"kilometre" poems
*my my, ain't it June?! Juno, why have you given these poor people snowballs?! it's June and my central heating is on, it's close to 10 degrees Celsius, Bavaria is flooded, people embraced Einstein's relativity of the collapse of the = sign using a parabola, forgetting the basic Newtonian: cause & effect - the moment i coupled Socratic abhorrence of moral relativism, i took to dislike relativism kindred of: claustrophobia and agoraphobia... at some point Einstein's relativity equates space as time, rather than what Newton would suggest trans linear: algebraic squared, Newton still resides in cause & effect, space = ~space, given: 1 = millimetre, kilometre, and any other division... likewise with time... 20th century fashion being the perfect crop of quantum plagiarism, although in the 21st century the dance loop jumping between decades, back in the 20th century a linear expression, an evolution; quantum physics doesn't deal with linear excavations necessarily repeated, it's just repeats what is unnecessary. global warming and the mini ice age, June's here, Einstein too, Newton too, relatively speaking we're aether imprints... speaking via causality we're leaving a carbon footprint - well, **** me, two plus two... it's still scientific negativism, dietary requirements of modern man overshadowed all the scientific progresses in the field... never mind the cure for cancer! never mind that! as long as we can dress a diabetic in Lycra for bariatric surgery - never had i had i heard of such gastronomy, should it have been a pork chop smoked using zyklon B.*
we are living in the age of scientific negativism,
atheism a third limb
and our existential concerns reduced to
hamsters, calories and treadmills:
the basis of all modern inquisitiveness /
Aristotelian awe reduced to rubrics of dieticians
rather than theologians: at least with the latter
we could see the simple mind, hunched
in prayer... with the former we are experiencing
robots repeating the daily 2000 Kcal intake requirement
for a flat stomach... honestly, i prefer the praying
type, than the type regurgitating facts concerning
their diet - at least the former state of affairs
kept them shut up and mumbling, gesticulating
a type of shadow boxing while befriending
Jacob wrestling with an angel - at least that!
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
the forest beckons, eddies of
wind rustling leaves, whispering
"welcome, welcome."
(a kilometre away,
there's a lumber yard)
the branches are blown about by
the wind, a come-hither
I am loathe to resist,
and I am struck with memory:
you,
naked,
standing shyly at the foot of your bed
one hand upon your
thigh, the other
crooking a solitary
finger, allowing me approach
as you look at the floor, hair
burqaing your face.
I am watching trees
blur by train windows,
and I'm reminded of
the green of your eyes,
and the woodgrain veins just
barely visible on your arms.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
my great-grandmother used to say,
concerning lighting storms -
September, always the Indian summer in
England:
when you see a lighting flash,
count each second
from the flash to the thunder
as equal a kilometre from the actual
storm - a flash! thirty seconds later
the thunderous echo - then the rain,
30 seconds, means 30 kilometres away.
ah the wisdom of peasants...
gets so very boring with weather updates
that are completely senses -
cyborg even, like the Para Olympics -
compared with the paupers of lost limbs,
these athletes are cyborgs by comparison,
not even the fully agile of complete limbs
can discriminate the lesser features:
springs for legs, or otherwise crutches
in everyday society: my uncle is missing a leg,
i wish the Para Olympics didn't take place,
and he was given the cyborg extension
that athletes receive to compete,
well... after all... they're human:
Oscar Pistorius;
who could blame someone asking
for the same cyborg limbs to be available to all
disabled people, giving them cyborg
limbs than staging Para Olympics and
instead giving the everyday-grey crutches?
but i guess even the disabled can't get
rid of the Louis XIV effect of Mrs. Bucket's
motto: keeping up appearances.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
Tarac
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dug dug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamoor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occured
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 12:22 PM UTC
*that's the ******** and a tip with the English tongue, missing the diacrtical marks, the punctuation marks are a rave! a rampage! italicise all you want for want of emphasis.... a single exclamation mark will undo you... princely honesty... non-engagement in diacritics leaves you stark naked in the biblical genesis lodged almost innocently thinking up a centimetre for a comma, a kilometre for a full-stop, a nanometre for a hyphen... a metre for a semi-colon... you know the brothers Grimm... here's the colouring-in book.*
well, somebody has to
be the villain
and not the fury tank operator,
a brad 'prosopagnosia' pitt;
thank **** it wasn't an easy
-philia or -phobia
to compound woo woo wee hurrah!
