Today's Inventory
Eased myself into the morning
with some codeine and hash and
ready some d.a.levy as Tallis
played on the radio,
logged into my emails,
1 poem accepted for Ink Sweat & Tears
5 poems taken by Bold Monkey
1 poem welcomed by Rumrazor Press,
final cover image of Lucy Hell
for Brad Mason Hamlin book
received;
we went out for breakfast and
groceries and then returned,
eased myself into the afternoon
with some valium and hash
and some J S Bach,
then as evening approached
I took some more codeine and
smoked pot, drank espresso,
I read some more d. a. levy and
the radio blessed with Ray Charles,
later, I typed up a couple of poems,
emailed a friend, some editors
and poets and then poured the
1st glass of wine, poured some more
and then sat with pen and paper
and wrote this poem.
Lost, Left Behind
I do understand the
pain of people
that have become lost,
left behind, forgotten
or
simply ignored:
I know this,
I know this pain of
never-belonging,
of being on the
outside,
but this pain
if truthful,
transforms,
moulds an iron-like
shadow that
swings in
the quiet
reflections,
that stands strong
in the adversity
of closing walls.
Why Do It?
What have I to prove?
millions of people no
doubt write poetry from
6 year olds to death-bed,
millions of poems by
millions of people, who,
in the majority, keep it
private, share maybe
with friends and family
and then there are
poetry writers who
like to
get it out there to
anybody
they can get it to and I’m
one of those poem-
writers and why is this?
ego?
maybe, but doubtful,
truth is I can’t think of
anything else to do and
I’ve always enjoyed
antagonizing and
provoking people and
poem editors have fast
become my favourite
sparring partners.
Words, Images, Music
No fucking doubt I’ve been
blessed in my time here,
but I’ve also been
cheated and lied to,
turned-over, robbed and
deceived, misled and
misinformed, I’ve been
kidnapped and
hood-winked by words
and images and sounds,
I’ve been fucked again
and again,
but very frequently
I’ve been saved by the
word or an image,
or music.
An Editor's Comment kind of Haiku
A hard read, a visceral read
without pretty images,
in other words,
no bullshit.
