Paranoid Love Song #4.

You have always reminded me
Of that greatest ever
Sub
Atomic
Particle.

You are two different things
Dependant,
Bizarrely,
On my perspective.

Without you,
There shall be no light.

Without you,
Where would the grand forces of electromagnetism start
And end?

The universe is judged
In accordance with your
Velocity.

But what happens to you
When the switch
Is turned
Off?

Surely, you must be joking.

The Night I Saw Emil Zátopek Get a High Score On Q*Bert.

Emil Zátopek had a stack of quarters
As high as three joysticks.
He was, as usual, a man on a mission.

Was this Emil Zátopek's first time?
Could he do it all again?
Would I bear witness to greatness?

So I asked him.
"Emil Zátopek," I said,
"Should I be taking pictures
Or something?"

"@!#?@!?", said Emil Zátopek.

Of Morning.

Not knowing how to plan a funeral,
How to dispose of assets,
How to inform family members,
Friends,
Acquaintances.
None of it.

I bought a ticket
On a bus
Bound for the middle
Of nowhere.

And left the details
To the state.

There will be no requiem.

In Which Louis Riel Goes Visiting and Gets Into a Tight Place.

Last night, in the alley behind my apartment building, Louis Riel got his hand stuck in the dumpster.

The dumpster, of course, is padlocked to discourage any misdemeanor behaviour,
Like taking garbage.
Or adding garbage.

I heard moans of not quite agony coming from the leader of the Red River Rebellion
And went
To investigate.

I was only wearing gym shorts
And bathroom slippers.
It was a thick,
Hot,
Muggy night.
A real cicada summer.

Louis Riel! I called.
How'd you get all caught up in that dumpster?

Louis Riel! I added.
Can I call you Dave?

Louis Riel had some cockamamie story about trying to dispose of a baggie full of dog poop.
But I didn't see any dog.
And why not just drop the so-called baggie full of dog poop in the trash can on the corner?
Eh, Louis Riel?

Stop right there, Dave! I said to Louis Riel.
You know, I continued,
If my mother happened to be 125 years old
She would have been born
On the day
Of your
Execution.

Think about that, Dave.
Think about that.

Goodbye, Dr. Jukes.

No One Reads My Poetry Blog.

No one reads my poetry blog.
And there's some decent shit
On there.
Epic fucking poems.
Cry your eyes out shit,
If you ask me.

I was going to change
The theme
Of my poetry blog.
I was going to change
My blog
Into a sports fan blog.

Amateur analysis.
Ardent bravado.
Loud-mouthed bluster.

But then I got a secret
Note,
In the guise of a comment,
Under one of my best
Poems.
Ever.

It was a request,
From the Soviet Union.
The U.S.S. fucking R.
The secret police.
The goddamn KGB.

Codes.
Messages.
Embedded in these lines.
Verses.
Stanzas.
Et cetera.

No problem.
I'll do it.
I don't owe this
Society
Nothing.

There are drunken parakeets
In Banja Luka
Tonight.

Lynn Peak, solo mission. 18/03/10

Me and Marx Together in a Hot Tub.

I met Karl Marx in the hot tub at my community centre pool,
Last week.
I was shocked, but I've come to expect
The unexpected.
I asked Karl Marx about Das Kapital,
Then I made a Groucho joke.

Karl Marx looked at me like I was an asshole.
But I was just being friendly.

I told Karl Marx
That I had been thinking
About creating
My own
Manifesto.

Karl Marx got up,
Toweled off,
And left without saying good-bye.

Of Night.

The old man was dead,
When I got home.
But I thought he was sleeping,
So I went to bed.
Left him in his easy chair,
To rot.
Or fester.
Or just sit there,
Until tomorrow afternoon.

It'll Never Fly

Leo Cooper, in a bid to become jet propelled,
was hard at work in his basement workshop.

His nose, as they say, was to the grindstone.

Leo Cooper's anti-gravity boots might as well
have been powered by unicorn dust.

It'll never fly. I told him that.

Leo Cooper took a break, went upstairs,
made Sanka for himself and me.

I took artificial whitener.
Leo Cooper? He takes his Sanka black.

A Poem About Leo and His Uncle.

I don't know if Leo Cooper, the real Leo Cooper, has an Uncle, Ray or otherwise. I assume not. Don't take it personal, we are all Leo Cooper.


Leo Cooper was at his weird Uncle Ray's place,
For the afternoon.

Weird uncle Ray was as old as dust.
As old as lies.
As old as treachery.

Leo Cooper and weird, old Uncle Ray,
Were digging graves,
In the back garden.

"Not so shallow!" barked Uncle Ray.
"Make the walls even!" demanded Uncle Ray.

Leo Cooper dug graves all afternoon.
Not too shallow,
Not deep enough to disguise,
What always would be.

Hands blistered,
Face streaked with mud and sweat,
Leo Cooper sat with weird Uncle Ray,
Watching the summer sunshine fade into the end of the day.

Slowly sipping cold, tall, sweet lemonade,
Each lost in thoughts of their own.

5 Year Plan.

Henry Slade Talbot is coming back one day.
I know this,
I read it in Plain Truth magazine.

Henry Slade Talbot has been down so long,
That he's in a bowl full of cherries.
He's a mess.

And no amount of pain,
Torture,
Bloodletting,
Horrors unspeakable,
Will keep me from getting on the next bus out of town.

I'm on my way to lie,
At the feet of,
Henry Slade Talbot.

The reckoning is nigh.

Veronica.

Here's the story of this weird girl I knew when I was eight years old. Her family joined a cult and moved away. I wonder if she's ever written a poem about me?

In 1976
You and yours
Walked into the blackout.
Blinded.

Veronica called
And someone listened.
They found you
Hiding.
Hidden.
Blinded.
Bitten.

Lunar Eclipse.

Venus Flytrap vs. Bug

The boy and myself made this.

Fuckin' Rat.

Paranoid Love Song #3.

I’m hiding in this cold, dark alleyway,
Digging at the base of my skull with a protractor.
I know it’s in there.
Somewhere.

I was on my way to see you,
When someone began to follow me.
Silent footsteps,
But I knew I was not alone.
I took evasive action.

I’m being watched.
It could be the old woman collecting cans and bottles,
Or the silhouette in that dimly lit apartment.
Or the paperboy,
Or the family next door.

Why couldn’t it have been you?
Staring into my eyes?
Our love, more powerful than this,
Remote controlled listening device.

Why couldn’t it be you?

Paranoid Love Song #2.

I would have called,
But I can’t say my name,
Over the telephone line.

Just when I thought,
Everything was going to be,
Alright.

I saw this story on the news,
And if I can do one thing,
I can read between the lines.

I heard what that,
Foreign correspondent,
Said.

About you.
About me.

I should have called.

Paranoid Love Song #1

I’ll be the aluminum foil,
Over your living room window.

If you’ll be the microscopic microphone,
In my smoke alarm.

No microwaves from any CIA satellite,
Will ever reach you.

As long as my voice transmits,
A scrambled frequency,
To whoever’s been sneaking around here all night long.

And if I ever see a black helicopter,
Hovering over your favourite spot.

I’ll send out a signal with the electrode,
That’s implanted in my head.

That’ll confuse those fuckers,
More than you or I could ever dream.

In which the boy and myself go looking for eagles.

There was evidence on the ground...


We saw their home...


Sam found leftovers...


But no eagles did we see.