Junkie
Hey you junkie!
Brown-eyed and bushy tailed.
Crying like a true artist.
Tears soaked all over your suit.
Thoughts written across your face.
Your brick-heavy head lies
Dead on my sofa while
You dream of methadone martyrdom
And fields made of needles
And wishes that betrayed you.
Hey you junkie!
Get you some civility.
Don’t bribe me with Ginsberg
And his strange words that still my centre.
You revealed the coward in me
The full-time fool.
Stop crying about your wife!
Your face is an ugly turtle and
This whole world is your zoo.
The benches are all empty
And the skies are way too full.
Mother and Baby
What strange creature lies before me
Without a name to know you
So I could accuse you
Of leaving my belly so cold.
Some say God sent you.
Darwin mentions evolution
But you seem so otherworldly.
Staring at me with history.
Looking like peace.
There’s knowledge in the weight of you.
I heard philosophical men once speak
Of Karma.
Are you my mother?
Did I do wrong?
Slowly you will grow old
Just as empires do.
But for me they’ll build a pyre.
And I’ll set sail,
While the flames dance, snap, and crack.
Loner
You see me here pondering.
Bedraggled old loner.
Unshaven hunter of dreams.
Writer of words not yet written.
Singer of songs not yet sung.
And the lover of loves
Not yet won.
Food
Send me down the river
Let this discarded body lie.
Let it rot amongst the lilies
And be nurtured by the sky.
Bury me in the garden and let
My blood make flowers grow.
Allow my tears to water hedges
And with my death let sorrow go.
Take my body to the mountains
And let vultures be my guest.
Let my flesh be food for comfort
While my soul in heaven rests.
Last Words
He hung there like a fake Rembrandt
Beautiful but false.
His slender arms stretched like
Twisted towels.
His legs delicately crossed.
The beauty of his body raised before me;
An unwilling shroud.
The blood from his forehead
Moistened his lips as he raised his head
And said to me,
‘God is dead! God is dead!
Tell the people so.
Your future dies with me.
Your Father never was.
And your prayers remain unanswered.
Just lonely echoes in an empty universe.’
What Matters
What matters for some is dark chocolate,
And that silky, sexy, bittersweet taste.
What matters in the minds of rich people.
Matters less in the minds of the poor.
What matters are stars born from emptiness,
And crumpled quilts on children’s unmade beds.
What matters most is my mother, cancer
Ridden, and that phone call to say I care.
What matters is that you really know me.
And as human beings all share my fate.
Matter, matters, to the mad scientists.
But it doesn’t matter to faithful priests.
What matters to them are affairs of the
Heart. What matters to them both is truth.
What matters to me is an open mind,
And chewing all things on an open path.
What matters can be the question of death.
Buried beneath a system of belief.
What matters in heaven. Matters in hell.
And if neither exists and God is no-thing.
What matters most are these fragile winter
Sticks. That can snap, and break, in a heartbeat.
God King
I am the God King of all the
Buddhas. My feet are firmly
Grounded on either side of the
Universe. My staff is centred.
I hold past and future like lilies
In the palms of my hands. I appear
At once in all directions. My many
Faces; reflections of the divine.
Words like Truth, Love, and GOD.
Are merely signposts pointing to the
Bottomless and inexplicable
Vastness of ‘that-which-I-am.’
Birth and Death are gates through
Which we pass through endlessly.
Time and Space; only nails hammered
In. To give structure to substance.
Cast off your false expectations of
Enlightenment. Feel your feet
On the ground. And rainbows
Will appear in all directions.
The Fabric of Existence
What if someone said to you,
‘Would you like to meet the fabric of existence?’
And you said, ‘Yes.’
What would it be like?
What colour would it be?
Would it be large and if so,
How large?
Could you touch it?
Or smell it?
Or even bring it back to show your parents.
What would you tell them?
‘I’d like you to meet the fabric of existence.’
Do you think they would be shocked?
‘What’s his name?’ cries your Mum.
‘Where’s he from?’ enquires your Dad.
‘And what do his parents do!’
But he has no name.
Comes from nowhere.
And certainly has no parents.
But he loves to play.
Always playing.
With time.
With creation.
With the destruction
Of stars and dreams.
Endlessly creating new people, new planets, new languages, new species.
If you met the fabric of existence
How would you feel?
Maybe scared, initially.
Something so vast.
No boundaries
No signposts
No name to call it.
And to see it completely
You would have to give up your ground.
Can you handle that?
To have no name.
No boundaries.
No sense of self or place in this
Vast and uncompromising universe.
