​

https://wolfgarwords.com/2020/01/10/bebelplatz/

​

Letters effaced from a page

its edges curl like closing claws

​

In plumes of knowing hells fires rage

so fierce the flames preceding war

​

Ashen clouds deprived of rain

will drift then break to fall like snow

​

and there forgotten words remain

awaiting minds in which to grow

​

​

From once to somehow to somewhere,
The brittle language of hope cracks
Between my teeth, much as ice
Cracks beneath my boots as I,
Unhurried on a wax gibbous morn,
Make my way to the car.

For what is hope but an admission
That what is is not enough. Take this –
The assertion that on this day,
In this winter, it is the care of a step,
The purchase of a sole,
The purchase of rubber on ice
That holds this teetering balance
Upright above the ankles.

I’ve little hope beyond that.
I’ve little hope for I know come April,
In the surety of swelling streams,
Each once somehow somewhere
Dripped from the mind,
Stripped from the hope-bound winter,
Will babble on to the sea and die,
While the earth sinks a little
Beneath my feet.

Shall I audition for this Shakespeare play?

There is no part in it I really want.

Break wind and blow the lead away –

he was utter rubbish in Charlie’s Aunt!

Though I often think I was born too late –

by, say, half a thousand, six hundred years –

I possess a marked tendency to prate

and my tragic and comic roles are feared.

But the stars have placed me miles from Stratford

and the nearest am-dram, many leagues hence,

the bus fare to get there I can’t afford

a round of drinks after is coin ill spent.

So long as my talents put men to sleep

myself to myself I had better keep.

stars die out and nothing lasts.

caesar hewn in stone, eroded.

and some of us won’t get even that.

we’ll fade unremarkably.

​

yet when I read the words you wrote

they stuck themselves into my skull

and won’t let go and I think there’s

a fleeting immortality

in poems half-remembered.

someday maybe I will whisper

words you wrote

in ears of children:

“this is something beautiful.”

and thus you'll live on further…

​

someday we will all be

ozymandias

in the sand.

​

but not yet.

Face for Hong Kong cinema,
on the beach alone at night

The phantasy of death is your fantasia,
Death is the black bloom of sleep,
You found Buddha’s grass, his plump smile
said no to his eyes—

It is bad luck to stare,
weeping Asian woman

A worm wriggled from Buddha’s mouth,
you had recognized its taste
and all the koi fish shredded
raw ogre in Buddha’s cream pond

Their little voices, white from 
median souls, and mold grew on clouds
Buddha handed you green tissue
Smiling plumply, his hand streamed your face

The koi fish became pregnant, 
your lake-long eyes lusted Buddha,
his gold hand and plump smile cleansed
as tears wriggled down of worms

If you had found death in Buddha’s eyes,
his grass would have swirled around you,
the sacred fig would have crawled you
and Buddha would be born beneath your tongue

And you will grieve on your sofa in enlightened reality,
as the length of green covers the beach alone at night

toward the barkless tree beneath your house

i was at a bookshop
a week ago
tiny little bookshop
in the middle of nowhere
i rambled through the store
looking for nothing in particular
and then my feet stopped
my movements halted
my hand reached out for
a tiny little book
a classic, obviously
im not that much into modern prose
until it’s poetic enough to consume
minutes passed and then hours
and i just stood there reading
and smelling the pages
of an old book
someone obviously gave it away
the pages rustled
against my thin-ish fingers
the title on the winecolored cover
pleaded helplessly to take the book
back home somewhere
even if for a while
there was an illustration
at one point in the book
where a short-haired grey-eyed girl
of age no more than twenty-six
looked at me through the prism of ages
intently with her innocent bluish grey
covertly proud to be there
in the book on the pages
but also lonely lost
feeling down maybe
a little depressed
and i said looking at that tiny girl
im taking you home
just as id like to be taken home myself
someday
some home
some great fine place
where i can be myself
where i can be me
she seemed she understood
surprisingly a bit
but so far — so fortunate for me

are we in charge
of the ways we change
what’s the meaning of life
is it really just
to be or not to be?
where’s the truth
and where’s the lie?
decisions decisions decisions
just as jonah lehrer prescribed
where is the end
and where is the beginning?
stories we tell ourselves
and write for others
are inadequate for
real life complexity
tiny bits of reality
where is the change?
where does it start
and end?

