The Dragonfly Hunter

How far to-day in chase, I wonder,

Has gone my hunter of the dragon-fly?

A reinterpretation of a Haiku by Chiyojo (1703-1775)

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Storm in a Tea Cup

I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
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I SLAY THE BUDDHA
I SLAY THE BUDDHA
I SLAY THE BUDDHA
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JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
CREATES A BUDDHA
IS IT YOU - OR ME
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I REMEMBER YOUR HAND
SHAKING
THE HAND OF FRIENDSHIP
TREMBLED
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JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
REVEALS THE BUDDHA
NONE CAN SEE
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I REMEMBER YOUR SMILE
FRAGILE
YOUR JUDAS LIPS WERE
KISSED
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JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
SLAYS THE BUDDHA
IN YOU AND ME
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I REMEMBER YOUR LIES
SUBTLE
THE SLIGHT OF HAND
CONCEALED
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JUST A LITTLE DROP
IN A CUP OF TEA
BETRAYS THE BUDDHA
IN YOU AND ME
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I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
I AM THE BUDDHA
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YOU SLAYED THE BUDDHA
YOU SLAYED THE BUDDHA
YOU SLAYED THE BUDDHA
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Amon Ra

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I didn’t see him, not at first, I didn’t see him, or I would have turned away. Icy cold snakes coiled in embarrassing silence, they spilled from the pit of my stomach and slithered away in disgust. If I’d seen him first, but I didn’t, I just turned around and he was there – a nauseating, heart-stopping, electric jolt of a man.

My blood blanched when a flicker of recognition played across that vacant smile and impassive gaze and he once more held me thralled in his headlights. Then I remembered who he was, what I’ve seen him do, and I just wanted to laugh. I wasn’t afraid, really, I wasn’t afraid, just mesmerized by the symmetry of his stripes and his cold dead eyes.

I’m thinking Amon Ra was a mean junkie bitch, with a bad case of temper which allowed him to lay on women and children. So I smote the bitch with my cosmic imagery and Rasta radiation. I fixed him in the constellations with my size ten atomic boots and lit a big bad blunt. Amon Ra? Who the fuck is  Amon Ra?

Confidentially

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May I just say, strictly in confidence you understand - just between you and I, and I would not dream of saying this to another living soul, but with circumstances being what they are I really feel I must say something. Heaven knows I don’t like to pry; I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’m not one for tittle tattle, I’m no gossip, but I’m bound to say and with a certain amount of justification, I think that you’ll agree, that something must be said. With the situation being what it is, and it’s for that reason only, I think I can confide in you – I can confide in you? Good, well as you know it’s being going on for some time now and I feel it’s time someone said something, don’t you? Far be it from me to judge, it’s hardly a question of blame, it’s just that things have reached a point where someone must say something. I think that it might be good to get things out in the open. I’m sure you agree that it just can’t go on like this indefinitely and sooner or later someone will have to speak out and while I’m reluctant to be that person, it’s hardly a task I relish, I think that time has come. I’m sure you can see that beating about the bush can only prolong the matter and there is no point in postponing the inevitable. You do agree, don’t you? I’m glad we understand each other. I can see we have reached an understanding – no need to say anymore. Mum’s the word, you can trust me. I won’t say a dicky bird; this will not leave this room. Thank you for hearing me out. I’m so glad to have gotten that off my chest.

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Opium

sticky black puddles radiate

where unnamed Gods baptize

soft oozing words are featherweight

in luxurious velvet sighs

on clouds of expelled opiate

to recombine and synthesize

soothing songs in tones sedate

tell beautiful and welcome lies
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Idiot Lanterns

billions of captive domiciles
are strung with idiot lanterns
triumphantly spewing 
discount entertainment
at competitive prices
an entire planet
is enthralled
by simulation
and illusion
24/7
30 days
30 rock
48 hours
60 minutes
8 simple rules
$64,000 questions
for the American idle
“I’m a non-entity,
get me out of here!”

bleach me
with the cathode raygun
marinade my brain
in the irrelevant and inane
talk show raconteurs
with lightweight banter
enliven Saturday night specials
with polished mediocrity
they stunt my mojo
with their novocaine lines
I’ve been broken 
on the wheel of fortune
I am the weakest link
America’s next biggest loser
fired into my demographic
slot machine

I hit the jackpot
when they bound my imagination
with cable and tangled me up
with a million channels
I could drown myself in
they have delivered unto me
an important message
from my sponsor;
“Everyone who visits your toilet
is judging you”
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The Boy in The Moon

The moon hung low and large - so close he could nearly touch it. He was mesmerized by its great golden face. There really was a man in the moon and he was smiling at him. He was following him. Every step he took the moon kept pace with him. He turned to the left, he turned to the right. He walked quickly, he walked slowly, but the moon was always right there with him as if they were connected by an invisible string. He really ought to have been hurrying home. He was terribly late. His mother would be worried and his father would be angry, but he just could not break away from the spell being cast by the magical moon. 

