the clay people speak

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 25, 2022 by malartart

mud & blood spatters           the flood is a slab so hard, only

the message can move         Earth to inhabitants:

‘We have your children, Release the Hell-Hounds;

We will allow no brook with your elders, We will not listen to bureaucracy

Your hot breath is cooling

Solve Et Coagula

You now have the time it takes for broken pots to mend

The clay people have spoken’

Coat of Charms

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 22, 2022 by malartart

Remember one:

similar coat that everybody loved

mine to have purple as a royal

or a picture of the coat

mum memento mori

several winters brisk

all my own not just for teens:

Childhood

placed within an empty biscuit tin

darker 1970 went for a brown

style coat rails

to pattern paisley filled

missed bus

with their kindness bought

a great buy 1974 early winter

maxi for floors of sheepskin

decked halls

many goods badly named

an open letter to humanity from the future

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 21, 2022 by malartart

—you say it’s all inevitable but you don’t know what I’ll do next

in this moment my movements are unknown

yet to be beamed in- negotiated- settled through a teller’s window

cheques crossed and coins counted and collective convictions scattered

for the machine is being dismantled

toothless and mute

cogs & wheels thrown to the wind

shrapnel buried

a vacant lot marked by a rag as a flag

tomorrow is the bogyman your parents warned you about

—here is a close up of a mountain, a gun and a broken vase

fingerprints are wiped yet intentions remain carved in stone

clues are the characters in this whodunnit not the people  

you are the story a delayed narrative as illusory long days

now and not never a novel but a short story shrinking with

a final page that makes all that came before seem

vainglorious

—the sound of progress faltering

a scream or a whisper

or maybe something less profound

here’s to blind fortune even though you don’t deserve nice things

I ask for no great changes yet I hope everyone gets what they deserve

let’s be Fairweather friends even though we’re better apart 

vices are for the weak and the wicked alike so here is your fair share

roll the dice and let the chips fall where they may

and pray karma’s not a bitch in the way nature intended

Content

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 11, 2022 by malartart

Happiness a button away

Freedom at the flick of a switch

Contented with the contentment content available

All the while the scratch continues to anger the itch

grasping nettle soup

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 7, 2022 by malartart

My work will be finally done

When the tree’s branches resist the rising sun

When the wax cylinder records the silence

When poems erase themselves from people’s minds

When humans are self-effacing self-correcting facing self correctly facing

When umbrellas stay up in heavy winds

When the rain pours upon the wicked and the divine together

When no one knows what romance is

And become passionate about starting again

enter or delete

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 6, 2022 by malartart

It’s on full screen

‘I think you know what I mean’

It’s horizonal

And you can see the sky and the sea

It’s switched off

‘I think you know where I’m coming from’

It’s late

Black as coal and down for the night

It’s switched back on

‘I think you’ve been here before’

It’s morning light

No need for electricity

It’s switching back and forth   

‘I think therefore I am’

It’s all too much

The fault is in my program

The cat’s sneeze

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 4, 2022 by malartart

           A bunch of flowers in a pint of Vermouth

                         You’re the cats sneeze to me

Isn’t she the lady from that famous shower scene?

First movie to show a toilet flushing, I heard somewhere

               The weird and the eerie are kissing cousins

                     Cuddling up when it gets parkie

                       To spend half an hour in Hancock Park

                                   Is to be the scarecrow

                                          In a field of dreams

Just Another Town Hall Meeting

Posted in poetry with tags , , on May 2, 2022 by malartart

The loneliness is spoiled by you

Joining me and becoming two

I apologise for the world we’re in

You tell me it’s not my fault

But Eden’s immortal sin

I see Jonni eating ice-cream

The vision is blurred cos the camera’s hot

The church bells do not ring for thee

Baby on a blanket

We go to mass on Sunday

I prefer Coke over Pepsi

I’m a kerb crawler on a register

Can we table that suggestion and run with the first idea?

We can’t buy second-hand sex toys

Cos the clean-up is expensive

Money is around here

Burning in the hand

All suggestions should be taken as red

Did I mention I’m a kerb crawler?

May that be stricken from the minutes

street trash

Posted in poetry with tags , , on April 29, 2022 by malartart

you come on all like new york subway graffiti in the eighties

bad for the wildlife good for local morale

                   spraying bleach on a petri dish

                               harms the nightlife

                               saves the soul

You hop on one leg and are far too confident for a vandal

And I don’t think you are— it’s just others bigotry

Passing the window, you give a lacklustre wave

I’m not sure if it’s a lack of interest or you’re just acting coy

However, this is recent events: reported by friends

Being fictional is no excuse for letting people down  

If you don’t exist— just try harder

My father was a graffiti artist

He only sprayed moving vermin

Bad for the wildlife        but he was always

                                 Good to go

                                 And now the streets are gone

the optimist has no need for compassion

Posted in poetry with tags , , on April 25, 2022 by malartart

As I place the glass upon the spilt sugar

                   Through no fault of my own

I feel in my fingertips rough granularity

The optimist has no need for compassion

As the depressive has no need for a clock

We must traverse life with the possibility that

Everything is dangerous yet nothing is real

Without escaping into congenial madness

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