i know,
all the rich cartoons would
become bonkers and sarcastically lazy -
like in real life!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Tarac (for Stone and Kurosawa)
We busted our *****
To get up there
Over a kilometre high
Where the warplanes live
And die a violent death
Meeting their end up above
On towering lonely slopes
As did Lt Stone and Sgt Kurosawa
On the same day seventy six years ago
To the day we went there
As others before had
For we had a job to do
The missing answer to find
To locate the remains of a lost pilot
Named Stone from America
Who flew a Curtiss P-40 Warhawk
In mortal battle with his nemesis
Kurosawa from Japan
With his Nakajima Ki-27 Nate
Both died that day
February 9 1942
And both haunt those inclines
One is angry and lost
One found wants to go home
One likes Hello Kitty
But not the one you think
For my drink tumbler fell
And the guide missed it
It stopped where Stone said
And there we dug dugdug
And found his airplane
Or what was once his warplane
In pieces that were scrap
But had meaning to our group
For it was this plane
That brought us here
Many hours of climbing
Swearing and sweating
To touch the clouds
And be where both hit
At what cost?
Two planes smashed
Two pilots dead
The American protecting Villamor
The Philippines' best pilot
Who flew his biplane
A Boeing Stearman
On a recon mission
The same type that flies today
With **** English wing walkers
From Clark in Bataan
The same field Kurosawa flew from
Yes synchronicity is here
Eagle Has Landed style
What does this mean now?
In 2018 right now
Is it the pilots' ghosts
Or God or fate or karma
That brought me here
To Tarac Ridge to look
To try to find Stone's bones?
When so many have looked
And failed to find him
Did we really find Lt Stone?
So he's no longer MIA
And captive here
This beautiful mountain side
Where the sky and sea become one
Where Bataan and Corregidor
Are visible
The old battlefields
Where hell occurred
Where there are more MIAs
From both sides
Both pilots hunted here
And both became the prey
Paying the ultimate cost
Bent metal and broken bones
Telling a story
Their story
If you listen
You will hear it...
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 5:59 AM UTC
clouded sky, clouded mind
painful knees, route to find,
went to the store
in the car before
the run
the rain
one idea followed me
run the route I drove, see?
eight kilometres
less or more, I would find out
with my Garmin Forerunner 305, GPS and heart rate monitor
to prove that I am still alive,
each one point six kilometre
was faster than the one before,
oppressive clouds closing
dark and heavy
city scents gust around me
each vehicle had a different taste
as I pushed the pace,
sweat ran down my face,
faster and faster, I could not master
any speed, just quick enough to plaster
my hair against my head
hamstring want to cramp me
left one, bonus in the last stretch, I could feel the growing twinge
the right one knew better to behave,
in the end
it did end
before the rain came
before the night fell,
tomorrow, I will walk to work and back,
I will do stairs, but go ahead and as
you think of me, I give you permission
to laugh in my difficulty, as I make it
through the day, walking funny and taking stares
from every one who passes my way.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC
This one was originally written in Spanish.
volví al Kilómetro Cero
donde empiezan todos viajes
y en el mapa
en el centro
de la rotonda
debajo
donde estaba escrito
Usted Está Aquí
he añadido
Pero Tu No Estás
Then I translated it, with a small change to the last line.
i returned to Kilometre Zero
where all journeys begin
and on the map
in the centre
of the roundabout
underneath
where it was written
You Are Here
i added
But She Is Not
I had to alter the line, because "tu" also translates as "you", which would have been confusing, but I think it's less good in the English version.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:03 PM UTC
I had to visit my sister
She lived a kilometre away
So I went to the 'duka'
To purchase some sugar ...
I met my aunt
Out of church on that Sunday
She was rather tired.
Her boy,young and playful
Played his game..
Sliding over clay
And he laughed so much
He liked his game.
But the mother could not bear this.
"Stop it or else....!
The rest he knew.
"I hate you mommy,
You always shout at me!"
The boy was never happy.
We parted ,and I hurriedly paced away
To my sister's place.
