I live in the belly of the bully, And that bully is fat and bloated
after eating too much of everyone else’s food without permission.  Although he had more than enough to eat and he wasn’t really hungry, he left his island home; and sailed the seven seas to fill his sacks, and bring things back.  He pretended to pay, elbowing his way into, through and around their worlds, and because they did not speak English they did not understand his slippery words (and he didn’t learn theirs).  With sleight if hand and cannon he subdued then sold their souls to some obscenely wealthy aristocrats back in his island home.

He pushed them into the fields to farm and when they could not lift their arms from starvation he said it was nature’s predestination, so he did not shed  a tear and he did not interfere.  The natural law was all he saw.  That man was very  fat and and he was very flawed.

Sean Hunt  June 12th

We have our Rising Moon
That brings light
In the darkness of night

And the rays of our Sun
Will make our sky
Clear and dry

We have the Shade
Of a leafy tree
How lucky can we be?

And our Medicine
That works so well
Let’s now ring all our bells

And our Bridge that crosses
The Galaxies
To where there’s nought to see

Sean Hunt     June 12 2016

Where is this WORD
Is it the W
No
Is it the O
No
Is it the R
No
Is it the D
No
These are parts of the
WORD
And not the
WORD
Maybe the collection
Of the parts is the
WORD
A collection of Things
That are not a Thing
Cannot be
A Thing
A collection of foxes
Cannot be a sheep
We will have to look
A little deeper
The WORD
Exists
As mere
Imputation
Or
Hallucination
As mere
Appearance
To mind
There is no WORD
To find

It’s taken years to learn to rhyme, but now it’s time to break the chains, and I wonder ‘will my writing ever be the same?’.  With trepidation I will try to take the first step.  I lack the knowledge to predict success and wonder if this will be a mess.  I note that I am still not free from this seemingly ingrained habit of mine (I speak of rhyme).

Am I an addict, I ask my self?  Is my style of writing out of control?  Am I hooked like a ****** to the seduction of what seem to me to be siren-like sounds?  This is new!  I never knew that verse was worse than ****** or ******* ***, which I have been habituated to at times.  I never knew of the sultriness, the sensuality of poetry until, through imagining it’s end, I begin to sweat and shake, a little.

It is like a fix, and it is cheap.  No need to run around the streets to try to score.  If I stop and think, pen in hand, I can get some more.  

I fear I am still stuck in rhyme, though I have not checked yet.  Do I know what prose poetry is?   I am sure that Google does.  It may be time to stop and turn the tower on.

Sean Hunt  June 8 2016

I think I am an Irish man
As mum and dad both come from there
But only mum knew with certainty
All the blood that flows in me

I could be Greek or Israeli
Or I could be a ****** Brit
He could have come from over the sea
I may not be proud of it

I don’t dance well, and I’m not mulato
So African blood doesn't flow
I’ve never pinched my pennies
So Scotch blood there’s not any

But I had such a ****** big swallow
I drank so much whiskey and wine
I think I must admit it that it’s all
Irish blood in these veins of mine

Sean Hunt   June 8 2016

.

How do we mend wavering pedestals...
When the ground beneath is parched dry.
Stemming off loose foundations that time had weathered wry.

How do we mend broken gazes...
When watchful eyes which were meant to see,
are blinded by the onslaught of half-truths and fallacy.

How do we mend burnt bridges...
When we never look back to trace heavy missteps.
We fail to admit to consciously springing obvious traps.

How do I mend ailing hearts...
When familiar corridors seem warped to a bend.
When my own is struggling and perpetually on the mend.

Referendum Rap

Left right Left right Wrong Right Wrong Right
Far right Outta sight Dark Light Dark Light
Left right Left right

Do I leave, Do I stay Do I play or run away
Which way today
Far right Outta sight Do I stay, do I fight

Who’s my brother, who’s my mother
Who’s my wife, and who’s my lover

It’s me, or them, It’s now, or then
May be community, Or a  lion’s den

Who’s my brother, who’s my mother
Who’s my wife, and who’s my lover

Do I tango do I talk, Do I make or break a wall
If I fly will I fall

Left right Left right Wrong Right Wrong Right
Far right Outta sight Dark Light Dark Light
Left right Left right

Who’s my brother, who’s my mother
Who’s my wife, and who’s my lover

Now we come to the crux of it
Be a Bodhisattva Brit
Only self, cherishin’ spin
Explains the state we’re in
Our imperialistic past
Built the wealth of our state
Now we’d better give some back
Before it’s way too late

Sean Hunt  June 7 2016