yne 8h

she have to die a thousand deaths,
for people to laugh a thousand smile.
she have to bleed a liter of blood,
for her name to be remembered.
so never underestimate poets and their poetry,
for the have to underwent direst of circumstances,
to be solely accepted.

In between the past that are being yesterdays 

and the future that carries the burden of hope,

I sewed the truth of present.

I knew earlier that this would happen.

The dreariness realised during the day.

The restlessness realised during the night. 

Unexplainable! You filled the cosmos.

Even if there are many colours,

for my fiery love, 

for my revolutionary vigour and

for the blood I scattered,

you gave red gulmohars.

And in the glimpse of that memory, I live.

For my uncharted wanderings, 

there is no beginning and end without you.

In the parade of failures; I, me, myself being the truth, 

I’m once again searching for the enigma that you are.

For Robin & Emilie Stammers  

They say the universe is full of smells  
In fact tests on astronaut's suits  
Have indicated this much was true  
It seems- they say- that there are faint  
Traces of metallic smells you see?  
Not the stink of leather and bourbon  
Which emanates from my friend Robin  
Or the sweaty funk that lingers  
Where my obese neighbour goes  
There are- to put it quite simply-  
None of the rich earthy smells  
That one associates with life or living  
In the cold realms of outer space  
There are just the smells  
One would find in a science lab  
In other words metals and the  
Faint perfume of vaporous gasses  
Seeping from stars and planets  
In perpetual extra-terrestrial fartings  
Out there- where there are  
Strange cosmic happenings that  
Would blow your mind-  
The universe they say is positively stinking  
Reeking to high heavens  
You could say...  
Though of course, we can really never know  
For sure  
And that is what bothers us-  
Humans, in general, that is-  
We don't know like being reminded  
Just how finite we are  
When we are surrounded  
By all that marvellous infinity

I wrote this poem after watching a program about conceptual art in which one artist had started a project after hearing that astronaut suits had traces of scent on them and they felt this had hinted at how space was full of smells.
I dedicated it to a guy who I like very much and who it is noted has the smell of bourbon and leather and his daughter Emilie who was a good friend from the early days of the internet and who was obsessed with space and was, in fact, one of those people who could be called and Unearthly Child.She is no longer with us, to our great loss. I dedicate this poem to them.

This poem will feature in the new collection of poems Little Paper Fishes which will be released early next year.
Porto 11h

A poet's not the one who shouts the loudest, no
Not the one with flowers in their hair, she who declares
Her wishes to those who cross their heart
And write about dying, listening to her
A poet's not one with a crystal ball, Tory Taurus,
Nor one who speaks to glass caverns, taking themselves in
Reflected light, a poet
Is not one who paints themselves green to be seen

Listen, and you're the poet,
Stunt light's tracing fluid in your growth room
And you're the poet
Grow to hate crowds and you're
Write in the silence of apathy and you're
Put your collapses into verses
And you're the poet
You gorgeous night petal, you
Misplaced word
Thank you.

Nothing like
a pen that won't write
to ruin
the whole fucking day.

I wrapped my coat
around your shoulders
and gave you a smack on the ass.
You liked that.
You laughed and we went walking
up Main Street, cars stopping
to stare at us (I mean you) as
if we (I mean you) were celebrities.
When we got back to the apartment
we cracked open a bottle of Cognac
and I smacked your ass again about
halfway through it.
You liked that one, too.
We laughed some more and you
told me a story about
when you were a girl, but
I wasn't listening on the count of
your perfect neckline, though
I nodded and laughed just the same.
Then came the rain and the thunder
turned you on - fast forward and
we were naked on the floor,
smoke pouring out of the ashtray
and I was happy. God damn,
was I happy.
We ended the night smoking weed
in the bathtub like we were celebrities
(I mean you).

I've pledged allegiance to a flag
that pledges none to me,
that would sooner see her stars go dim
than allow freedom to be free.

Here I can think
without hindrance or bother,
amid towering pines and
the cowering bramble and
the river that rifts the soil
into pleasant little hillocks,
made home for the wild
and the earthly and the pure.
Here I am not harried by the
howling song of man,
no motorcades of lunacy
can touch my private ear,
traded for the placid, honest
sounds of earth (a song
that can't be echoed).
Here I'm left to ponder
or not ponder, just the same,
the truth of my soul or
the meaning of my given name.
Here I have not lost myself,
though should I do just that,
if I follow the bends of the river,
the road that isn't crowded,
I'll be brought back to nothing
but peace.

Rain smacking the glass.
White light, automated doors.
The hospital blues.

Waiting room TV
showing Caribbean sands.
Forget where you are.

A black man and child,
lonely wife, poet, vegan.
Guess what happens next.

Elephant painting.
You can tell a child made it.
Elephant, it smiles.

The elevator
opens and I step inside.
The sick frown. I frown.

Once back in my car,
the rain stops and I put it
in drive and floor it.

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