Yes? No?
Maybe you would put it back and say no thanks.
I’m quite happy with who I am.
My laptop, my living room, my unconventional eating habits.
Maybe you would put him in a box,
And call him GOD.
Labels are nice.
Boxes are nice.
To contain things is nice.
And if your parents ask,
‘Where did that big, ugly, friend of yours go?
You know the one without names, or boundaries, or parents.’
And you would say,
‘I don’t know he just disappeared.’
Fiery Tigers’ Tails
I chase fiery tigers’ tails.
Sometimes they burn my fingers.
I cool my fingers in turquoise waters
While the tranquil waters of the lake
Play with my reflection.
Fiery tigers they have funny tails
That are longer than my Dad.
They stretch out across the skies
Leaving tiger trails across space.
Fiery tigers like to call my name
They invite me out to dance.
In a trance my feet twist and turn.
Hypnotised my hands twist and shake
As I pirouette across the desert floor.
By night time I’ve grown tired
Of chasing fiery tigers’ tails.
So I sleep on the desert floor.
A desert fox keeps the wind from me
Stars become my bedtime light.
When I sleep I dream of fiery tigers.
They sing and dance to tempt me.
But in my dreams I can fly
So I chase fiery tiger’s across the sky.
I chase them to the edges of space
Where a million tigers are running.
Their long fiery tigers’ tails light up
The edges of the universe.
As they endlessly eat into empty space.
The Piper
The piper stands feet firm on the ground.
His heart points towards the north.
Strong gales blow down childless lochs
While huddled elders whisper Gaelic tales.
Some say ghosts lay along this road
Souls of clansmen drenched in blood.
Tartan cloth and skin become bone.
Hands clenched tight, moulded to metal.
Draped in this flag dark blue and white.
A cross that bears the scar of repression.
Some say we dance to a southerner’s tune
But we say the piper stands alone.
How long to wait for the rallying call?
Remaining servants to distant cousins.
Some say that we fear to go it alone.
To tread without sisters and brothers.
But what use is a fire without a hearth?
Rotterdam
Straight lines no curves.
History bombed flat.
A cold naked canvas at
The mercy of adventurous architects.
Meticulous plans laid down from the
Dreams of scholarly men.
Turning ghosts whispers
From the ethereal, to the angular.
Some say dispassionate. Abstract
Forms of tactless construction.
I see true peace in symmetry.
A prayer in concrete form.
Collateral Damage
The best time is early in the morning.
When the sun lifts its eyelids across
The desert floor, and the smoky swirls
Of burning oil are chased away.
The smell of cheap black coffee
That catches the back of your throat.
The sight of your first target.
My gun is a cross on which I die daily.
When squinting through the cross hair
My enemy could be galaxies away.
My heartbeat is beating in my ear.
How could you be so cold they say?
But I was trained to shoot targets.
Trained to ‘not’ think, just do.
There’s no room for a chance to say,
‘Drop your weapons,’ and ask what side you’re on.
To kill is drilled into me. To question,
Left by officers. They provide the excuses.
One minute a hero. Next a psychopath.
They say, ‘Why didn’t you identify?’
One woman, a husband, and one child.
Burning sunlight in downtown Baghdad.
Faces of hatred thrown at me. Every
Human being a potential target.
But what some say is wrong. Is
Sometimes considered right. And war
Strips you of your humanity. Takes
Your soul. And nails it to a cross.
I AM
I am small but can be tall.
I am fat, thin, black, white.
Funny and sad.
I am the sun rising early in the morning
Then descending slowly till I am the night.
I am the love your mother gave you, but
I am the hate that made you fight.
I am the sex that makes love to you sweet and light.
I am WAR. A seed hidden deep within you.
Stripping you bare with all my might.
I will give you the strength to build yourself up.
And with a single word bring you crashing down.
I am fear.
I am thunder.
I am a rainy day.
I am a sunray.
My storms have wreaked havoc across continents.
Rendered countries helpless. Thousands dead.
Children motionless with despair.
My wars have taken humanity to
The darkest regions of its soul.
I am Holocaust.
I am Atom Bomb.
And when the world finally collapses to its knees
Unable to witness its own destruction.
I will come.
For I am hope in the distance.
Coming out of the darkness into the light.
I am God, but the Devil too.
Do not try to understand me for
I will turn you insane.
Trust in me.
I am out there but in here.
I am the Universe and beyond.
I am all.
I am everything.
But most importantly of all,
I am no-thing.
Moroccan firebird
Long tail trailing.
Curly hair held
Tight in my fists.
