Poem #1

I said already,
Staring quietly at the sun,
‘Raising my own adaptation of otters
A procession that incalculably owns up to
Its relationships
And whether down the Brixton lanes
Or Oregon, or on the border of Nairobi
Or over Walt Witma’s graves
It will provide
It won’t abide
This is my employment plan’
‘But sir’
‘But do not strain it like a cloth map
Testing coffee
I just wouldn’t advise it.’

I don’t say in public spaces
For such impoliteness draws the tanks
The thinking and the military,
And the angelic choirs of unethical naive loyalists
Who know no better but the nice side of the perpetual tragedy
But I whisper it here
Who searches for the material in metaphor
And finds one when in truth
Its no metaphor
But nonsense
Yes, the absurdity of dignity
The treasure of disreputable comraderie
And the sumptuous curvatures of insanity
Derived and contented to be derived
They will lead a procession
Just as original as I succeed in being
Just as representative too
And it will be so simple
And so nice
And it won’t be for the record
It will be unobservable
Proud as raking

Let’s not measure
The storms in the teacups of each other’s lives
Windspeed like a cliff dive
Five point seven
Richter’s dead
And every angle is at eleven
And protractors fail
We come together
To reform our god-forsaken pact

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