Four poems

1

The poet's not talking bout
something that needs explanation
The poem is the explanation
It's the best they could do

I haven't got thoughts of a poet my thoughts
are entangled with the weeds trapped
clutched in the undergrowth where
metaphors come handy

The poet has higher thoughts
a mystery even to themselves

2

And now it's like
the lights have
lowered
and we're all
cowering before

the smack
and yet this was
always my anxiety
now written upon

the world
and so I'll send my time
ensconsed
wrapped in headphones
cloaked in Sarah
Davachi and German
abstract techno

and see people sitting in cafes
like the lady in Hitchhiker's
Guide who suddenly
realised the meaning

of life
Are we nearly there yet?

3

The world is Weimar
slipping
unease turns to tension
and anxiety and all of that
Caffeine's not helping
But still things are
Better than ever
Can still enjoy the sun
and the thrown off
froth as we suck on
our blood
and choose from 15
types of coffee filters
and eat peasant food
on reclaimed wood tables
and listen to poor people
singing about hardship and want

4.

Poets grab stardust and elemental gas and froth
and throw it together by means of their pen
great gas clouds are trapped
vapour is trailed

from out of the clear
undifferentiated sky
a bright spray of water
lands fresh on your face

Me, I lurk in the earth
my fingers are black with scientific concerns
ethereal coalescence is not my agenda
The dirt in my nails makes my metaphors stand

The sky and the air escape me
I grab only the solid
gruff material of the
earth

Bring down ink like rocks
from Mount Sinai
Stuffed in my pockets
Bring it down to my level

Where great poets will
write with ink
sourced in the skies
I'll plod on

perpetually on the verge of disappoinment
forever failing to understand
even the basics of
what I am trying to do