"hurrahs" poems
The bees took their brethren back,
veterans of the poppy fields.
I supposed it had been a gang war:
rival hives congregated for the conducting of a quick mess.
The buzzing echo of last hurrahs went back and forth,
ripping through the war-marred air.
All the pomp in young yellow coats was bled out,
the limp black blood of limp bodies staining the survivors with black stripes.
Busy bees,
no pollen-love today,
just the broken hours of cleaning up a quick mess.
Bodies are collected,
damages inspected,
and small minds prepare for the resuming of a honeyed life tomorrow.
Yet, to the wail of queens,
crying in cricket language at mass wakes,
I think to myself:
How many flowers stand awaiting
the coming of lovers that will never come.
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
Your eyes like Kether, the beginning of all things
solemnly I swear to share my soul with your sight
sometimes the light looks so elegant in the white of your bright
ness, I weep in the wallowing waters of your world
the weight seems oh so Empty when you wash up on shore
I never bore in your presence, it is your mere essence
that I crave, in which it makes me behave in wild
wonders of wasted memories of yesterday, won't you
welcome me into the fantasies of your dreams?
Whenever there is darkness in my night I feel your
heart as my light to keep my days bright
your touch as sweet as the sound of silence that
Simon and Garfunkel slowly sing, sadness is never
my sword when you are around, my shield
never sorrow, I only wear the crown of your
cherished kiss. I'll never miss anything
more than the stone of your scent
I cannot recollect a time when all was simple
but in your hair is where I care to hide
when all my troubles seem too high to bare.
I will never scare those furies in the forests
of failure, but flourish in fables of your
fixed phantasms, your tragic caves and comedic
ark that seem to ring through rites of spring
You are my everything, my hope for a level
above gods and men, if only we could
live on vibrations of purity and aether
we'll travel through dimensions vast and humble
when some golden future welcomes the mumbles
of our soft sounding hellos and hurrahs.
Can I say? What more is there on earth than
emptiness where we can play and forget
what we used to be. This reality is no more
fantasy than the dreams we see each other
in, where we can swim and never drown,
where our gold rests not in crowns but in hearts
of blood beat waterfalls, flowing faster with
every fabric of our forgotten foundation.
The moment we met was tragedy because I could
never once again feel that happy.
Let's draw lines forever and never, oh never fall...
Our wings white with feathers of a new dawn dripping
with dew we could taste the elegance of a new life...
you need not be my wife, because all marriage leads
to strife, what we need are barriers, so everyday
we can break through and I can touch you
only to be pulled away and struggle to fight another
day and see your face, embrace the pain of
fading away, soft and slow, like a heartbeat that never existed...
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
for Kate and Nicola and Wayne and Paul and Cameron and Skye and Kylie and Nathan and Cameron and the weird guy next door.
Here’s to you, my crazy friends
You ******** misfits too cool for my school
But you liked me anyway, you let me
read you my book of poems
You played Bone Machine while I was tripping
We walked through the suburbs looking for fairies,
We slept with each other despite my huge crush on you
You liked me anyway.
You taught me to smoke ****
To stop hating on op shop clothes while
I wore Country Road and cashmere vests.
We watched the sun come up, smelling of sweat
and drugs and DJs’ last hurrahs and dark old
warehouses, kerosene fire batons and your menthol
cigarettes.
I gave you Siddhartha and Guildenstern and Rosencrantz,
though it wasn’t the first time.
I loved it all: the guitars, the punk chords, the dodgy old houses
in run down parts of West End,
the random houses, the secret nights smoking your
Champion Ruby in my old *** pipe because we’d
run out of **** and Henry Miller wouldn’t settle for just plain *****
Bohemian Cafés and curries,
girlfriends turned turncoat then lesbians,
your secret *** parties that I never found out about ‘till years later
your Mezz Mezzrow typewriter and bright candles of novel beginnings
that never saw the light of day. Her sweet little hips showing a little too
clearly with the the shining light from inside as it lit her silhouette on
your balcony. I miss you guys, with your madness your friendships and
deep inner hipness that wasn’t in me.
So it’s years later now, we’re old and I ain’t seen you in years.
