Posts Tagged ‘people’

man

Will what makes a man of me

Unmake you as a woman?

An embrace or a head-fuck

The undergirding certainties are crackling like leaves in flame

All so precarious

All so deficient

I’m afraid reality will fall apart

All dreams and schemes collapse to dust

If Trump bombs North Korea

And the whole shit-storm accelerates into apocalypse

And a nuclear missile hits Garden Island

 

Will what makes a man of me

Make me cruel and unforgiving

Is forgiveness weakness?

Is gentle Jesus too meek and mild?

To inspire a man to be a man

When the world is full of baby munching super predatory shark monsters

Victimizing and ripping off all the people who can’t stand up for themselves

It’s scary for gentle people

It’s scary for all people

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Not what they do

Posted: January 31, 2017 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

my_jackson_pollock_painting_by_amau41200-d4vjeut

Watch what people say

Not what they do

Don’t listen when they say you’re wonderful

Blowing smoke up your ass

Don’t get ripped off

Don’t get conned

When a guy with tattoos on his face says he can get a stick around the corner

Don’t give him money

Don’t be a chicken dinner

Don’t be a victim

Hold your head high to encourage respect

Don’t be a mark

Don’t be a chump

Pick yourself out of the gutter and stare at the stars

So that you may know in your heart you are here for a reason

peoplewithoutfaces

People without faces
Blank walls of skin interrogating my rickshaw brain
Photo-flash of blood-rivers
Pus oozes from under a scab
Madness tastes like chocolate
Howl against the moonlight sensuously senselessly
Blue-white bloated corpses floating in stagnant water
Open eyes, blank and dumb, stare into infinity

People without faces
Paranoia seeps under the door and over the floor
Skeletal hand on my shoulder squeezes
I’ve got the fear
Atmosphere poisoned and festering
No way to realign my brain-cells into some orderly pattern
Drowning in terror
Too many crazy moons
Watch out Amygdala!
Satan lurks with asylum eyes, horns of brass and teeth like scalpels
A shark waiting to devour souls

People without faces
Icicles of bone
Piles of skulls
Crackle of schizo-affectation
Crinkled miasma in an empty room
Inch deep dust in a crypt
Fester, fester further down the road to death

rohingya

We are the least of human beings
Less human than the dirt beneath your feet
We are unloved and persecuted
From birth to unremarkable death
The Buddhists lock us in a ghetto
Unless we have the money to bribe them
If we have no money they beat us
There is no food
There is no water
There is no school for the children
There is no hope
They took us from our village
Those that the Buddhists didn’t kill
And locked us up next to the sea
Hanging off the land in a noose of persecution
Then the people smugglers come
And offer to take us away
And we have no choice
We give them what little we have
We spend hungry, thirsty days at sea
Then we arrive in Thailand near the border
The people-smugglers begin to torture us with bamboo
They tell us to call our relatives and ask for money they don’t have
Then if they do not pay up we are dead
Our women are raped and murdered, our men and children are murdered
Our ghosts will wail among our bones
Our ghosts will watch you while you sleep

crowd

Vast human generations seething and reproducing
Talking about the weather and waiting for death
Pecking at each other like a murder of crows
Crawling over each other in search of food and sex like cockroaches
Each one seeking identity, significance and transcendence in an ocean of semantic bleach
Each wondering about the unknowable content of the neighbour’s consciousness
Each one willing to lie if no-one else will find out
Imitating each other’s desires in a sacrificial frenzy that always ends in murder
A virulent infection spreading over and consuming the entire planet
Pestilent people everywhere, all hypnotized by mobile phones
Poor and rich, attractive and ugly, black, white, brown and yellow
No end to it all. No end to it all.

Suburbia

Posted: December 12, 2014 in poetry
Tags: , , , , , ,

suburbia
Down the identikit suburban streets, looking in the gardens for thistles for my piggies
Bitumen road sliding out into the horizon
How many families in interchangeable brick boxes
Putting food on the table
Paying the bills
Uttering clichés to try to fill the time
Human tape-recorders spewing mundanities
Hypnotised and cauterized by mobile phones and television
Conforming, conforming, conforming
Caring for sticky faced children
Outcome of man and woman enveloping each other for a sweaty moment
Consuming, procreating and dying more every second
Just like the people in the next house
And the house after that
And I should really love all these people
Like Jesus
But it’s not easy

I walk alone
Smoking white ox
Stoned but not stoned enough
Eyeing women who pass me by
With shameful furtive glances
Ocular photographs shuffled off to the wank bank
Never look for long
That’s the secret
Am I sexist?
Am I a sex criminal?
Am I the patriarchy?
I ache for a good woman like a junkie for a shot

This is what Burroughs called the old talking asshole routine
I am the talking asshole

winona4
Beautiful people have beautiful lives-
Love is easy to find.
Ugly people have ugly lives-
Love is a dream and a gaping hole in soul.
Longing for touch is a way of life.
If the lights were out, the ugly wonder,
If anyone would dare to touch them,
Or kiss them full on the mouth and hold them.
Oh take me out my darling,
To where there’s music, and people, and beer.
Dance with me and make me forget the secret suffering of yearning for you.
Wipe out my loneliness with the power of your smile.
Help me not to think of myself as ugly,
As we square the circle of tedium that binds the town.