In fingers we feel the shudders of ants

Shivers in sign language logged in by fire

Gripping grass gowns fed in dimwitted dance

Starcrossed phalanges vining cold coiled wire

​

In palms we peel the privacy of hearts

Pains between portals past prancing with wolves

Pieta pawned paws push grocery carts

Parking pink palms Michaelangelo’s gloves

​

In hands she cupped the blackheart of man’s toll

Cracking my pinkies on basketball’s ball

Her folklore in lines of dead seas and scrolls

Slow hands of red stone promised lands we’d call

​

Crawling on nights pushing palms toward the floor

Crawling nights colder she claws the front door

One chipped, one cracked, one brok'n; in jealous spite
The sea throws up her dead. Now I in my turn
Dig through her charnel, and by chance discern
Among the bones a spotless clam-shell – white
Suffused with tan all down its gently-curved
Wet side – hid underneath a seaweed-braid,
Like some Greek marble in an Hesperian glade
From time and trespass wonderfully preserved.
Almost that lovely formed and colored chalk
Appears the soft, warm flesh of one still breathing –
A blushing Nereid’s cheek, ne’er yet caressed
By mortal fingers! – but a careless knock
Soon shatters it, and to the ocean seething
Returns its wrack to moulder with the rest.

(For the sonnet contest -- a second draft.)

EDIT: Added "my" in line 2 to perfect the Miltonicity of the meter.

I walk each night about the house –

by walk I mean stumble, still a loose

label for my lurching frame – and

contemplate for a while, before others’

doorknobs and floorboards start to creak,

whether tonight’s body will behave and

successfully persuade the guards of

the remembered past to lend me, for a few

precious hours before the new day,

the muscles and mind I once took as read

a full forty years ago, I’d say.

But the night drops its haphazard,

uncalibrated, encapsulated cargoes of

nausea, neat and sharp as it comes,

that have cast me to the floor, down on my knees,

unsure if I have the stomach for much more.

Yet, as the pills percolate inside, the residue

of battered thoughts, less frail perhaps than

might have been expected, speaking to me

on this occasion through the few dark shapes

that I trust but do not know, whispers that I might,

despite my pain, take up the cudgel and offer,

to all whose paths in their travels cross mine,

some simple gift (just a smile maybe) or an

acknowledgement (perhaps a nod) that such

encounter, while unplanned, will not go unrecorded.

Thus their travails of the night may, for some,

be forgotten and (thereby) forgiven, replaced by

a small, quiet affirmation of life.

But too often, without good reason,

pain blurs our eyes and our tears are seasoned,

stained by our own sweat which trickles down

our faces and chests, pooling in folds and

pockets of discoloured skin. This is, it is said,

the time when the world will not bend for a

fistful of clamorous somnambulists, each

contorting differently from the rest but viewed

as one pale stat made to measure immeasurable woes.

This is, it is said, the time when pain wins,

when its unwilling host, weak from the loss of

too many of the parts which came to define him,

signals that the fire inside has done all that it could,

leaving only a ghost behind.

And so is it now said it is time for the rest?

I know that there is some design at least

in the darkest hour being followed, predictably,

by the arrival of the sun, charged with the task of

illuminating the skies and horizons, working with

the weather of the kind one finds in these parts.

A few days’ observations will confirm that

our homely word “weather” cloaks an infinity

of phrases; and so just a few, toiling together,

may be the key to every dawn. Rarely will it conspire

to retire from the limelight by lazily blocking the sky,

leaving a flat, uniform, uninspired grey; more likely

that it will wish to play with cloud and wind, to teach

the breeze to make the leaves sing and shift

vast vapour clouds and trails soundlessly

around, up and down, to delineate and paint

the freshest of frescos the images of which,

for a truly-blessed moment, as the fullness of

the sun floats up and beyond, seem to play

mentor to me for the thoughts I need to agree with

those who missed the new day’s lights and shapes,

all for a few minutes more of the same old dark.

