From the end of the world
to the beginning of the girl
That’s how far my arm reaches,
from Zen to her curls.
From the hem on her dress
To the waves in Marrakech
From the sand between my toes
And where the moonlight goes,
Somersaulting over the other side
Turning, turning the spring tides
Caressing the new brides
Who hang out their white sheets
Reflecting back as a Japanese flag;
Husband’s relaxing, smoking fags.
From the furl of their smoke
To the end of a rope
That’s how far my arm reaches
Holding you, tendons stretching
There’s no escape, this is existential hell
My moon governs you too
My springtide, my open palm,
My lifeline slaps against her face
Provocative I know, but deserved
And as you scandalously observed,
She appeared to shudder with pleasure.
In Vienna with its easy charm
Anything goes my friend,
We are all dots viewed from the Ferris wheel -
Cuckoo goes the clock.
A kind of decadence is what appeals.
From the edge of the tattered flag,
Flapping on the wormwood mast
From Sharon’s eye over Mordor
The toppling of a bronze Saddam
To the dirty hole from which he crawled
A place were humanities high ideals
Have been crushed by Capitalism in high heels
Where only a shell remains, a husk
Something base, but true, like lust
Something you can touch with your hand
Make it feel you understand,
Like an animal trained by pain-
You’re my Russian dancing bear
My friend, drunk and in despair.
Let’s go from the Tsars to Madagascar
Where I imagine Papillion escaping
Across the Indian ocean on a raft made for two,
With you as a member of crew.
So from vodka and torture, to fantasize about water.
To paddling and romancing about the past
Where you’d walk in the green fields of France
Long before the poppies danced
Over bodies laid bare, with Francis Bacon faces
The holes made from shells
Creating muddy oasis’, filled with bits of horses,
Bi-planes, biscuits and gasses
Which propagate the vineyards where wine
Ferments, before been drunk by the masses,
Ignorant of the heavy sediment of death.
Poets and philosophers
Running out of breath proclaim, the death of art.
Whilst Joyce, Tzrara and Lenin
Eat their way through Switzerland, and gloat.
Back to the boat – once you’re on
Safe land my friend, you’re able to look back
And decry all this history
Of the common man! It’s not your generation,
Its not part of your life plan,
You’re insured and immured by the century we’re in