Everything’s just wonderful

 

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Unsullied

 

You want to ask people sometimes

Where does it come from?

This infallible knowledge

Which allows you to judge the way

Others live their lives

What deep wisdom do you draw upon?

That gives you such insight

Such certainty

Do you ever question your own opinions?

Or are you beyond the limits of introspection?

Could it be you just know?

Even that which you don’t

Or is the reality much simpler?

Your way

Or the highway.

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2019

 

 

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Intricate song’s lost measure

 

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Odd choices

 

They built a brutalist monstrosity

On top of Hilda Doolittle’s house

I don’t know why they did that

Just couldn’t help themselves

I suppose

 

We can be careless that way with treasures

Always putting tomorrow

Ahead of yesterday

Today, her house is underneath City Hall but then

Aren’t we all?

 

What remains of Hilda lays

In an unassuming grave

I must assume

 

I searched but couldn’t find it among the obelisks

And laurels

A sign of healthy humility

Don’t you think?

 

Dear H.D. made it just a short distance up the street

In which she was born

(Via New York, London, Paris, Zurich)

Now her ashes are up on Nisky Hill

Seashells of appreciation placed on her headstone

Or, so, I’m told

 

In the end, the poet came home

To a place she’d long left behind

Nestled in the soil of memory

Looking down on old familiar views

O little town of Bethlehem.

 

She could see her house from there

If she weren’t in an urn

And they hadn’t built a brutalist monstrosity on top of it.

 

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Words and images are my own.

 

©2019

 

Hilda Doolittle

 

 

Telling lies

 

Madness

 

Falling dreams

 

At that hanging point

Where it all seems doomed to slide

Rushing down towards dark water

Like some clifftop house into the Pacific

Someone turns on the light

And you find yourself dazzled

Realising your dream was telling lies

And the cliff was sound after all

 

The sheets are a tangle

Your chest damp and heaving

But you lie there in your sweat-sodden bed

And thank god you’re not falling.

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2019

Fish are Jumpin’

 

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Chasing rainbows

Took dog down by the lake
Where the trout jump
When you’re not looking
Tried to catch ’em mid-flight
But when I looked left
They jumped right

Tricky little fishes
Leaving dog unimpressed
Too busy with the dragonflies
To get his paws wet.

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2019

Camera

 

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Captures

 

Life can be edited

Shaped

‘Shopped’

Each moment

A photograph in my mind

Composed, lit, storied

Colours bleed into monochrome

Art in place of the merely mundane

Each turn of my head

A panorama

Each moment of concentration

A study in macro

And in those crazy hours

When life tilts

Grainy reportage and

Blurred action

Sell the drama and

Feed the observer

Perched pensive behind the lens.

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2019

Regret

 

Maybe I’ve forgotten

The name and the address

Of everyone I’ve ever Known

It’s nothing I regret.

– Regret, New Order

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Turned coat

 

I murdered all the friends of my first life

My old comrades in shared delusion

Starved them of oxygen

by recanting old exhalations

And sawed through their truths

With a blunt-toothed betrayal

Left them wondering if

They ever knew me at all

They knew me

They knew

But that me withered on a barren tree

Where reason was nailed

While dogma looked on

Cheering hollowly in counterfeit triumph

Pyrrhic victories in the end times

They kept asking where I’d gone

But I was too gone to care

So, they shot off their arrows and one by one

Fell silent as the graves they’d dug.

 

 

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2019

Rise

 

 

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Context matters

 

Hate gets a bad rap

Sometimes it’s the only sane

Response

To the ceaseless tide

Of stubborn ignorance

Passing for consciousness

And calling itself ‘woke’

It’s not a weapon

It’s a scalpel

Cutting the necrosis

From the healthy flesh

A purge of all things loud and unexceptional

An antidote to performative indignation

Hate can be freeing if the object is deserving

Hate can be the clarifier

Amid all this white noise

 

A man turns to hate

When all he cares about in the world

Are those things he loves

And all the things he does not

Keep getting in the way.

 

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2019