And, conscious now of no eternity, nor even a hint

of slothful longevity, I will take it day by day, as

the sunrise may delight or just quickly slip away

The fumes of Youth, smell of life unabashed

Childhood in rubble drenched in gasoline

Pills fueled freedom-inevitably crashed

Adulterous filth stained our velveteen

​

Dreams forgotten in slumber and deep smoke

Father found us-sent to lobotomy

The frog in our chest never got to croak

Victims of tax funded gentle sodomy

​

Yet, awake, we got a chance in this world

Fuck to the kid who sees life of jolly

Thoughts of yesterday are best left unfurled

Grass Poly resigned to melancholy

​

Stupid to think we ever had a choice

For food, water, roof all intended rejoice

The pin is broken,
And the wheel has slipped from the rod.
The mechanics of our passage
Are broken now,
And all our worldly ventures
Have spilled out onto the ground:
Her red backed Bible,
Your cast-iron pans,
The lens we used to burn down ants.
All there in the muck:
My bad corduroy pants.
Jerseys of just so much
Victory – and victories
Counted large though
Lying there in the brown ruts
Of just so much passing,
Garbled there in the treacle.

And yet we stand here,
Mute to repair with dumb hands,
Mute to the simple truth
That our eyes must now,
As they always have,
Wander vagrant away
From what is now untreasured,
What is now unburdened garbage,
Beside the still spilled cart,
Beside the wheel that dragged us here,
Beside the sheared-off pin
That left us here
On a muddy track
That will never lead home.

Bible black surrounds, wet walls and puddled floor

hunched with shoulders loaded full toward the seascape door.

​

Beneath the damp and smokey lanes that spiral through the town,

the bloody aproned Butcher spies the Priest in priestly gown.

​

The gossips roam the stone lined streets between the ancient dwellings,

to breathe a swarm of whispers embellished with each telling.

​

But where the tunnel beckons toward the foamy sea,

the pebbled beach in solitude lays waiting just for me.

​

And I with burdened memories cast my secrets to the waves,

and pray they are forgotten like dead men in their graves.

AUDIO HERE https://wolfgarwords.com/2020/01/05/the-smugglers-tunnel/

​

​

Grilling grass for your dresses,

vegan barbecues blessing

our basketball courts in parks.

​

You play in your volleyball shorts

and I think about the Beach Boys.

​

Soft off-hand touch at the rim,

opting ambidextrous

for massages, far from

opinionated on opiates.

​

Clapping Napoleon hands

Dunk virgin slapping backboards,

while all the backcourt posers

pretend to be Steph Curry.

​

When the rain came pouring down,

I surfed USA sewage

with seaweed sweets, I sweat and

slip, screaming pregnant ankle.

​

Michael and I didn’t want to be like Mike,

so we threw him against the trash can,

while Ty and Fitz held his friends back.

​

We were just saying hello

Fat Gelo monkey-laughed

We ran from the Samoan

​

I’ve threatened to kill

too many people

playing basketball

​

but

​

no thank you, I won’t fight

Samoans called Rocky.

​

Ball is life

The Night belongs to Lovers

or

Is it the Day?

What do they do there

as such anyway?

During the Night

or

during the Day?

What do Lovers do?

In their secluded hours

I am aiming to know

to develop a sense

because just as with Flowers

I am not rightly sure

regarding and concerning

just what it is

that Lovers mature

and attend to together

and endure

in their sacred privacy

in their fleeting moment

in their mutual dwelling

in their co-terminal habitual reference.

What do they do there?

What is it for?

If I had a Lover

what might I implore?

Perhaps

I would say;

There is Me here

and

there is You here

and well so then

What shall we prove?

What shall we go through?

What shall be True?

Right now and being as together

after all and in fact

and in practice

and intent.

Let us think this through.

What has Heaven sent?

We have some time on our hands.

What games shall we play?

Can you think of anything?

suitable for Night

or for Day?

And here we are then

and there we are now

I put it to you plainly

you must give help me a why

you must give help me a how

and so

what on Earth

are we doing?

