and we know
you'll return.

it's always goodnight Vienna
and then a farewell,
waves and
a promise we hear through a
shell on the beach.

Clenching my teeth,
I cringe while you read my old poems.

Ahhhhh!
That's not me!
I swear!
I've changed!
I'm not so immature!

There would be nothing more satisfying
than crumbling that **** up
and showing you how great I am.

But those poems are the legs I stand on.
I can't cut them off, can I?

Those awful poems!
Sporn from longing and lust -
I called it "love" -
my cranky post-grad years,
living with my parents,
and working minimum wage jobs...
all I hide is there, for you to see;
most people don't look.

I want to erase it all!
I sometimes hope my old poems
are accidentally thrown away.
Then I wouldn't be at fault for
all those lost thoughts.

I don't want you to read them,
but I just can't rid myself of them!
Even now,
when those reflections seem far from the truth.
I hoard them. They are pasted on my mirror.

So I stand,
begrudgingly transparent.
Front to back, see through
and scared shitless you'll
discover I'm not perfect
in this personality economy;
I prepare my list of apologies:

Sorry I'm scarred
Sorry I'm chopped
Sorry I'm *******.

So please —
don't talk about my old poems.
Let's pretend you haven't read them.

Who was it said?
"who was it said"
and when was it said
do you know?

Questions have been raised
since the days when days
were counted in Moons,
monsoons ago.

You might know who I am,
a trier?
take a rain check
I'm a train wreck

I know who I am.

But who was L.B.J ?
and where was he when
the flags burned that day ?

Turning away because we
subconsciously do it
don't want to see it
or
hear it,
we fear it

a natural response
a human resource.

Another walkabout around the roundabout
to end up in the place I began

you might know who I am,

I am a universe in the mind of
each man
a star cluster
a storm chaser that races through
rain clouds

a train wreck of a man on a stretcher
stretching his neck to see
beyond the beyond.

The old man with no luggage
wears a pilling houndstooth jacket
and suede fedora with a
leather strap and horse-bit buckle.
Stark seams line his trousers.

He has:

Wirey gray hair, calloused wrists,
a popped blood vessel neath his thumbnail,
and deep crevices in his palms.
He folds his boarding pass into a kite,
as he looks into the sun
through the tiny cube of a window.

He sees:

The geometric shadows
cast in early afternoon.
And skyscrapers.
They cut through the sprawling
grid like an artery.

In the private hostel
and
a tiny bit of gospel
because we still have to
sing for our supper.

They still try to sell you
on things that they tell you
and we listen and
pretend we believe.

I saw Satan in the soup dish
and an angel in the cake,
fourteen knights and old King Arthur
who were
standing by the lake

I take communion with the lady
in the shower meant for men
and a mass for me at midnight
when the lady comes again.

We are eighteen carat diamonds
Methuselah wears us well
and we're in the private hostel
halfway home
half way to hell.