Saturday, 26 September 2009
Friday, 25 September 2009
any teacher, family, friend, professor
who tries to teach him left and right.
You see he knows that when we point out to his left,
it’s to his right – he’s certain, sure, - no use
to fight belief because we all become confused
and so we start to side with him, agree,
deranged, that left is right and right is left.
But if left were right, what would be left,
would blue be red and grey be white
and up be down if left were right?
Hokey Cokey, left arm in. All right?
Wednesday, 23 September 2009
the pen is unmoving, turquoise and pointed,
an arrow unflown with a clip to connect.
the point is right at me, accusing, unfaithful,
brassy and linked to a sauce deep within.
the far end’s a button, a little snow pillar
or a cigarette butt-end that longs to be licked.
the colour is ocean, a dazzle, a dayglo,
so bright that a seagull or finger attacks.
when I get closer, inside is a capsule,
chilly as cuttlefish, sugar or salt.
When I take hold,
the pen is a river, silently swerving
divisions of potency, power full stop.
Tuesday, 22 September 2009
It was a party like no other,
a one man show, ‘Red Peter’
custom-built from a Kafka
tour-de-force, with cage, bananas, music.
All about a captured monkey transforming
to a music hall performer
mimicking humans, aping, with a
glimpse of human history, of our animal nature.
Way-too-close for comfort, reaching into
mucus, excrement, hair and fleas,
primate torture, tension, change, adaption:
the very smell of ‘human’.
I guess quite close to monkey business
and, though the guests applauded loudly,
they muttered ‘Not right for a party!’,
‘Quite unsuitable when you’re sober!’
but Kafka turned and looked steadfast
into a mirror, reckoned to attack
his beard, his tresses, neck, by shaving
here and there, down there, out there and back.