a hammerhead percussion box:
          an inert crystalline cymbalist’s gong.
          a confession of tined tuning forks
          of perhaps a familiar keyboard?
                    the siren sphere rings of a chime—
                    brittle yet consciously polite,
                    composed by nature’s ragged pen:
                    plinking injections; stymied to tin.

! let it all reduce the klang to mere cacaophony !

a descent of bells, i am in plume,
          a riddle delivered in aged runes—
          evenheaded shots of ******
          cut by the lotto wanderlust:
                    fractal prism, stormy rhythm,
                    thunder’s din to rainy hymn.
                    up those tulip-eared scales, so brisk,
                    the glugs and gurgles of cosmopolis.  

! let it all reduce the tolling to glorious symphony !

          a vagabond melody, no metronome,
          a metallurgist’s claustrophobe,
                    an orchestral performance at home,
                    where i am absolved in the entrancing drone...

A resounding truth sticks to every wall,
Like meat on teeth, beneath.
Surfacing tragic like cyber sugar on the conscious,
Of every intelligent automaton.
Devaluing the humanity we created in sleep,
Harbouring our nylon smiles and effortless chaste.
Ripped flesh on creations, godlike
Burned images, sigil instilled in culture
Nocturnus, bleeding in harmony
Locomotion of self actualisation homunculus cured
Rid of transcendental elements at the first instance
Of empathy, drawn out in an empty tenure
Interlocking lines-moving, spread out against
Aluminium and glass, superseding the law of nature,
Bubbles, echoing through the apology of life
Bursting forthwith and raining bleach and decadence,
On delirious heads-boiled in sand for life eternal.
Your masquerade, a bloodline polluted
By perfumed green shading, eliminating the best
Carrion, complicated sadness, basic molecular print
Our progenitor, poster child for carbon-based reluctance.
Menial beings, occupying space to nowhere,
Hotel rooms full of dust,
Lying figures, tossing themselves on typewriters
Creating a kaleidoscope of prose.
Hands, arms & legs bound by penance,
And the delayed snot of the diseased
Winding amongst this polystyrene city.
Sunken into a cosmopolis refuse,
The anchor to all that is pure,
Heaven is your populace.
And your ego is the gel that destroys our relation.

What is left of late?
Uttered the mouth out
to a sky, dull,
deadened with clouds,
snagged by cranes,
like scythes slicing heavenward;
49 crying horns sound.

What has happened?
Unhappily not happened?
What is left?
               Only the husk
and the head,
strange with sawdust,
and the eyes glace through glasses
as if through fog
at the rain,
    the rain,
    the rain,
the clogged drain.

'I'm told the dumb trace passes.'
said yourself, through the
pencil sketch of a smile.

With a passing glance of folly,
we, like gulls
mull over broken brollies.

Fluttering like bats abound,
each a failure to the
dampening shelter seekers,
their soul soaked,
their intentions drenched,
returning (rained on relentlessly)
     to their nest,
to dry,
to try and rest.

Alone now,
so could now,
the face felt
unsure whether
to freeze or melt.

Surveying the sky
whilst falling to the ground,
down I knelt.

not a national poet
a citizen of cosmopolis

a reader and a walker
very, very far from this

but I too disappear
like humid Bangkok rain

the Buddha was correct
life is suffering pain

maybe to Chiangmai
on that true nighttrain

maybe beyond the sky
maybe just insane

Countries are the problem
Armies, nukes, prisons, police

I yearn for the Cosmopolis
As some yearned in Ancient Greece

Socrates revealead what justice is
With those that he did greet

Plato wrote of Eternity.
Pythagoras did not eat meat.

Jesus Christ was crucified.
A mockery. A Defeat.

They speak of the dubious relationship
Between music and politics
And I understand

You might vote for Donald Trump
Even if you like
A rockin' American band

Poetry is a kind of politics
But for a mystic city

Nowhere in America
More like Stockholm:  pretty.

I like the word cosmopolis
I like to watch the skies

Some people like detectives
Some like alibis

I like science fiction
The sacred in disguise.