poetry

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Owl Eyes

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Wed, 17/08/2022 - 12:32am in

Tags 

poem, poetry

Listen to a reading of “Owl Eyes”.

Owl Eyes

Crawling on our hands and knees vomiting up life hearts which go bouncing across the floor like pennies, disgusted by the latest headline, the latest heartbreak, the latest bill, the latest bullshit.

There is an owl sitting upon the arm of our sofa. We don’t know how long it has been watching us and we are too nauseous to care. Something is scratching at the insides of our walls.

“It’s all fake and I can’t take it,” we cry from our depths with sobs of motherhood and milk. “The YouTube ads, the lonely cereal, the sitcom reruns full of dead people’s laughter. The coworker small talk painted over oceans of anguish and the maddening impulse to tongue kiss each other just to make a real connection, the skyscraper savagery, the screens full of pundits arguing which boot to lick. When I was small everything crackled and was boundless, but now I’m waiting to die on a dying world with a rectangle in my pocket that keeps trying to sell me things I don’t understand.”

“There is a deeper wisdom at work here,” says something from the blackness in the owl’s eyes. “Something watching all this unfold, something ancient, something nameless. We shall not call it god, because it doesn’t behave like any god concocted by the minds of men. It is utterly agendaless, eternally patient, entirely embracing of all that is; still the great powers of our day splat against it like a cooked spaghetti noodle tossed against the wall. Before the empire arose, it is. Before humanity’s great Fall from wisdom to cleverness, it is. It is beyond us and before us, yet closer to us than our own mitochondria.”

“But the tyrants!” we protest. “And the rainforests! And the screaming red children who won’t leave the center of my vision no matter how hard I rub my eyes! And the black tie oil orgies, and the persecution puppets, and the fentanyl boneyards and the spinmeister Slack channels and the nursing home warehouses and the Reaper drones in flock formation and the tent city police raids and the schizophrenic street wailers and the gig economy car sleepers and the microplastic metastases and and and and…”

“In school they taught you how the world works, and that it is sane and happy,” said the blackness. “Then you grew up and you learned that was all a lie, and that everything is dark and crazy. Now you’re growing up some more and learning that, underneath everything, there really is a deep sanity and happiness after all.”

And then the camera zooms out, out from our cratered heart floor, out from our living room, out from these words being read on this page, out from the eyes of the reader, out through the reader’s mind and through the flotsam and jetsam of subconscious currents, back back back as far as it can go, to that peaceful point of origin before all arisings, to your original nature, to your original self.

And from here it’s all happening just as before. The sharp-toothed bank boys, the cackling talk shows with eyeless hosts, the ballbuster billboards selling geoengineering and prosthetic contentment, the electronic escapism and the overpriced brain fog.

But it’s seen differently. Seen in a much, much larger context. And oh so clearly doomed to fail.

“Humans have built tall language castles,” says the blackness. “But the language castles are built upon the unlanguageable. The empire is built on quicksand. Human dysfunction is built on a bottomless hole.”

We struggle to our feet.

We stand.

__________________

__________________

__________________

My work is entirely reader-supported, so if you enjoyed this piece please consider sharing it around, following me on Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud or YouTube, buying an issue of my monthly zine, or throwing some money into my tip jar on Ko-fi, Patreon or Paypal. If you want to read more you can buy my books. The best way to make sure you see the stuff I publish is to subscribe to the mailing list for at my website or on Substack, which will get you an email notification for everything I publish. Everyone, racist platforms excluded, has my permission to republish, use or translate any part of this work (or anything else I’ve written) in any way they like free of charge. For more info on who I am, where I stand, and what I’m trying to do with this platform, click here. All works co-authored with my American husband Tim Foley.

Bitcoin donations:1Ac7PCQXoQoLA9Sh8fhAgiU3PHA2EX5Zm2

Two Poems

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Fri, 29/07/2022 - 5:54am in

Tags 

poetry


If it was too cold you called on Satan.
Satan also had pre-rolled cigarettes;
no one had tobacco in Europe yet
for like 400 years, but Satan did

Raging for the World That Is

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Wed, 27/07/2022 - 11:00pm in

Muriel Rukeyser’s political activities were inextricable from her literary experimentation.

Today’s Climate Forecast

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 19/07/2022 - 5:52pm in

And onto today’s climate forecast,
where we can expect to see a prolonged spell of inaction,
interspersed with patches of hazy promises
across many areas. 

Over Westminster and other centres of government,
a build-up of hot air will cause inactivity
to soar to record levels over the coming days,
in spite of the high pressure.

Elsewhere, a front of chronic misinformation
will sweep in from the east,
bringing with it a band of climate change deniers
and the chance of scattered falsehoods,

while powerful gusts of idiocy and ignorance
look set to blow across social media.
Outbreaks of ‘We just got on with it in 1976’
and ‘It’s called the British summer, mate’ are likely.

In summary: unsettling.

