1. The Ghost of Terequin Jack:
Terequin Jack hasn't breathed in weeks.
But although he's dead he stands next to me
reminding me to sort my hair and check my pockets.
He slips me notes of witty jokes and reminds me of
the contextual reasons for contemporary politics.
He gives me ideas and draws neat fine-line pictures.
Tells me which books to read and which songs to know
Tells me which colours match and which colours don't go.
He tells me when to be angry and how loudly to laugh
When to have a quick shower and when a long bath.
When to drink beer and when to drink wine
When to lean in for a kiss and when it isn't time.
He does my exercise and works for my money
He writes all my poems and provides me with rhymes.
He has such powers I hope he'll never take back.
The wondrous ghost of Terequin Jack.
2. Holy Poems I, II, III, IV:
Sick unholy children
you are loved.
Bring your son to an altar
that you might be judged.
Kill him, spare him. Cut
Don't cut his throat.
Have legs and kneel.
Be sick. Be well.
Uphold your mother
and murder your brother.
Go in unto your daughters
and preserve your seed.
Have choice and choose wrong.
Choose my spirit and my son.
Rub oil into a pillar.
I protect you from
the Knowledge of yourself.
Godhead. GIVE ME life pain pleasure death hope
tasks responsibility and gifts.
ALIGHT THE BUSH FOR MY WANDERING EYES
AND speak.
PROTECT ME FROM pain knowledge exploration and
freedom.
GIVE ME land and beasts as extensions of my hands.
TAKE MY rib AND GIVE ME A servant.
THAT I MAY serve IN comfortable satisfaction.
3. In Between My Fingertips:
Ckargh . CKK . Keurgh . AK .
at the back of my throat
at the base of my tongue
in the depths of my ear
buried under my eyes
through the gaps in my nose.
Lays a small spider, one of my eight.
I swallowed it about the age of eleven,
watching Buffy disgraced in Cruel Intentions.
I captured the little fellow in my palm
and forced him into the centre of my head.
That itch I'll never properly scratch,
it's bothered me ever since.
4. Painted Glass:
I've left this shore in search of the new.
But my boat is fragile,
cracked ragged and infantile;
I'm terrified of what I might find,
the demons of novelty play on my mind.
But I feel some of that old strength; secure.
I have a hidden defence that I feel will insure
protection. A shield made of thick
glass, I keep in the bow. But it has a trick!
I've painted it black to protect my soft thoughts
from the unnerving prospects of fresh juggernauts.
that is all for now. CHX
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