Friday, August 5, 2011

2011 Voices

The gray felt sky
Muffles the heartbreak
Stills small voices
Desperate in debt.
Building cranes hang still.
Gleaming robot armies
Of massive unemployment.

Everyone is busy
Not knowing what to do.
Buy? Sell? Head for the hills?
Grim smiles and hopeless jokes,
The bus-stop a place for news.
Cigarette butts flicked like a full stop.
In an unfinished sentence.

Rise up? Against what ?
All debts are off.
Sold, lost, traded.
The enemy has no name,
No face.

Looking down,
From cloud-capped towers,
Gold, silk and tortiseshell
He ponders the poor.
Scurrying ants below.
The Olympian child
Lord of the Universe,
With mescaline veins
and a magnifying glass
In the sun.

Around the globe
A hundred lands
a billion voices in a thousand tongues
Exchange a trillion words
Each instant
With but one plaintive plea:
"Pick me! pick me! pick me!"
Tossing and twittering
In that banal insipid sea.

Crawling now
from endless drains
A billion dirty children
Lousy thin and uncomprehending
But hungry, always hungry, beadily watching
For the chubby man's slip, the fat woman's lapse
That lands a creamcake in the ghats
And a hundred legs come running.
These we may say to visitors from
Another world proudly, these are
Our children.

In the desert
Half drunk with anger
a broken dagger lies
in a rapists hand.
Honour as defilement.
Defilement as honour.
Nothing begets nothing
But motes of sand
Beneath the insane
of God's
unbearable eye.

At sea
Walls of steel
squeeze shining fish
Simmering seething blood
Into dolphin friendly cans.
The logical compression
Of sentimental destruction
Deaf to the wails
Of starving seas.

And roaring
Gulps down
A forest
Belches gas
Apologises hopefully but
No trees remain
to give leave.

In a modest hut
A mother sings
A lullaby to the baby
The family watch a gameshow
On a badly tuned TV.
The music of hope
Loud across the emptiness
To the animals standing
Patiently in the unaccustomed
Brilliance of a travelling star.

Its curving up
Its curving down
The circle seems different
From without or within
No-one honestly knows
Which direction we're going.
Just that we will all arrive together
In the end.

Grey warbler

Your bold proposition
trills over the bush
The warm, dusty air
awaits an answer.
The whole summer is
listening with you.

Will she call back?
Romance in an eggshell.

Antipodean Easter

Leaf fires
The soft mud of cold rains
The closing of minds
credit and ambition
for winter.

He who was living is now dead
and will not return.
The stone is open
The word has flown.
Leaving only debts.
And a half finished
video series.

The winding vine of
Poetry sheds its petals
Leaving platitudinous stalks.
The discounts have failed
The offers are untouched.
There are no daffodils
The wind unfurls the flax
Rippling like grasping arms
Begging for bread.
Tui forgets to sing.

In his burrow, Kiwi nestles,
Prepares to stump the darkness
Probing through the rain and wind
In the barren bush searching
Like a blind beggar for
what little the land will yield.
Darkness, cold and starvation
Envelopes all.

Now is the hour
When darkness spreads on
Black clouds of snow.
And hope, which once stood
Banner defiant, a glimmer
Shining alone on the crag
Folds away under cover.
Sick with terror.
The earth trembles
The ring is lost
Moloch is coming.

This is not the end of the beginning
But the beginning of the end.
Tides rush forward.
The Earth smokes
And shudders.
Foundations of lies
Slide and fall.
Moloch is coming.

The grease of commerce
Spreads itself on all living things
Congeals and clogs
The temple seizes
Heart freezes.
And stops.
The heart has gone.
Moloch is here.