Arms and legs wrapped
Round like vine leaves.
My knuckles knead
Your doughy skin.
Our eyes lock and
I see Love: Death.
Time doesn’t exist
When I am with you.
But death does;
A grinning skull.
Love is transient.
Rise
I rise early
And sit on my
Zafu.
Outside lightning
Strikes.
Inside the
Buddha
Speaks.
From the ashes rose
Africa.
A phoenix of pure
Sunlight.
Its vast wings of
Antiquity,
Spread far across the continent.
A mother’s arms shielding its
Newborn
From an imperialist sun.
Its velvet and silky wings
Soar across the friendly and tender
African skies.
Its voice
Sings song’s from fallen angels.
About the hidden fruits
They once tasted.
They hope of Africa one day returning.
On wings borrowed from
African’s sorrow.
The River
Tired and brown the river winds down
Through mudflats and derelict houses.
Its steady stream gazed upon by lovers,
Thieves, and untainted children.
Its water courses through cities and towns
And abandoned waterways. Sounds of
Modern distractions held back by
Untamed brambles and gnarled branches.
The river reflects hands held to faces
And absorbs the tears of young men.
Sometimes the shadows of flies twirl
Unpredictably: as is the nature of things.
The river runs on for miles and miles
Oblivious to its surroundings. All are welcome
To gaze upon its hypnotic surface, and try
To fix an eye upon its movement.
But the river moves on from mountain to sea,
And it has no story to tell.
The Heart of It
was in the stone.
But you can’t hear anything.
You can’t see anything.
It offers you no teachings.
It just sits there.
Round. Smooth. The weight of an Angel.
A symbol of peace.
Its illusory solidity confirmed.
By Scientists and Buddhists.
Its silent sound vibrates from the centre.
The endless cycles of the universe.
A never ending gyroscopic descent.
A Song for the Abused.
I am a child soldier and I have never seen
The plains of Africa. My battlefields are
The living rooms of tired tenement blocks,
And semi-detached houses everywhere.
I stare out across carpets and see shrapnel
Of smashed teacups and photo frames.
Scratched records spin endlessly round
‘Singing bye-bye Miss American Pie.’
I protect the Angel an embattled old soul
Who holds aloft her bottle of Martini
Like Joan of Arc, & sings the blues like
Billie Holiday. Cigarette smoke twirling.
And you my sodden father. Drunken old
Teacher. Zen master with war-weary tales.
Your tears and spit would often mix into the
Palms of your hands.
Don’t you know the Queensberry rules?
She can’t dance like a butterfly, but you
Sure sting like a bee. And now the whole
World to me is Joe Frazier. And I am
Muhammad Ali.
The Singularity
Bending a singularity
Is very simple don’t you see.
Take a finger pinch of space dust
And split time with eternity.
Grab the corners of the universe
And with some water add a dash.
Bend the curves without a nervous twitch
And don’t forget to catch the flash.
View the flash under a microscope
Then with a knife slice through the middle.
And you’ll see right in the heart of it,
A singularity playing the fiddle.
If you’re patient, why not wait a while
For this wondrous song to end.
Then ask the singularity
If it wouldn’t mind giving a bend.
The Wall
You stand there looking at the wall.
It has a blackness that can’t be penetrated.
A thickness that offers no hope.
And silence that can last for eternity.
You notice a gate with a sign that reads,
‘Leave everything behind.’
So you take of your clothes;
Shoes, hats, socks and shirt.
Then leave behind your family;
Your father, mother, sister, and brother,
And cousins too.
You place aside those memories.
Of all you’ve ever done.
Then let go of your body;
Your hair. Your teeth. Your blood. Your bones.
In a nice pile please.
You stand there as nothing,
And open the gate.
But there’s nothing there except a sign that reads,
BIG JOKE
And the wall starts to laugh. Everything starts to laugh.
Everyone starts to laugh: So you should laugh too.
Solitary Pilgrim
I sit in the Sahara Desert. Contemplating.
After the war to end all wars finished.
Sun tracing my back. Wishing the world was flat.
All human life vanished in an instant.
Some animals left angry and confused. I their master.
I have the last flower picked from a field in Iran.
Dried and placed between the pages of a book.
I drank the last drop of water from the Indian ocean.
Surviving on tears, till they dried too.
So here I sit. Solitary Pilgrim. The only one with a key.
And always the last to leave.
Slowly the world rotates whittling itself down to an
Apple core. I too whittle away until nothing remains.
And from all around me I hear laughter.
Please donate if you enjoyed.