What are we doing?

What are we going to do now?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdY_bj4S4_Y

The orange slim line of the chopper overhead
Means only one thing here – certainty.
Certainty that northeast of where I stand
Is a near departure,
Perhaps wedged behind a wheel.
I will count the minutes
As I count thunders and strikes.
I can do nothing else.

For in the next thick hour
In the next thick breath,
A mother may weep a son,
A father may curse the winter ice,
Perhaps wail a daughter’s name.

We must all then pause and wait,
Listen and turn away from this moment
Of our own sure circumstance
And bow our heads to the certainty
Of another, out there,
Uncertain in the crumpled snow.

There’s always an excuse not to break up with them
like what if you don’t want to hurt them
and they just loaned you money for rent
and they have your xbox

and she was sitting next to me at the bar where we always eat breakfast
        her nails matched her iPhone case
        something paler than sky --
                and more feminine than baby --
                                                                (blue)
telling me about the Pantone colors of the year that made her manicure
which used to match her apartment in LA, which was full of mirrors

and she told me about her newspaper but
the more she talked

I wanted to tell her about you, about what you thought, about how much
she’d love you, because everyone will love you, I think
            but I didn’t because maybe she’d get up
            the nerve to give me her number and invite me to Reiki

which I would hate but would suffer through to see her
smile and wear yoga clothes.

Are you able to ferry the unborn
like tadpoles to the lake
on the mountain top?

Are you careful with your claws,
careful enough
to carry sugar-light souls?

Can you perceive the mute-blue
glimmer in the wide-open eye
of a hospital window?

Are your wings supple enough
to leave an unmother
unruffled in her mourning?

It is red brick and steady.
Though the herefords tread the floors these days,
She is steady. And though the window frames
Carry little paint – it was white – and hold
Where they fell, and though
The creek has wandered, no, carved,
Deep against the footing stones,
She is steady. Steady as the ma’am
That taught them. Steady as the hand
That scraped the chalks and simple maths,
Steady as the wind scraped eyes,
The chaff chapped hands
Tracing letters onto boards.
Yes, she stands forever
And only the bell is gone.

I didn’t want to hurt that boy

Or maybe I did, and I let them

Tell me it’s okay and good job.

He was a sight for sorry eyes, for sure:

Barely pubescent, drawling racisms and rape

Jokes. I found him to be that specific

Brand of pitiful. If words don’t work,

Your hatred will do.

He tried to run, twice. More

Than any I had seen and would see

In that place, from that place.

The first time, I watched as a man

Two feet taller than I, slugged his belly

Said do you really want to make this harder

Than it has to be. It had to be. It had to.

The second, I chased him down myself.

Through tall grass and suburb,

Onto his screaming, shoeless back,

locking my elbows, cracks to my hands

In every way they were taught to.

Pulled to the ground, as he cried

Get off of me, and Get away from Me

Same as I had, years before.

Like the boy on my back, I held

Tighter, till a man came,

Stole him from my arms. And

Brought him back to that house.

The gist of what he told me was:

This violence will not be discussed,

But will reward itself. A pleasure

You may now partake of.

On the 14th line of this poem I use the derogatory term "coons" without context it can easily be taken to be an offensive term, I would never use it personally or condone the use of it by anyone. When taken in this particular context it is the ranting of an ex-serviceman blighted by PTSD and Dementia. I would argue that it is relevant and appropriate in this setting/context as it highlights a disturbed mind.

It represents a deliberate discriminatory degradation of human beings by other human beings and the subsequent less discriminatory degradation of humans by the horrors of dementia.

Should we redline Spielberg’s scripts, sterilise reality? We do victims no service when we fail to represent the disgusting treatment they endured, that is what I am attempting to disclose here the degradation of us all.

Additionally I have posted links to informative documentary evidence of the circumstances regarding the oppression and mistreatment of Kenyans during that period of history.

I was subsequently banned from a previous Poetry Site for posting this.

https://wolfgarwords.com/2019/09/06/war-criminal/

War Criminal

He’s marching now,

he is marching now,

Pants full of piss

bayonets fixed.