He'd had a wondrous day of footballing in the park and cowboys and indians in the woods. He had forged new friendships in the spirit of adventure and exploration; he made his way homeward with a heart light with the joy of living. He thought this long summer’s day would last forever, but it was getting dark now and day had turned to night.

He could feel the cool night air on his grass stained knees, the sensation roused him from his reverie and he suddenly realized he was in a world of trouble. He picked up his tempo with a curiously light gait. The faster he went - the lighter his footfalls felt, until he felt he was hardly touching the ground at all. At last he was running and all the time he never took his eyes off the moon. ‘Was this a harvest moon?’ he’d heard of that, but he didn’t know when harvest time was. He felt like he was treading on air and when he looked at his feet he realized that he was.

He was still moving, his stride was carrying him forward, but he was floating away from the ground. He felt as if he was full of helium like a balloon at the fairground. He was curiously unconcerned with this development, he felt happily detached from the earth, yet exhilarated by this new discovery. He had overcome gravity, he was a flying boy. Soon, however, he discovered that the higher he went the less forward momentum he could generate with his legs and he kept floating higher. He became afraid now that he would float away, or that he would fall back to earth with a bump. He began to panic a little, but not for long. A chilly breeze blew through his thin shirt, but he did not feel cold – his body was infused with reassuring warmth that radiated from his core. He simply let go of all his cares and drifted on the wind ever higher into the night sky.

He marveled at the houses, roads and fields that were shrinking below him and the wide world opening up around him in an ever expanding horizon, but no matter how high he climbed his friend the moon stayed with him. He never rose above it, but it did seem to grow larger. Away from the street lights of the town now far below he could make out the stars, there were so many and they were different colours, some were white, some were blue and some were red. Soon the stars above outshone the lights that criss crossed the darkened earth below him and he discovered that far from being dark, the night sky was a brilliant blue. 

The boy was floating ever higher towards the ever growing moon. He felt quite serene in his gift of flight, as if this remarkable experience was quite natural. He pondered how long it would take to fly to the moon. It felt now as if the moon was pulling him towards it as the earth had once done. He speculated that he might not be flying away from the world, but falling towards the moon. He wondered if he would ever set foot on the earth again, if would he ever see his mother and father, or brothers and sisters again, he wondered distractedly if he really cared.

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Graphic by Steppenwolf

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moon dogs

they say the pueblo people snare moon dogs     in golden filaments      and wear their luminous pelts     to dance in their lunar mystery rites      when the big shiny glows      like a big silver dollar      across the southern desert      them moon dogs hunt the dark in packs       their howls fill the night air      eerie as spirit songs on the breezing       they paint the joshua trees large       and the desert lupines aquatic frost       them moon dogs cavort like ghosts       and caterwaul in the inky     the last truly wild creatures     in the last truly wild country       when the sky falls on the land     and we are sunk under her mystic woven blanket    them moon dogs chase their tails        round the angles in-between       their shadows and our dreams

 

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Empire of Broken Promises

 