The Fistbump Heard Round The World

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Sat, 16/07/2022 - 12:33pm in

Tags 

News, poetry, poem

Listen to a reading of “The Fistbump Heard Round The World”:

https://medium.com/media/66883bfe79301d26908a1844af722804/href

Two powerful leaders met beneath the hot Jeddah sun to discuss oil and killing and friendship.

One of the leaders rules a tyrannical regime which funds terrorists, murders journalists, suppresses civil rights and commits war crimes. The other, the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia, is no better.

They greeted not with the traditional handshake, nor with a stern finger wag from the American for the assassination of Jamal Khashoggi, but with the most epic fistbump in the history of civilization.

Since the invention of the fistbump there have been none so pure, so affectionate, so expressive of perfect union and harmony. Observers said they thought they heard angels singing.

Where their two fists connected, their souls merged. Their eyes locked with an intimacy poets and lovers have spent their whole lives trying to capture. Their dick chakras burned with the intensity of a thousand stars.

“This is who we are,” the fistbump roared to the heavens. “This is who we have always been. Our sacred bond presides over an empire that is fueled by oil and blood, and we rule as one in holy communion with the great kings of old. Nothing shall ever come between us: not bone saw nor mass beheading nor strained lip service to human rights values on the presidential campaign trail.”

Time froze as the two joined fists in genocidal matrimony, flashing coy grins at each other upon a mountain of Yemeni corpses and the tortured bones of Syria. Their faces turned to skulls. Doves with red-stained feathers filled the sky.

And the Marxists of the world say “If only we could one day capture that kind of class solidarity.”

And the wives of the world say “If only he would one day look at me like that.”

And the arms manufacturers of the world say “Hoo hoo yeah buddy boy this is gonna be great let’s go snort coke off a Tomahawk missile.”

And the hidden saints say “Something’s gotta give here.”

And the world rotates on the axis of those two joined fists into ecocide and atrocity and Google Hollywood McDystopia.

And the imperial juggernaut marches on, and the Earth spins off into the blackness, and we all hold hands and look to providence as we plunge into an increasingly strange Unknown.

________________

________________

________________

My work is entirely reader-supported, so if you enjoyed this piece please consider sharing it around, following me on Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud or YouTube, or throwing some money into my tip jar on Ko-fi, Patreon or Paypal. If you want to read more you can buy my books. The best way to make sure you see the stuff I publish is to subscribe to the mailing list for at my website or on Substack, which will get you an email notification for everything I publish. Everyone, racist platforms excluded, has my permission to republish, use or translate any part of this work (or anything else I’ve written) in any way they like free of charge. For more info on who I am, where I stand, and what I’m trying to do with this platform, click here. All works co-authored with my American husband Tim Foley.

Bitcoin donations:1Ac7PCQXoQoLA9Sh8fhAgiU3PHA2EX5Zm2

Reconciliation Spins My Head

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Mon, 11/07/2022 - 12:41pm in

Tags 

poetry

Forgive forget move on don’t cry   Deny the past forget our histories   Fragmentation of truths Lies too many for too long it’s wrong   Reconciliation spins my head picked up a gun and now you’re dead    

The Forgotten Ones

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Fri, 08/07/2022 - 12:29pm in

Tags 

poem, poetry, humanity

Listen to a reading of “The Forgotten Ones”:

https://medium.com/media/bfd1951da73827d35dd7bb3f02517181/href

And then one day we just couldn’t anymore.
Couldn’t keep up the maintenance on our shouldn’ts and shoulds.
Couldn’t pay the contractors to keep building our skyscrapers of spin.
Could no longer hold up the weight of a world made of lies
and so we let it splatter on the floor
and sprout night orchids.

And that was when the Forgotten Ones rushed in.
No longer staved off by propaganda and pain,
no longer contained by our cages made of mind,
they set to work with sharp claws and great mandibles of ivory
slicing away the steel bands wrapped around our soft hearts
and cutting the bolts on the door of the old grandmother magic.

And they taught us — no!
They reminded us
how to walk on this earth as they walk.
How to step with a pregnant tenderness
in communion with the planet.
How to grow our hair long so it makes love with the wind
and listens for the whispers that are too quiet for our ears.
How to work with the land not in dominion but in friendship
and to extract the thorns of dogma and punditry from our flesh
and to vomit up the madness of millennia of civilization.

And we forgot our old stories of separateness and shame,
our minds now too life-sized and world-shaped for falsehood.
And we strode in companionship with the Forgotten Ones back to Eden,
untamed beings in an untamed world.
Untamed beings in an untamed world.

_____________________

_____________________

_____________________

My work is entirely reader-supported, so if you enjoyed this piece please consider sharing it around, following me on Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud or YouTube, or throwing some money into my tip jar on Ko-fi, Patreon or Paypal. If you want to read more you can buy my books. The best way to make sure you see the stuff I publish is to subscribe to the mailing list for at my website or on Substack, which will get you an email notification for everything I publish. Everyone, racist platforms excluded, has my permission to republish, use or translate any part of this work (or anything else I’ve written) in any way they like free of charge. For more info on who I am, where I stand, and what I’m trying to do with this platform, click here. All works co-authored with my American husband Tim Foley.

