Your poems are too long; I don't read them
(in fact I barely have the energy to scroll ...
this intranetting format being so unsuited
to any role, except that of lurker &/or troll.
Your life has gone on far too long; I can't
read between its lines, can't bring myself
to think, in fact, of anything at all to bray.
But as they say you've still got your health,
& just think of all the bits you won't need to
expend in the future. I'm too lazy; I didn't
bother checking first before hammering
away at the keys. But I don't care & won't
be staying long. In fact I'm already gone,
on to my next blog. Too late,
dumb rhymer!
Category: Poems (page 14 of 73)
As of October 2011, I’d posted over three hundred poems on this site, including many sonnets and search poems, as well as numerous poems that didn’t make it into chapbooks such as Abendland and Morgenland. I then ceased posting poems here, choosing instead to distribute them via my poem of the week newsletter. Then I stopped doing that too. Every now and then I post a poem here … but not as often as I’d like.
hills without trees and dried-up rivers intravenously wind their way through towns verging on sleepytime status as down in a park people light barbecues or play football ruckmen and rovers all blend into one in the twilight as seeing the ball gets harder noses get bruised laughter echoes down concrete canals from under leaves and lamplights frogs harmonise like green and brown chorus singers (go to sleep riverina go to sleep little babies and frogs go to sleep like a lullaby rivers dream themselves south though they bear no water like an old party line with no subscribers (maybe one day a raincloud picks up the phone and the frogs break into song again and the green grass return to the park and all the people fall asleep at once) more listening to the dead lullaby of the land
The day I got the braces put on my face was not the happiest day of my life, to be perfectly honest. In fact, it was horrible. The weather was wild and windy, and the procedure took about four hours. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt. It hurt like hell. Once they started though, I couldn’t pull out. I couldn’t even speak. That was part of the problem. The other part was that if I pulled out halfway through, I’d still have all these bits of metal stuck to my teeth that I couldn’t get off. Not a good look, as I’m sure you can imagine. Braces aren’t the coolest look in the world either. Three years later I got those braces taken off. Ah, there goes my holiday apartment on the Gold Coast mum said each time I flashed that smile at her. Gee that felt great; in fact I felt just like the ugly duckling that turned into a swan -- only swans don’t have teeth and neither do ducks.
pls re-tweet & follow this if you can: CSI Fallujah trending, mission accomplished & war on terror continues unabated on the day obama died i was buying candles in abbottabad inadvertantly i liveblogged the whole damn cash transaction check your receipts, people - the asteroids have not landed she was a real mars crosser - & a sub-orbital patriot gamer did you see how QILF was trending? copy that & re-tweet if you agree, let's make it happen people, dance in the streets i count eight lines down already, six more & it's a sonnet - copy that if you agree, re-tweet &/or watch it start trending oh i see jack bauer is trending, funny that - follow me if you agree with what i'm saying, or don't. smokin' hashtags here, pplz, plz agree. did we mention instant fucking deathcamps? did i mention one million dead people trending? #justsayin'
I
"Morten, who was not so good to English,
wore oversized glasses that made his face
look crooked, as if he had been punched,
on a train, by some thug from Århus. We
corresponded only very briefly, when we
were both in primary school, but yesterday
I felt his presence in the capital, København,
like a scab slowly peeling itself off my face.
The things he liked to do, his hobbies and
favourite sports, elude me, though football
must be in there somewhere. I am left with
a simple image: a boy carrying a backpack
and wearing a black beanie, travelling alone
on a train in the so-called happiest country
in the world, watching as fields of grey metal
glide by in complete silence. Maybe I should
blame Peter Høeg for putting the image there.
I mean, who else? I want to write him a letter,
ask him if Morten drew a slash through his Os,
the way that I used to cross my Ts, dot my Is."
II
"We'll imagine that for Morten, at his age anyway,
the idea of a girlfriend was preposterous. School
being the great equaliser, we'll creepily approve of
the idea that he was bashed, daily. His parents,
having also been victims of working class hate,
were powerless to stop it, despite their letters
to the schools department, the weekly protests.
You can guess why Morten's on the train, then:
he's running away to København, or else further,
across the Øresund Bridge to Malmö. We'll allow
him to get that far, perhaps further still, before
the Polisen corner him in Lund, their windbreakers
catching him in a patriarchal embrace, knocking
his glasses from his face, spilling the contents
of his backpack all over the icy platform for anyone
to see. No papers, barcode - no true identity
to speak of. It's a fair way from Århus to Lund
but his father drives virtually non-stop through
a horizontal blizzard, pausing once to pay a toll
on the Øresund Bridge, and a second time to cry."
III
"I only ran away that one time, fleeing violence
the way refugees flee internment camps, or else
momentary ceasefires. They amount to the same
thing: entering that gap in space between days,
running fast like my old football coach taught me,
head down, fists like pistons. I thought my black
tracksuit would camouflage me against the night,
the mean streets of Vesterbro. As it turned out,
in København I couldn't even leave the station,
surrounded by Tivoli's dregs and angel's wings.
I rode black on a train bound for Malmö instead,
got as far as Lund before the future caught up
with me. I waited for my father in a juvenile cell
crowded with boys who jeered, then broke my
glasses. I managed to get one solid punch in
before being king-hit from behind but it was
worth it. Then on the long drive back to Jutland
for some reason I recalled that Australian boy
who pretended to be my penpal for a month or
two, back in primary school. Hvad var hans navn?"