Craters filled with dinosaur teeth

Vast archives of dusty elephant tusks

Mountains of torn old manuscripts

Broken road signs and tattered flags

Crazy paving stones leading nowhere

Fractured rainbows and sullen assent

False prophets and broken idols

Idiotic geometries of insane dimension

Incestuous romantics beating off franticly

To jungle rhythms played on thigh bones

Mutant junky baboons tapping veins

Wiping their asses with William Burroughs

Living relics of the beaten generation

This is the land of who gives a fuck

Where tomorrow never comes around

Where the streets have no shame

Whores give blowjobs for food stamps

And souls are rented by the hour

Jesus never lived in this neighbourhood

The light here comes from a darker sun

The residents await repatriation to hell

Nothing comes easy or cheap here

It’s the sleazy dark side of civilization

Spreading like a cancer across the city

Creeping like a nightmare into your room

A kingdom of have little’s and have naught’s

A filthy empire of broken promises

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The Phantom Piddler

Mrs. Hogan was a dark, thick set, giant of a woman with a Medusa face which was set in the grim aspect of distain. Her seething cauldron was ever on the verge of boiling over into rage. Mrs. Hogan - Hulk - was our fourth grade teacher, the dictator of a tiny nation who pressed her grapes of wrath. She would crouch before you to unleash her dragon breath – waves of halitosis spiced derision washed over you in a terrifying tsunami of abuse. “You are an imbecile boy – answer the question!” You knew the answer, but your mind was thrall – a rabbit in the headlights. “This boy doesn’t even know that two times two is four!” the class laughs heartily, if nervously. Your face flushed with embarrassment and shame, but the true humiliation  came later in the playground – when the humour got physical.

The heavy breasted Spartan tyrant ruled over her Helot minions with a mixture of violence and sarcasm. She sat at the head of the hierarchy of bullies – if she fingered you the rest were sure to follow. The nice kids, the middle class kids, were treated with fawning respect, but the poorer kids were reviled. Mrs. Hogan could strike with sudden fury hauling children by the hair, or dragging them by the arm in a vice like grip to the front of the class to be subjected to tirades of furious abuse while she slapped them around the head.

The days were long in Mrs. Hogan’s class, long and tortuous – especially if you were one of those less favoured children singled out for her special attention. “If brains were taxed you would get a rebate boy!” the children laughed, even those who were not quite sure what she was saying. “What do you have between your ears, a vacuum?” You had discovered long ago that even if you answered her enquiries correctly she would mimic you in sneering tones, and so you had fallen into silence. This was a tactic that had singled you out as the class idiot – your silence was growing ever deeper, until there really was a vacuum at the centre of your being.

Then one day something happened to rouse you from your reverie. The class was filing though the door after recess, some of the other kids were sniggering, and Mrs. Hogan had a face like thunder. When everyone was seated she took up her Mussolini stance – hands on hips before the class. The sunlight glinted off lenses of her horn rimmed glasses obscuring her eyes and giving her an even more inhuman aspect than usual. Her face was engorged with rage, “Who is responsible for this abomination?” she was pointing behind her towards the blackboard which bore the inscription scrawled in white chalk – “The Phantom Piddler Was Here!” beneath which was a small puddle. The class suddenly erupted with mirth, which was cut short by the dragon’s glare. “There is nothing funny about this disgusting display of savagery!” she intoned. “I want the culprit to come forward right now.” Moments of silent tension passed while she stared down the whole class. No one came forward.

For the next two days Mrs. Hogan simmered in her quiet rage, exploding occasionally in a seemingly random pattern at any pupil who irritated her – even her squeaky clean favourites were not immune. The question of the phantom piddler weighed heavy on her mind and was the chief subject of debate and speculation in the playground. Who was our masked hero, when would he strike again? We had not long to wait until he did. Two days after his first attack the phantom struck again in the same spot. This time he left the epitaph “The Phantom Piddler Strikes Again!” Mrs. Hogan could barely control her rage. She flew on her broomstick around the class accusing each of her most ‘troublesome’ boys in turn, until she came to you. “No,” she said, “You don’t have the gumption, even for this.” It was the most hurtful thing she ever said to you.

The next time the piddler struck it was a dagger to her heart. He left a puddle on her desk and scrawled “The Phantom Piddler Strikes Again!” across it. There was the usual rage and enquiries and threats, but it was becoming apparent to everyone that Mrs. Hogan was impotent in this face of the Phantom Piddler, our very own Zorro. From then on the classroom was always locked in Mrs. Hogan’s absence, but this did not stop our intrepid piddler. He struck again in the cloak room taking the time to leave his calling card, “The Phantom Piddler Strikes Again!” and against the classroom door, on which occasion he scrawled, “They Seek Him Here, They Seek Him There, They Seek The Piddler Everywhere!.”

The Piddler was a cause célèbre in the playground; everyone celebrated his exploits and speculated on his identity. Then one day, as we settled into another afternoon of boredom laced with terror, Mrs. Hogan called Alex Harvey to the front of the class. As you turn to watch him pass you notice that Anne McKenzie has turned beetroot red, Alex glowers at her as he passes, she was our quisling – She had seen Alex in the cloakroom and felt it was her duty to squeal.

