Archive for gone

2 Forward, 3 Back

Posted in poetry with tags , , on June 10, 2017 by malartart

                  documents leaked

        mopped up deceit

tell on me

             talk liberally

speak formally

            behind shirt sleeves

  converse conservatively

                        know your place

                               and

             labour under

                         the misapprehension

              of moving to the centre

       victoriously

 

You Were So Vain…

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on April 30, 2017 by malartart

I know it won’t exactly heal me

But surely one more beer won’t kill me

I drink to you after the fact

So much so, it feels more like

A delayed suicide pact

Mine shot himself in the head

Yours jumped off a cliff instead

Upon a record album cover well stacked

There’s photographic evidence to be had

Where all can be witness to the act

In the Seventies at Beachy Head

Virtual Vultures

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on March 27, 2017 by malartart

The lamb only learns when it is loved from a distance

When cradled in arms, feeling cranky to calm

-Zyklon B to embalmed-

It forgets that it knows it ever existed in an instant

I don’t know who I am

I don’t where this is

I don’t know who you all are

But I’m beginning get the gist

I believe finite memory is more

And timeless is less

The mundane middle of Monday

Is where Friday finishes with a written test

But it’s a vexing mess that has no respect

Turns up ending with a blood splattered rest

I am my own Ministry of Militia

A bible basher with a bulletproof vest

Putting words together in new found forms

More real than reality itself

Stravinsky’s riot did me proud

M.C.’s bread is dipped in some funky mould

How dare you sow the seeds of the apocalypse!!

That’s the last job on my to-do list

Wasabi’s buck shot peppering, splits open new tins of green paint

Spraying nuance and subtly

Over a canvas of obviousness

Unique, original and never seen before

Are the curse words of the new generation

Picking like a virtual vulture over past digital corpses

So, gimme sum theeng new

Or

Just leave me hangin’

Take a leap of faith with the future of us all

Or just

Bang the final nail into my compos mentis coffin

V. in 252

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on February 1, 2017 by malartart

So,

the o it seems

The over is gone

a Phantom tribute

He’s proud yet pensive; tender with

melancholy that might wound tombs and break graves

Dumbly from below

songs aren’t what they used to be; they care

deeply on heavenly floats

A killing not attempted but tempted; so

555 nights was enough

to keep this cannon booming

THIS IS NOT AN ESSAY: (The original Title [seen below] Was [considered?] Too Long, So Accept These Words As A Place-holder)

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , on March 24, 2015 by malartart

CAPITAL LETTER

This

Is

Not

An

Essay

As

That

Would

Infer

An

Argument.

I

Am

Not

Arguing,

I

Am

Just

Sharing

With

Others

What

I

Think.

…full stop…

FOOTNOTE:

Why Can’t My Writing/Text/Prose/Poetry/Sentences/ Words/ Letters Be More like-

  1. Painting*
  2. Music**
  3. Film***
  4. Architecture****
  5. Fashion*****
  6. Sculpture******

*unthinking

**transcendent

*** moving (literally & metaphorically)

****foreboding

*****anti-useful & aesthetical

******physical

Bear Trap

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on March 1, 2015 by malartart

Justice for J-pegs

             Downloading and out in Beverly’s Hell

As a memory sticks in the craw

         Now we know what happened upon the Grimpen Mire

Destroy the ego, insult the id, pull the nose of your superego

                                                   And (re)invent the luminous Hound

           Untethered from the rugby scrum’s grasp

Sign over the reality cheque

                Untwist your damaged lip

                        And watch the narrative unfold

                                                     Hey, use fumetti if you wish!

         (as a photo montage supposedly never gives you bad breath)

My memoir may burn in the heath but @ least illegal music still saves lives

… because of heresy and hearsay…

                           And what Doyle’s crooked man eventually did

Disguising himself as a victim of circumstance

           To escape being taken in ‘the Rapture’

My Side of the Bed

Posted in poetry with tags , , , , , on August 28, 2013 by malartart

Your robe was open

           through the seems

behind the curtains

            seeing flesh

       seeing a continent

                   seeing  India

    kneeling where you stood

picking up points

                needing to be addressed

   sending them to myself

and all the while

      i hoped later

   much later, as late as can be

you wouldn’t roll over

on to my side of

                   the bed

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