She was out in the gardens
And she came
Her two boys were a mess
They happily made their cars
Out of clay ...
Their field was the table
Flat and smooth
They drove happily .
"Stop it,or else..."
The boys cried,
Sign of in satisfaction
I felt sorry for the engineers.
They hated their mother.
I learnt a good lesson that muddy Sunday.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
We will be back on the hill
Looking for you like we did in 18
And the others did in 19
When I wasn't allowed to go
Unlike in 20 when I return
And maybe we will find you
Hiding in the soil of the hillside
Almost a kilometre up
Final resting place
Pilot and plane
In 2 places 2 events
Maybe we will find you
Will we?
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC
Sky Wheel
Big sky wheel from heaven rolls over the land squashing houses and people and cities and families.
Sky wheel doing its business, from who knows where.
A trail of loose house bricks that once were human dwellings.
Now rubble.
Where are the people?
Under the boot of the sun wheel, totally ******
Who sent this kilometre diameter circular thing to Planet Earth?
Wrecking everything by squashing it till its dusty particles blown by the wind.
No more life here or anywhere.
Just a squash head sky wheel going round the block, again.
Coloured like a sea shell, multi spectral haze of eye watering iridium from outer space. On Earth doing mad damage, your home and mine totally bolloxed.
Military jets buzz the wheel and bomb it, chipping the surface but not halting it.
Each jet hit by smaller wheels spewed from Mother wheel.
Dead.
Dwelling squashing continues, unabated.
A culling of certain humans, facts only known now.
Men killed, women left in peace.
One lab.
She kicks the wheel over.
Jun 25, 2022
Jun 25, 2022 at 12:54 AM UTC
29-03-2020 23:49
Seven hundred kilometre away from my home,
Constant depressing news each morning,
I in this solitary city of Delhi speculate for the future.
I now feel what it meant to be free,
And what freedom meant for those who were enslaved for thousand years,
And why they fought ****** wars to get it.
It was all bestowed on me and now I realize.
Staying home all day by one's own volition
Is not similar to being ordered to stay home.
But why I complain about the necessity.
When Socrates was asked, "What does a man learn in his life?"
He replied, "Complaining, Glaucon."
I don't know when all of this will subside
What and who will be spared to read this, like I used to read
All the ****** wars in history-
WWI and WWII, recessions, depression.
Now I feel the psyche of people after WWII
And why Existential Philosophy evolved from it.
Going out to buy essentials is like walking on a tight rope
only a touch here and there and you will fall in the abyss.
Yesterday, I heard the news, a man locked for two days came
running down the street naked and bit a woman to death.
Will our psyche be affected by it?
What changes these days will breed in us?
The exodus of migrants are walking back to home amid lockdown
and walking not for 20-30km but 200-600km.
The fear not only of dying with the disease but of hunger, malnutrition is looming in the remote villages.
Turn your neck whichever way,
the talks of this disease everywhere.
How did the dark ages fight the plague?
A few weeks ago, reading the plays of Shakespeare,
I read in the introduction
Theatres were closed for two years because of Black death.
How trivial it looked to me reading from the distance of five hundred years.
But now when I see the cinema, parks, roads, rails, airways, closed in my own world-- I feel the magnitude of loss.
Have we really progressed?
Will the future generations will read this the same way I did?
Yes, Distance dampens the magnitude.
It's pretty late now, perhaps I should sleep now.
This quote
of Whitman is ringing in my head--
"How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and re-
ward,
And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same
great purchase."
Good Night!
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 3:07 PM UTC
however to not make it human,
if not by stressing
awkward punctuation?
best to ascribe practising
the best of man,
by first prescribing
perfecting an imperfection
of tongue...
i hate these moments,
when you write in order to provide
a maxim...
yet there's still
something authentic about playing
with punctuation, notably
applying diacritical marks...
there really is an authenticity
concerning minding this
law of the written tongue -
probably barely a scratch of the surface...
but it's the sort of pedantry that
rubs shoulders with aristocratic
etiquette...
the difference between
a centimetre and a kilometre was always
going to be, a grain of sand;
which is why moral relativism
is abhorrent -
and why relativism per se / with the aid
of physics, is, just... really bad poetry.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC