Poems I wrote at 18, as the Pioneer of the movement “Gibberish”

SUMMER

Burning coal black gold

Sleeping in the afternoon.

Eyes shut, streaming with light,

Eyelids closed against the glare,

The rotating blades drag their wings,

Chopping the swollen air,

Cutting strips of heavy heat

That unravel gracefully spiralling

Down on the supine form

(on the body on the bed),

sweat beads glisten and roll down,

breath hot moist the pillow heat,

the light turns white to yellow to orange

as the clock hands creep toward six.

Waking up is hell, the head swims groggily,

The mouth coated with bitter slime,

Eyes water down the stored up heat.

Bloody Sunday afternoon.

PIECE OF DIRT

It lays lightly, covering your skin,

A grey coat greasing clingily clad.

Drag a finger along the skin

Like furrowing a fertile land,

The straight black line forms

And thickens under the fingernail,

Flick it with the sturdy thumb,

Out comes a beautiful crescent moon.

There’s beauty even in the black grime

That touches but a tender eye,

Look and observe, and you will penetrate

The secret of the creation of the gods,

That there’s beauty even in a piece of dirt.

LECTURE

Swollen eyelids shutter down every

Six and a half seconds

(droning voices all around).

The dragging pen scratches forlornly,

Wandering away from the steely lines,

To be brought back to place with a jerk.

The top of the head separates and swims

Upward and away, slowly,

While the droopy eyes watch,

And slowly settles down again.

The head then nods losing its

Centre of gravity, strains the neck

Threatening to snap.

It grows like a Jurassic baby,

Heavy and ponderous, has a

Magnetic attraction towards the

Book on the desk.

Fatal attraction.

Thump. ZZZZzzzz.

ZOMBIE LAND: the idiot’s box

Turn it on and it takes over life,

Spewing sights and sounds on a rote,

Monotonous in its continuity,

Never fatigues, never dims its fiery colours,

Keep at it, the brain turns mush,

The body mashed potato served on comfy couch,

The dish garnished by slender remote.

Staring zombies stare deaf to each other,

Meals untasted, books rotting away,

As minds dip and immerse in fantasy land,

In the bottomless pleasure pits of Hollywood,

Or the slimy spicy cauldrons of Bollywood,

Or other stuff all far removed from reality.

Seething sanity buckles under

The muddying pressure of cheery crap.

A DYING CAT

The last of the leaves fall

In the autumn dusk.

The last of my days trickle past

Slowly slowly . . . crushing, moaning.

Snaps of memories

Fade in . . . fade out . . .

The first scratches . .

The first kill – a limping rodent,

The scald from the first hot milk,

The stinging laughter of the kid,

And my revenge . . . shredded leather deat.

The first female – virtual lioness.

I peer at a raggedy cobweb

Through rheumatic eyes

And try to feel toothless gums

With a slow, curling tongue.

I look out the window again,

At the last autumn leaf,

Grey and wrinkled,

Teetering on the sinewy branch.