Message for any readers out there (if any!)

Hi

I realise that 'Blogging' is as much self-serving as it is for public entertainment. In light of this truth I have to ask the question: "Is anybody reading this blog?" So that is my question, is there anyone reading this blog and if so would you like me to continue posting items of interest?

Obviously, this stuff takes time to produce, edit, post etc. The growing realisation that blogging (in my own opinion) is a probable waste of time has led me to ask this question to find out if it's worth carrying on. Anyway, there you have it - should I stay or should I go? Also, feedback on the blog etc would be appreciated.

Best wishes


Will

God is not an American - (Read & find out why!)





david bowie said:

      “god is an american”


nietzsche said

      “god is dead”

madame blavatsky said

      “there is no religion,
        higher than truth”

i say:

      “truth & religion
        are non-compatible”

by the way,
this is not a political poem
or a religious poem

my views (contd.):
 

      a poem is an expression of interest
      potentially, entertaining

      possibly, thought provoking
      usually, annoying
      seldom enjoyable
      always didactic

      drivel – essentially

but this poem
is not meant to tell you
what a poem is or isn’t
or what you should think
 

this is just 
some words on a page
possibly, not even a poem

vers libre or not libre
that is not the question

finally,
just to set a few things straight:

      god is not an american
      god is not even alive so how can he/she/it be dead
      truth & religion 

      should never be mentioned
      in the same sentence
      ever
 

& poetry . . .

      don’t even breathe that word.








Perfume

i love
the smell of the city
the hustle-bustle brilliance
of life effective in every moment

sweet ambrosia of death
sits lurking
in the shadows of rancid alleyways
signposted with ciphers
symbols of strange forests
hieroglyphics of night’s construction

breathe in
the humanity
breathe out
the horror

the horror of concrete & steel
a flailing colossus
the smell of victory
over death
not too unlike
“the smell of napalm
in the morning”

lingering
like perfume in the back of your throat


A Certain Kind of Countenance

Her face, like a flower
In a closed fist
Wrinkled against time, adversity
A patronising counterpart
Settled in for a long lag

& the drugs don’t work, all the time
cigarettes, booze, pills, smoke . . .
you name it, it’s viable
as long as it’s a substitute
for reality, three dimensions

a quiet cup of tea
& dogs are barking
cars growling down the thin streets
sirens screaming,
intermittently
a broken tap drips
drips
drips
across the room, nestled amongst
dirty plates piled high
flies buzzing amongst the scraps
on the kitchen bench

a few ragged photos litter the walls
& the money’s all gone
two cigarettes ‘til hell
no substitutes immediately avail themselves
as each thing becomes a part of her
like broken crockery strewn across the floor
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