3 Primitive Works of Art

I’ve blogged them before, but what the hey, here they are again. Click to enlarge.

5 Short Poems

Strange Worlds Away

Given the nation pays them to be dour
and forever carve a hero in their image
from even the most juvenile of crimes,   
retarding poets, leaving the demonised
strange worlds away from repentance,

may the gift to freely contest the power
of all psychiatrists be enshrined as a right
inalienable for all people at all times
and never again, like aspirin, be dissolved 
by any judge in any punitive sentence.

Nietzsche's Cock

A solitary who often downed his slacks,
it must have awoken him to his paternity 
of not just one monster but a myriad,
his cock, and if you sharpen eternity
on the rough whetstone of your period
what you hold in your hand is an axe.

Onward Christian Soldiers

Well, given many a door is knocked
in the knowledge that a real psycho,
a savage dealer of party pills and pot
who's always loaded, always cocked,
might see a secret Rasputinian Trot
on a murderous mission from Tycho
and a righteous response in slavery,
are they not beautiful in their bravery?

Leunig the Lost

What a true source of spiritual direction,
the duck. What a holy symbol of the hope
fulfilment is fated. Say the dirty drakes
that respond to rejection by gang-raping
any poor female duck perilously isolated:
"Obey every erection for a fuck's a fuck!"

Seed Head

Like a fragile little seed head,
on a windy day I was blown apart
and scattered all over the yard.
But I basked in the warm sun,
I drank the water from showers
and I awoke to the power of art
to transform everything hard
into many pretty little flowers.
I died but I didn't remain dead
and I threw away my knife and gun.

Incantation to Raise a Poet

My dear, as even true monsters are taught to behave
by poetry's enriching powers,
the words you now place on every stave
drop like Jews huddled together in showers, 

like toddlers during a heat wave 
and businessmen from blazing towers.
They drop like the pants of the pathetic slave
who hates scouring for porn but scours, 
the drunk who downs many shots of aftershave
in preference to whisky sours 
and the exhilarating monster wave 
that drowns the tired poets it devours.

The Second Casualty

For Jim Schembri and Lawrence Money.

It was often said of Saddam Hussein 
by those in favour of his dethronement
that when he really wanted to be gory
he literally tore his enemies to shreds
by throwing them into a huge grinder.
And our dictator was clearly insane.
He ground the notion of atonement
with hands hardened by the crank.
But turning men into mince? The story 
was exposed as atrocity propaganda,
and didn't they then shake their heads,
the journos who could be a lot kinder 
to this here former criminal of little rank 
long defaced by their lack of candour
concerning certain assaults by stealth,
long rendered by all the social workers,
nurses and cops who slavishly follow 
our messianic masters of mental health, 
unduly rounding up unhappy lurkers   
outside hallowed cathedrals, so hollow.

The Glass Danseuse

To every so-called incel
So you were rejected by a cold-blooded darling
who showed you no respect at all, a glass danseuse 
spinning a lie in a beautiful pirouette 
yet upon all the troubles of the world afloat.

No wonder you couldn’t swallow her without chewing!
But of course she’s now shredding your gullet!

But good women out there are listening. 

So do you shove a few fingers down your throat 
and bring up a bloody muck of desire and regret 
to be swallowed with additional slurs? 
Do you lower yourself in an orgy of snarling?
Or do you, like a furnace built only for renewing 
a warm spiritual path to a woman unique and dear, 
to wine glasses glistening 
in the candlelight of a chandelier,
swallow your danseuse and digest her like cullet?

A More Brutal Death

For Jim Schembri and Lawrence Money

I bet it was more brutal for thinking her boy  
lost to schizophrenia, my poor mother’s death.  
Being on opposite sides in her final hours,  
cruelly separated by the psychiatric shibboleth  
that has long branded as deeply psychotic  
what reason defends with the utmost rigour   
(my belief that you used a major newspaper  
to secretly ridicule the schizophrenic nigger),  
and by my inexplicable, unspeakable habit     
of disappearing in the Devil’s triangle of bliss,  
I abandoned her to the days before I became in love  
EVERYTHING and nothing but a pissoir for your piss,  
and with her fearing her meeting with Jehovah,  
to the thought that she alone fucked me over.

The Easiest of Parts

For Jim Schembri and Paul Harris.

Flaring up and fading like a spliff
being smoked by the Almighty,
it has performed a solar cycle,
the sun, since two broadcasters
viciously ridiculed my madness on air
without saying the name “Michael”,
and eleven years have passed
since I was first deemed paranoid
in relation to the cowardly attack
by a shrink trained to typecast
every angry schizophrenic male
as “just another violent menace
so deeply removed from reality
he can’t be re-educated in jail”,
and here I am, still being drugged
because my ire is deemed sick,
still hoping you’ll mercifully employ
your vast cinematic knowledge
and not only advance the fine arts
by defending what’s individualistic
in many a madman, the true rebel
the psychiatrist seeks to diminish,
but give the story of the cinéastes -
who were given the easiest of parts 
as witnesses to evil and shrugged -
the sheen of a restorative finish.