POEM # 48 Junkie Calypso

Junkie Calypso

One morning when I woke up late
a junkie was standing outside my gate
the sight of the junkie so un-nerved me
I had to sit down and have a cup of tea
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
The sight of that junkie was getting me down
so I thought I'd take a stroll around town
but when I set off - junkie set off too
and when i cut back - junkie cut back too
when I speed up - junkie speed up too
when I slow down - junkie slow down too
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
When I sit down junkie sit down too
When I stand up - junkie stand up too
When I stroll around junkie strolling too
When I turn around - junkie turn round too
When I went inside junkie did that too
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what that junkie might do
I take a walk into the CBD expecting to lose that nasty junkie
but when I went to the matinee -
I found the junkie sitting there with me.
When I walk down the street junkie walking too
when I jump on the train
Junkie jumps on too
and then when I went to pick up my stride
there was the junkie there by my side
I don't know what this junkie might do
I really don't know what this junkie might do
I really don't know what this junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what this junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what this junkie might do
I mean I really don't know what this junkie might do

Poem # 47 On leaving an empty house.

On leaving an empty house

A full house is a home,
it has a rhythm and beat of life,
a pulse, it sings a song.
An empty house is clean, utilitarian,
a machine for living in.

then just as you turn to leave --

a widening shaft of sunlight illuminates
a corner and you remember that's where
the sewing machine stood,
and the negative shadow shapes
on the wall were
positive family portraits,
and on the refrigerator
was childrens art,
a glorious gallery lyric
celebrating life.

Poem # 46 Weeping

Weeping

Why feel sad? Why cry?
Is it because you see reality more clearly?
Cry for lost species
eliminated to sate our appetites.
Cry for magic that has been forgotten.
Cry for those who won't try
to find the poetry that surrounds them.
Cry for those trying to be someone
other than themselves.
Cry for originals who
want to be modified.
Cry for children who
act like adults.
Cry for those who are free
but think they're prisoners.
Cry for those who betray
their sex.

Poem # 45 History

History

Can you jump in the same
river twice?
When we look at the same painting
is the painting that you see
the same as the painting that I see?
Why gamble our share of the present
on the future?
Investing every misery towards a happy
ending to our history.
Our combined story will never end,
either happily or unhappily,
it ends every second.
Content for some,
discontent for others.
One second up, one second down,
the beat and tempo of a rhythm,
all ways ending, all ways not ending.
Is there anything, or is there
nothing to wait for?

Poem # 44 Time Space Love

Time Space Love

Space and love are one and the same,
beyond the expanding volume of
the universe space ceases to exist,
and there we would

have no space to contend
with and no time.
In our shelters if we have no space,
time accelerates dangerously.
At high speeds time is stretched
and love can jump the tracks.
At the end of the day unless
we are riding a ray of light
like a cosmic cowboy, then we need
time to slow down, we need our space,
and even just a little bit of love
can illuminate a long shadow.

Poem # 43 Death Notices

Death Notices

Obituarys are towards the terminal end
Of the daily broadsheet.
I read them to marvel at the trail
individuals have left to mark their
path through life, while
I have only left muddy footprints.
There is no glimmer in the
image of the deceased,
however notable their life.
This is how the press indicates
respect for, or fear of, death.
The eyes of the significant one
in the image are
dull and flat,
as if the sparkle of
their lives and achievements
has been scattered like
magic dust amongst those
of us left behind.

Poem # 42 A Scatological poem

A Scatological poem

We filled our heads with knowledge
in the crowded room
delighted that the school was empty of
high school students.

The empty buildings were still littered
with the remains of food,
and scarred with obscene graffiti....
what the Principal did with dogs.

It was desolate outside our seminar room.

Time passed
and my stomach contracted with a natural urge.
"Where is the nearest toilet?",
I asked an executive.
"The downstairs boys are available."
"Are they clean?"
"They looked good when I checked them this morning."
Reassured I headed in their direction.

Relieved, I squatted naturally on the the bowl.
As I viewed the grotesque writing on the walls
of the cubicle
an awareness smacked me with full affront.
Quelle horreur! What a predicament!
There was no paper!
(Of course!, the school was empty, it had not been supplied)

I considered the resources at my disposal.
The water?
... I had no knowledge of the operational method.
A handkerchief?
... disposal presented a problem.
... there was nothing for it, I must venture forth.

With pants around my ankles,
waddling like a duck or a dancing Cossack dwarf,
I headed for the entrance.

I found a bin filled with useful paper.
I grabbed two sheets and
as quickly as the action allowed
returned to my former position
on the bowl.

Regaining my seat I considered my sheets.

One was a tract from a religious instruction lesson
complete with an illustration of Jesus giving the sermon
on the mount.

On the other a quote from Xenophones

" If oxen and horses and lions had hands or could draw with these
hands, horses would draw pictures of gods like horses, and oxen
like oxen, lions like lions, and the gods would resemble the bodies
each species possesses"
and a picture of Karl Marx.

Was this telling me something?
What a dilemma!
Was I to deface a picture of our Lord, or was I being invited to wipe out a
seminal concept which led to mans emancipation?
Any decision would be a philosophical commitment.

Would God forgive me?

I made a leap of pure faith,

flushed,

and pulled up my pants.

Better to live with shit
than to forsake ideals
or commit sacrilege.

It was an uncomfortable feeling.