Wayne showed up in a café one day with CDs of his latest, still cool
I was studying Mandarin, and I wanted to reconnect
He gave me his number but I didn’t call him, I can’t explain why.
You showed up one day, “weren’t you going to come and say hello?”
I was but I still don’t know how.
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Wimps, whiners and data miners.
All gathered here together.
Crooks, embezzlers and free ***** guzzlers
And hookers dressed in leather.
Lying, cheating and some **** beating
And even some ****** games.
Walls at borders and restraining orders
And finding others to blame.
Cheaters, beaters and lying pig-men
Trying their best to succeed
In the race for worst ******* of them all.
One more ripoff is all they need.
Blaming, shaming and gerrymandering
Doing their best to become
Millionaires, billionaires, zillionaires
Ruling absolutely over the dumb.
Mewling, puking and crying out loud
Losing stolen funds they invested.
Society defeafened from applause and hurrahs
When the lot of them are arrested.
Ripping, tearing their thousand dollar suits;
Begging their thousand year old God.
They’re the twenty first century Washington batch
Of Wynken, Blynken and Nod.
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 3:04 PM UTC
1.
There goes Hooker’s nose
Larger than life, breathed in
“Majestic, it sprang” from his face
“The marvel of time, the wonder of men”
Molded by the General and his
lyrical men
2.
Whip Bobbie Lee you may,
for this miracle happened
in the strangest way
in the meadows,
in the bright of day
three invaluable cigars lay
3.
Some men smart in ways unimagined,
appear as Janus in the midst of kings,
feign blunder to catch the unsuspecting plunderer,
who waltzes right in (or away) from his fate,
******* the grit out of men, they lose faith
4.
To His right is the good thief
and he inclines his head
But a thief is a thief, nonetheless?
5.
Two-hundred-ninety-nine-hundred-two men are in the cornfield, their mouths silently forming hurrahs and their hands slack at their sides.
Two-hundred-ninety-nine-hundred-two-men are ****** eagles of Indiana.
6.
“No shock can destroy”, the carnage of Shocksburg
“The world shall behold”, “the triumph of”
“Tyranny, sorrow, and darkness”
“Hurrah for the” “dream
of a madman, the song of a fool.”
7.
McClellan sees double, no, triple.
And Lincoln, victory where there isn’t.
And I, beauty where one should not.
8.
Let men become crusaders, emancipators, and proclamators,
of all things and
all things good and just.
9.
Your arms resemble corn stalks and your eyes
poppy seeds. Spread-eagle yourself, at the mercy of
the Kingdom of Heaven.
Say your last Hurrahs and clutch that laundry tight
to your chest.
10.
Disillusioned people get nowhere, at least illusioned people can
walk themselves over to the doors of Death?
11.
Samuel is like many other black laborers in the infantry-- mistaken in the most wonderful way.
“Hurrah! for the Union” he says.
and I begin to teach him how to write.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
I’m walking by the dimming remains
of a building of future past:
its once stylish streetlight, now decayed,
points at the Moon that’s rising fast.
The old streetlight was made of globes of glass
that circle its core of steel bars.
It looks like a starship, sleek and fast,
but now its globes are dusty and scarred.
The globes, a circle of eight bright moons,
orbit the streetlight’s tall spire
that points up to the glowing sky jewel,
to the place to which it aspires.
Up there, on brightly lit lunar plains,
our spacefarers once walked in awe
and dreamt of Zarathustra’s booming strains
in two thousand and one proud hurrahs.
And so this spacecraft of glass globes
was made to look up to the stars,
to urge us on to launch further probes
and take wing from this blue globe of ours.
Years later, this dream has faded
to fleeting stars of reality shows,
who leave the people fixated —
not by the Moon’s, but by screens’ dim glow.
The streetlight was fixed firmly to earth,
iron bolted to grey crumbling concrete.
But it still points up to the heavenly berth:
Moon rises, a dream left on repeat.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 10:55 AM UTC
Your ending they are always so swift to call,
one school goes back and it's officially Fall,
pumpkin pie quick to to the oven,
a thousand witches beckon their coven.
Be slow:
they'll be more sunny hurrahs, more bright highs,
it's not gone until it's gone this summer in the sky.
And it never leaves without saying goodbye.
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 12:36 PM UTC