Menu Poems

Some Poems tappity tapped out at the Menu event at The Poly.
..We were the starters..

COLLAGE #2

I've left messages on ten flutter
-tonguing the dummies behind.
I'm here to say, fly through it
Domain your voice before you hail
you rarest spun thing of underpinned
rainbow splendour. The sub-continent
en-route like the bare shouldered
rice, blind musicians, legless
crocodiles walk in one snap file
In the mirror modern man breaks
hologram on a glass plate. Before
you were the rarest thing of all.
This clapping flapping passion which
shlaps and blaps and whhhaps.
Love is flesh and blood, whips of
recovered iron oxide lathers fabulous
animals hidden, fills the lens
creates the suspension of the form
in silence. Love is flesh and blood
is the yolk of the day from white
to night. Colophonic passage. Best
crack wise crack you own voice cracks
and withers before your ears have formed
the statement. Will we end up as phantoms?
Or steam? As we approach the precipice
and the liquid oceans heat. Will we end
up as steam? Sizzling metal as it hits
cold water and sprays light.
Chaos and glory behold. WHERE is this
great civilisation heading?

BLANK PAGE

When faced with a blank page, a page of white
like the soft pulpy blank before the
big bang and you crack your knuckles
to make something from nothing. One
god in a sublime pantheon tapping
scratching and crunching back to
a cave in France. Do you feel the
terrible glory of it? That blank
space to fill and will your own
idea into the physical sphere.
Well I do.

BRAVE FOX

If the foxes got brave enough I'd
welcome them into my living room
with open arms and a dinner plate piled
with gorged rubbish and shlummy
refuse. I'd put a leathery arm round
furry ginger shoulder and I'd
"Welcome my friend! I've seen you darting
from my rabbit's hutch and my neighbour's
cars, from my bins and bushes. I've
taken note of your ferret-arsed smile
your glowing eyes. I've heard you
at night, torturing your children.
I've always been rather compelled
by where exactly sits the ginger,
where the white, where the red?
I've wondered and pondered, whilst
trying to sleep; what exactly is your relation
to badgers? So, now you've got balls and entered
my halls, put up your paws, sip on this port
and please, my darling, do tell all.

BUNTING 1, 2 & 3

Should the word 'bunting' ever be used in a poem?
No. Like the three layered barracuda
swimming above my head.
An omniscient god of congealed
liquid swimming through the wash
of dead souls. Surrounding bugger-toothed
fish swashing a wish away through death.
I wish it would but leave me de-boned
but instead it leaves me here alone
and squirming.

Mantis mad arm curling through
flicking arms flick knife unbarred
and reaching backwards.

Serrated string of red, white and blue
bulges down from my ceiling.
Just above my head.
Just below my eyes.
If I could walk up there
I'd be tangled but happy.