Alex walked slowly, yet confidently, to the front of the class where Mrs. Hogan launched into a tirade of accusatory abuse, “You dirty little boy! You are the source of these disgusting incidents; it makes me sick to look at you!” Even though The Hulk was livid with righteous indignation and shouting right into Alex’s face he remained quite impassive, until The Hulk laid hands on him to shake him by the shoulders. It was then he came to life wrestling her off him, he cried out, “Leave me alone you old bag!” There was a muted murmur around the classroom. The Hulk stared at him in disbelief, “What did you say?” The shortest boy in the class Alex drew himself to his entire four feet in height and replied, “Leave me alone!” The gorgon grabbed him by the arm and attempted to drag him from the classroom into the corridor. Alex was a blur of hands and feet as he kicked and punched at the hulking woman who outweighed him ten to one, for a moment they actually traded blows, until Mrs. Hogan suddenly disengaged. She stood panting and staring her young advisory for a moment before saying, “Go back to your seat!” Some of the boys let out a cheer, Mrs. Hogan stared at the class and said, “Don’t make me deal with you too!” The unmistakable voice of Malcolm Fox, the class joker, piped up with “When you get your breath back” and the classroom sniggered openly.

The Sensational Alex Harvey, as Foxy dubbed him, was our Spartacus. He didn’t set us free, but he loosened our chains. For the remainder of the term Mrs. Hogan did not raise her hands to any of her pupils and though her sarcasm was withering, it was not as malignant as it was. There was a new attitude too in the playground - there was still bullying, but it was not vicious without the orchestration of the wicked witch. There was a new sense of unity amongst the class and for the rest of term the Sensational Alex Harvey – The Phantom Piddler ruled supreme as our king. When the class reconvened after the summer recess the new term began there was no need for The Phantom Piddler. Our new teacher toted a guitar into the classroom the first day and sang a song about Jesus; we knew we were free at last, free at last.

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Birdcage

I'm going mad I tell you!!! Tiny shiny metal bats with wings as sharp as razor blades clang against the bars of my cage and spiral off - down into the gloomy infinite - what the fuck is down there anyway! Tang! shliiizz - there goes another one. They echo locate as they crash straight into my gilded dome. They'd slice me up if they could get in - but I won't let 'em. I got the only key you see. So here I coop on this little stoop - too chicken shit to venture out into the bat infested climes of the infinite what? 

I was lured in here by small game hunters who laid a trail of opiated millet - by the time I realised it was a fucking trap - I was too stoned to care. They must have shrunk me to get me into a cage this size - coz I felt pretty big on the outside, but now I feel small on the inside. The day I moved in they gave me a little golden key and said; "Here Joey, this is yours - this here's a zoo and the keeper is you." 

I was fucking furious let me tell you, "What the fuck does this mean?" I asked - as I hurriedly locked the door. "You mean I'm a fucking prisoner here?" One of them replied, "Not at all." Shit head - I said, "What does that mean?" He said, "What does what mean?" I was getting mighty pissed by now, "What does THAT mean." - "What does what does THAT mean?" he answers. "Are you pullin' my fucking chain?" I yelled. "No reply," was the answer. I don't mean 'no reply' was the answer, I mean "No reply" was the answer. He actually said "No reply" - what does THAT mean? I'm getting out of here one day - soon as I figure out where I am, or were out there is, ‘cause I know where I am - I'm in here, wherever that is. I guess I'm headed out there, wherever that is, as soon as I figure out where that is, that is.

Talking Monkeys

Jehovah H. Frankenstein! - What have you done now? I went along with the duckbill platypus, the giraffe, the elephant and the giant fish – yes I’m aware that they’re mammals thank you – this time you have gone too far! Talking monkeys – are you insane? What earthly use are talking monkeys? Apes – shapes they look like monkeys to me. Say, are those monkeys wearing clothes? Why are your monkeys wearing clothes? Have you been talking to them? To your talking monkeys - have you? Have you been talking to your talking monkeys? Not really? How often is not really? A couple of times? That’s all! What did you say to them? You can’t remember! That’s no good! Nothing important! – I’ll be the judge of that! You know, you could have compromised the entire project. Talking monkeys indeed – it just won’t do!

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