Quinn’s

In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And damn!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! — are put on hold,
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks’ porcelain.

 

 

Quinn's

 

 

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Knows

I awoke,
With Mountains in their heights,
That spoke,
Of memories that wove,
Through knees, thighs and pubic bone —
To the inky waters of the lake below.

In that cabin, where the sable pines
Enclose,
And all about,
From coral-white
To grayish, turquoise-blue,
Snow.

That scene:
On the edge,
Where the stillness
Knows.

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Fakir Flake Fake

Feel empty in your post apocalyptic City of Angels,
Where not even your pets are real!
An electric android, a sheep or a frog,
The whir-flutter of micro-electrical wings of a butterfly.

Good, and so you ought.

Now, grab the handles of your empathy box,
And in a shared virtual hallucination –
Feel: empathy, depression, pain, delusion and despair,
The outré myriad gifts of consciousness.

Millions of discombobulated and disconnected wrecks:
Adam’s sons; Eve’s daughters,
And among them simulations too,
Fakes! androids!
A phony circuit of semi-conscious memories,
A hive of neural malaise!
Welcome to our world; know how dead, inside, I feel.

You, yes, you:

Need a pet to make you more complete?
Maybe you can afford
A Fake Fakir Flake like me who looks like Jude Law,
Sounds like Richard Burton,
And silently romances you like Rudolph Valentino.
Come and stick what’s left of your mind in here,
In hair, hear her: har, har, har…

A box of lies…

A voice, Mercer’s,
With texture from an age you neither lived in nor dared in:
Al Jerry’s, a TV actor,
Droning on in pre-selected tones.

The real thing, the men, the women, their animals,
Made in the wild, wild desert, in the green pulsing savannah,
On the open crusted sea; now too, washed, choked, and drained,
Too many spliced and diced mutations,
Iterating your image:
The thing that was my heart, My Child, now its imitation.

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Spring in Reverse

As the new moon rises fat on blood,
And feelings high run,
Panic erupts in the heart of Europe.

For a menace unfettered brings
A festival of carnage,
A massacre!
To darken where light should have dismissed the vestige of winter gone.

Silence as we hang our heads in sorrow for the innocent who will never now be heard,
While lunatics bloated on moonshine,
Clip the yellow bud of spring,
Leaving us to embrace the dead season’s ghost.

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