Bitcoin donations:1Ac7PCQXoQoLA9Sh8fhAgiU3PHA2EX5Zm2

For God or the Moroccan Boy?

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Thu, 30/06/2022 - 2:05am in

Tags 

Jewish, poetry, queer

Jacob Israël de Haan explored the intersection of queer desire and spiritual belief.

Holding Hands On The Precipice

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 28/06/2022 - 11:47pm in

Tags 

poem, poetry

Listen to a reading of this poem:

https://medium.com/media/1c8a87b7f0772a3fb968b5a8df0669ae/href

From our perch here on the edge of armageddon
we are safe to gush out our love over everything,
because we’ve got nothing left to save it for
and nothing left to lose.

I place slippery wet YES kisses on the black crows in your stomach
and on the glowing red cardinal birds who fill the night sky.
I hold your precious heart in my hands and my eyeballs grow vines into it
and I weep round sloppy joy while telling you that you are perfect.

There is great beauty to be found in the oceans choked with garbage,
in the coughing poverty streets filled with schizophrenic prophets and opioid eyes,
in the Sauron eye of Google,
and in the pounding of the war drums as the ICBMs are readied.
It is not hard to see.
It is not even hidden.
We hold hands on the precipice and pour YES into the madness,
the majestic, orgasmic, omnicide angel madness.

Come what may.
Come, what may.
Come on, whatever may come.
We beckon forward the inevitable.
We collaborate with the chaos.
We ride as passengers with ancient earthworms and DMT gods
on the back of an infinite sea turtle
holding hands in excitement
for whatever is to come.

I love you so, so much.
I embrace you deep into my feathers
so you can hear the heartbeat of the galaxies.
Whatever happens,
whether we pass the great test or not,
whether we adapt or go extinct,
whether we make the jump or fall,
in the big picture
 — the really, really big picture — 
it will all be okay.

Let’s smoke cigarettes here on the edge of the abyss
as the air begins to crackle with an alien potentiality
and just gush our love out over everything
while it is there to be loved,
because it is there to be loved,
for however long it lasts,
come what may.

____________________

____________________

____________________

My work is entirely reader-supported, so if you enjoyed this piece please consider sharing it around, following me on Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud or YouTube, or throwing some money into my tip jar on Ko-fi, Patreon or Paypal. If you want to read more you can buy my books. The best way to make sure you see the stuff I publish is to subscribe to the mailing list for at my website or on Substack, which will get you an email notification for everything I publish. Everyone, racist platforms excluded, has my permission to republish, use or translate any part of this work (or anything else I’ve written) in any way they like free of charge. For more info on who I am, where I stand, and what I’m trying to do with this platform, click here. All works co-authored with my American husband Tim Foley.

Bitcoin donations:1Ac7PCQXoQoLA9Sh8fhAgiU3PHA2EX5Zm2

Just For Fun

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Mon, 20/06/2022 - 10:20pm in

Tags 

poetry, poem

Listen to a reading of this article:

https://medium.com/media/e9186b6191c99d86ffb8d5ebc4215f93/href

Just for fun we all pretend to be strangers.
Just for fun we pretend we don’t know each other on the street,
on the train, at the store, at the traffic light.

Just for fun we pretend we aren’t locked in ecstatic union
and briefly ignore our intimate knowledge of the primordial secrets
behind each other’s eyes.

We sit on the bus and try not to be the first to wink,
or to burst out laughing at the silliness of our game,
or to call out the goofy elephant in the room
about how we’re all pretending to be strangers
just for fun.

Two spouses pause mid-coitus to shake hands and introduce themselves.
Two twins in the womb make awkward small talk about the weather.
The thumb and the index finger avoid eye contact on the elevator.
Two slimy babies squirt into the same universe,
made from the same stuff,
and then put on masks made of mind chatter
so we can pretend that we don’t know each other.

My atoms are your atoms, and your atoms are mine.
We have danced this swirling energy orgy since before the Big Bang.
Playing positive and negative,
playing stimulus and response,
playing predator and prey,
playing mother and youngling,
playing enemies and lovers,
playing strangers on the internet,
just for fun.

I apologize, my timeless sibling,
for breaking character just this once.

Let us return now to our little game.

___________________

___________________

___________________

My work is entirely reader-supported, so if you enjoyed this piece please consider sharing it around, following me on Facebook, Twitter, Soundcloud or YouTube, or throwing some money into my tip jar on Ko-fi, Patreon or Paypal. If you want to read more you can buy my books. The best way to make sure you see the stuff I publish is to subscribe to the mailing list for at my website or on Substack, which will get you an email notification for everything I publish. Everyone, racist platforms excluded, has my permission to republish, use or translate any part of this work (or anything else I’ve written) in any way they like free of charge. For more info on who I am, where I stand, and what I’m trying to do with this platform, click here. All works co-authored with my American husband Tim Foley.

Bitcoin donations:1Ac7PCQXoQoLA9Sh8fhAgiU3PHA2EX5Zm2

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