soulless commie T-shirt slogans

All Napo poems so far.          
           
           
           
over clouded Roads          
           
“Now I fold you down, my drunkard…”          
           
           
           
           
Within a chemtrail plaid            
you talk me down            
        through coloured rain          
           
cold-cock then dry me            
           
Your  butterfly net  ~ into and out of a triplet of dead clouds          
                          
           
           
 then            
 Sleep on my wrists            
           
    from          
bedtime to morning:          
           
 your intimate approval          
           
And nod your head twice,          
      your wet hair water-falling          
           
 We too greedy          
       to wear those sheepskin thoughts          
           
 never really ours to bare.          
Those tones, balusters to a hymn          
           
           
           
of bodies          
 honouring a/the lie,          
           
           
           
           
           
 Like holding glowing silver-gelatin prints            
  of   morning headaches,            
an over-bitten gum-shield,          
   Your mislaid clothes and my missing buttons /            
as your teeth are too sharp.          
           
           
           
           
lamb_fur_petal          
           
Wish to            
           
take every path following            
           
a doe’s, hare’s, foxes morning trail.            
Along the barbed wire and their mother’s clumps of fur            
and their heartbeat sharpening,            
           
           
bristling to a trace            
                                   of a blade            
Cut to - … as all the grasses shiver.            
           
A treecreeper’s ‘don’t look down’            
           
In the evening, they came            
without shame, and fed upon the reeds around the fence.            
           
And they took a walk  around the dirty lake            
like love is not the best thing and suffering is not the worst.            
           
           
You’d be surprised how little of this is yours,            
you wear it like a sheepskin and then its gone.            
           
I worry, I could never be that intimate.            
  at the back of all we've seen.        
         
         
       
       
       
my trust fund, my nuclear waste        
         
         
Your sunset burns        
my bible and my apocryphally, crappy ideals.        
         
Like a nest of thoroughbred horses        
 tethered to a slaughterhouse,        
         
your radiance brings a bolt pistol to the floor.        
         
      All cat food for the masses - and        
         
   I hope to, one day,          
 find my one pure god.        
         
         
         
         
The new spring grass.          
A pail, Pure morning rain. The wren all proffering        
        in a morphine flute-blue.        
         
     And his holler,        
an entr’acte for his gratefulness to Dymphna’s grace        
and each of her resuscitations.      
       
       
       
′pets·väl      
       
       
…and settle down on the edge of the wood.      
A lush cushion of green, spotted with a fresh blue      
   and a faint chime of bells.      
       
In soft focus, the projection lens pulls a rainbow      
and places it in the blurry top corner of my eye.        
       
      A marginal space of new air,      
and a liminal unfolding of the day which I desire      
to enter as if in a waltz.      
       
My aperture is fixed and wide. I feel composed.      
  All background noise      
 melts and bleeds into the shade; the subject is sharp and I hope      
   for my intentions      
and the release of control to become one thing.      
       
To become centred in the heart of things, within it’s womb.      
     
     
     
     
NowHere      
     
6am by the reservoir,      
A maddening suffering in someones else’s hands.      
     
The red-pearl chested robin, coy herons and Canadien geese flit and flock      
above the warming grey water, utterly absorbed in a morning ritual silence.      
     
A mile in, I place my bag down and remove a tripod and a pinhole camera.      
The view of dark pine woods to the left and the sunrising      
above the water to my right.      
     
I calculate 48 seconds for the shot and hold the release.      
 The light  reciprocates.      
And for one of those seconds I think of your life.      
For another, my own.      
And another      
on how tired I am of heartbreak          
 and how coldness still burns.      
     
Breath out- A stringy mess so tangled.      
     
Close the shutter, cover my eyes.      
     
The tones within this image is important for me.      
Details in the shadows, no blown highlights.      
No pure black, no pure white.      
     
But it will never be how I hope and imagined.      
I will look and see      
that I need to remove everything      
Oh god, all of it      
 except one thing.      
     
I’ll be nowhere to realise,      
I had it all the time.      
     
     
     
foal cloche    
     
the horse hair, all tangled.    
smells of warm earth, clots of hay.    
     
the field sings butter and mustard    
the dream stings.    
I still hope you return.    
     
a way to scarf you around my throat.    
no longer able to be angry with you.    
     
turn my thick neck away.    
eat grass, whinny    
and wear you when I play.    
     
there is meaning when I hare,    
a story, an agitated narrative,    
a painting of the season.    
a study of change.      
   
your bootstrap, your whip    
your traditional hairstyle.    
your servitude.    
     
you are inexpressible.    
   
   
   
Feed the beast last    
   
 We are Archaeopteryx    
baring an honest coo.    
   
Clinging In aubrieta shadows    
In a glass shield,    
   thriving in a shelly existence    
     
Abandonment into vertigo    
and sweltering nature.    
   
Surfing the trickle of tide,    
storming the breezy heights    
gazing at coral underneath.    
You are and not dream.    
   
Listening to voices, follow    
the capes, the drawls.    
the swell of atmosphere    
the burying of self,    
the instinctive urge    
the trembling run    
and the driven trials of the eye.    
   
Empty it all out in ashtrays,    
spit the fluey phlegm    
gargled and tempered    
   
then speak like the slow movement    
of a rotting rind.  
 
 
 
4.30am ~the room-view of a motel car park  
 
The silent, nocturnal questions call  
and soften on my shoulders.  
Soliloquies cushion, stoke and caress, like lantern  
puppets broken,  
like rhinocera restored in felt.  
 
So turn to nuzzle the quilt, and gnaw  
in pearl-light, in starfish glare, see  
the moon blinks on and off, I swear.  
 
This night I’m nameless, a dory  
trawling black rivers candled  
with glistening, crawfish eyes.  
 
So far down to dive,  
and ascend into golden cotton vestige,  
rising,  
   an oil slick full of riches.
 
 
The obligatory contentment ritual
 
Shoplifting a new religion
Learning to camouflage this disease,
‘The original made redundant,
The average made lethal’.
 
Those voices,
Those abandoned voices are revived.
 
Disobey realty,
this has no survival value
tread this illusion openly
 
There are fewer exits.
Create your own exit.
 
Thought is considering death,
then making a decision.
 
Praying for a rare attack of humanity.
 
It is fatal to look hungry
 
 
Your dreams are unlikely. But beautiful.
 
There is nothing you say
that will not infect me.
 
Keep it. The birds fly when
you touch their water.
 
Every hair on your head,
every doubt
Is accounted for.
 
You respond well to provocation.
 
You are unknown,
I am one sentence.
 
Your presence
just overtook
my words.
 
You know too little English
and I have known too much.
 
We are living in the future
of a shattered past.