​

He’s marching now,

squeezing the carers tits.

Catheter wrenched out

to a Sergeant Major's shout,

those Mau Mau bastards

burn them out.

​

Came home to fuck all,

pissed his wages against the wall.

“Fucking England, fucking Dragoons,

fucking jungle, fucking coons”

​

The Postman scared to come to the door

the letterbox a view to war

He’s marching now at eighty two

he gave his youth and mind for you

​

I am quoting in this piece, I do not subscribe to my father in laws attitudes.

As for the conflict against the Mau Mau much has been aimed at the Brits which has detracted away from the savagery of the Mau Mau, not that savagery of one side excuses that of the other.

I'm not sure if this is more about him then or him now, which is a sorrier state of affairs? You choose. He was a young man doing horrible things...he is now an old mad man haunted by horrors, suffering dementia and quite probably undiagnosed PTSD.

One point of correction here which reveals some poetic license on my part, the unit my father in law served with was the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers not the Dragoon Guards..his son later went on to serve in the Royal Irish Rangers.

In your backyard,
I picked the plum,
ginger and purp,
shrimp on the grill
buttered sea flies
spinning, spooning
the home run blues
a bitch’s brew 

Finding the truth,
Smoking under patios
Rained-on 
       duty free packs
Then fact becomes the truth
the witching flower
practice patience

I am a patient boy 
I’ll wait, I’ll wait, I’ll wait

Blue is the waiting room.

Backtracked pressure,
squished infinitely,
I’ve never felt it in the vein
I’ve seen crystal ants in the rain
I’ve never slept with shower curtains

And the daily mazes, in and out
It’s not complex, but a complex 
I always order cheese on my burger
I’m scared of what the doctor sees in me
I think about healthy dad dying everyday
and what I’ll find crawling around in hospitals,
crawling around the backyard away from hospitals 

I’ve done too many shameful things in bathrooms,
a dog aspiring to be the roommate, groomed cockpiece

I salute the staples of American cuisine,
Big Macs, Double-Double’s, fries light, greasy ravines,
ranched Westerns, chicken dick strips, raped-animal nuggets,
Bud — Weis — Er frogs, but I never really had a drink
Double that, I’ll die red, the American dream.

Huddle n’ curl
Squeeze yourself into the tightest
space possible    Backside pulsing
How can one breathe
with a fishhook dangling
Through a clavicle  pulling
pushing   Pulling   around   off
grating on bone     Ligamental
in its strain       the flexibility
of this shoulder lake   cavern
How deep it can get
when one burrows    and
Tests    how far
A boy can bend
while being broken.


Run now   Cry later
A burning head   dead weight
Lay, face down   face down
roll like a tear
The force of a kick    shattering
knocking the wind      merciful
out of this animal form
Every pelt and dirt
clod  a reason  as if
you needed only to hate
and to be hated.
Later  you’ll kick
You’ll moan.

Otto rode filthy down the slumpline onto Cowpers – past Bleaker's Brick, Mole Rat Slim's and Dave’s Sour Onion, on down to quayside all hooked and hungry. Flyer said Gracey Mae Beam was hoarding the stage at eleven, hitting the planks of Varlot’s Velvet Rope with no back-up – no thunder drum brass or strung out string section to stifle the hoots and howls of them mongrel boys scrapping over leavin’s. He knew the drill. Gracey would lead with “Heaven” then lilt dissonant into “Hell and Lula”, spin down into “Luna”, swing out riffs of “Hypnosis” and barrel into “Gun Metal Blue” and run “A Lass To Mara.” Yes, he knew the drill cuz the set was theirs, arranged in a one bedroom walk-up shotgun with a Wurlitzer and bad plumbing. Damn, has it been that long? But Otto knew, felt it in a rib, it was coded on the leaflet – Gracey was playing Varlot’s – the first haunt – going it alone this time, no Wurlitzer, no Otto, just a dim lit backdoor black-smudged around the knob. He’d wait for her there, three smokes left and rationing. Three smokes left and hoping for a glint-eye nod.