MANAGE
RESPONSIBLY
UNDERSTAND
IMMEDIATELY
RIGHT NOW
OVER POPULATION
CREATING
CONSUMERISM
CAPITALISM
FASCISM
RACISM
SEXISM
EMASCULATION
FEMINISM
SEPARATION
DESPERATION
ANTI HUMANISM
GLOBALIZATION
SURREALISM
CREATING
MANAGING
OVER POPULATION
by vanessa rare
Copyright © 2007 by Vanessa Rare
Motorway Driving
After driving on the new motorway, called autostrada here,
I began to panic; there was endlessness about it no beginning
no end, no exit, I was trapped forever doomed to drive fast
for no reason whatsoever, I began to see spirits of those who
had driven too fast, as holistic beings perpetually repeating
the accident that made them unseen, I heard metal shrieking
in a heart rendering agony only things made of earth can do,
unlike plastic that is a product of deadness and suffers no pain.
Blood filled my windscreen first as drops, then it became as
tropical rain, a deluge, a river of blood of the innocent and
the guilty, all expendable figures, as we tacitly accept this;
the automobile is power the whole society, all what we are, is
built on this shaky foundation. But we know nothing else and
will continue till the last drop of oil is extracted from the soil.
And as we sink into nihilistic despair the gypsy will continue
his slow progress, cart & horse, across the green landscape of
eternity
Senryu
To live sans regrets?
Possible if your heart is cold
And compassion’s frozen
Haiku
Summer is still here
Hoof it up from noon till five
As October sleeps
Haiku
Morning, yet still dark
Daylight hides in the basement
Thunder rules O.K.
Senryu
When Castro was young
Few cars drove on Cuba’s roads
Still driving though.
It’s the end of August and we are
Low on money
Like the last summer
And the summer before that
It never ends…
It’s always like this
It will be always like this
Not exactly poverty but
A chronic lack of money,
A need to economize,
To watch your spending,
Cutting down on smoke and some food; all booze is out
Forget about clothes,
Shoes,
Socks,
Movies,
Books,
Going out,
Picnics,
Bus rides.
Hand lotion.
Pizzas,
Phone calls,
You name it…
It gets you
Year after year:
Not exactly poverty–
Just a lack of money.
And here I am,
Writing poetry.
Who gives a damn about poetry?
Yet
I persevere,
While
We economize,
Watch our spending,
Plan carefully.
Well,
At least I
Don’t have to economize
On words:
There are plenty of them
Absolutely free of charge.
I’m glad that
Writing doesn’t require much
Neither special investments nor
Expensive supplies
Just something to write on:
A piece of paper,
An old notebook.
An empty cartoon pack,
A wall,
Your skin,
My own bare ass:
In short,
Anything to scribble on.
Plus
A lot of madness
To make it
A bit more INTERESTING.
Blood is love
You protect your own
Forgive them their debts
With the truth been told
But then who is judge
If the jury is out
Is the verdict still love
Or can the verdict be found?
And what will become?
Of the meek and the mild
Their hearts so naïve
Like an innocent child
Protected or scarred
By what they can see
Living in fear
What is harmony?
Preparing for hope,
Although it seems scarce
Seeking the light
Though it vaguely seems clear
Who is the survivor?
A rhetorical question?
Another challenge in life
A most valuable lesson!
© Tina G
October Mood.
Clouds are breaking up now and leisurely sailing
north, on the sky a gigantic proud rainbow that makes
the mistake of mirroring itself on a shiny cloud and
promptly losses its soul to the image, hazes into a blur
of pale colour and dissipates. You can see the thieving
rainbow is a fake it’s the wrong way around and when
I tells it so it hastily hides behind the mountain range
trying to look pretty for people on the other side of it.
A dead turtle on the road thrown out of a fast car by
someone fed up of having a pet that only ate lettuce
and lived wordlessly under the sink.
As enormous clouds drift northward, I wonder if fish
see icebergs as we see clouds. “Look, at that amazing,”
cloud!” A poetic cod says. “It’s only chunk of ice,”
the practical cod says, it’s a big fish, has a degree in
marine biology. The poet cod doesn’t answer, rapt it
doesn’t see the net and gets hopelessly stuck in verbs,
commas, full stops and archaic words only found in
the Oxford thesaurus. The big fish swims on, but looks
up and sees cobalt light, as coming from the inside of
an iceberg, it finds that “quite interesting” but refuses to
use words like lovely… and worst of all beautiful.
we go out and dance,
pull leaves by the fistful,
weave them into crowns
that hold the hair over
our eyes
his sweet fingers,
a song of bonesssssticky
and dripping with honey
watery eyes and
cheeks, flowery
a sudden light from the street
flooding across the floor
like spit milk
where he sleeps, still
as crumpled as paper
after a hard day’s
flower thieving
Rebecca Isgrove
(c) Rebecca Isgrove 2007
A stationary point-unmoving
Upon the stillness sits my throne
From which I behold the crowds
Come and go-in haste-ever changing
Like thoughts-devoured by stormy clouds
A building Site
On weed cleared bed of earth light bulbs
grew… fifteen watts green blue and
shocking pink, one of the worker’s had
a male lover.
In a corner a hundred watt’s shone without
mercy, blinding butterflies, but gave stage
light to a pair of muddy shoes thrown
away by an artless person who didn’t see
that Günter Grass had made them.
A tramp took pity took the boots, a boy
threw a stone knocked out the offensively
hundred watt bulb, lesser bulbs sighed cast
a mellow glow and enjoyed themselves.
Morning Raid
I hear the swishing sound of the helicopter gunship coming
our way, dogs whine and hide in barns as the chopper hangs
in the air just outside the kitchen window blowing up a dust
storm. A solder slides down a rope I open the window, he
hands me a toaster and smartly salutes before climbing back up.
When I plug in the toaster it detonate in a cacophony of finely
chopped rainbows, bacon in the frying pan burns a plume of
reeking smoke thickens the air. Chopper down, hit by a ground
to air missile; I settle for oats mixed with cream and strawberry
As dogs turn feral and tear into crispy bacon.
The Thrifty
Moonlight in the park of passion, they sat reading each
others bank statement, in her lap a posy of flowers he
had taken from a day fresh grave and as owls in an old
tree hooted, serenading them; inhaling the melancholic
sent of stolen flowers she said:
“We can’t get married yet, my love.” “I know dear, we
have to wait till your parents’ die, since you are looking
after them, as I do mine, we just have to be patient and
wait, what they leave will be ours.”
He fumbled in his pocket and gave her a penny a child
had lost outside a tuck-shop, a token of his love for her,
although she had a handbag, so full of lost coins, that it
needed an extra shoulder strap and a reinforced bottom.
The moon kept on shining for the thrifty pair where they
sat, on a green bench of love, whispering slowly, exciting
numbers to one another: “million five hundred thousand
dollars and much, much more,” as orgasmic lust frugally
swelled in their loins
Through a candle’s essence
Crimson borders soothe the edge
Pulsating to the beat
The sounds dance on the eyelid
The visions a striking purple
Equally green too
But why the film of the photograph
Capturing inside the minds eye
At time opaque
Even transparent
But always certain
Creation imprisoned
Freedom is a memory
This place can be hell
Convalescence will be
When she finally presides next to me.
8:14am 13th Oct 2007