I've given up the quest for Poetic Truth. I've realised that one man's poetry is another man's doggerel. In spite of this, some of the stuff I've written seem to hold a personal truth for myself and don't quite fit into a prose category.
HIGH NOON PEACE SERMON OF THE ROCK letter to my unborn son
god with a gun
rests in the gutter
bleeding from the hip
the new boy in town
with silver tipped boots
has a snail in his head
jesus on speed
stands in the doorway
too frightened to run
there's a new boy in town
who hunts with the head
hoping for heaven
PEACE
stolen thoughts pervade an
ever swirling smoke dream
while we wait
ever pensive
on the edge of breakthrough
ever broken
on the lip of madness
crazed rats with the beast in their eyes
take umbrage,
take everything
that isn't welded to a tank turret
while we pay homage
to the gods made of flesh
in a river of bile
that crosses the synapse
of our generation
SERMON OF THE ROCK
like a searchlight
i look out
over eternity
waiting for that moment
when all the swimmers
are back on shore
safe from that dark vacuum
beyond the breakers
i saw the best minds of my generation
tempted by the under-tow
of ennui
letter to my unborn son
you almost made it
little one
a few months
a deep breath
and you would have come
to this beautiful
painful
world
they called me at night
while you were fighting the demons
i couldn't believe you were
making your move so early
you were clearly not intent on sticking to the plan
that had sufficed
since the first amoeba
i saw the craziness
you brought out in everyone
and realised
you were ahead of your time
to die before you are born
is fitting comment
and a Good Choice
since we couldn't give you a life
with promise
i nevertheless hope you're having fun
wherever you are
because i intend seeing you again.
Wishing You were Here,
dad