triple-zero

I'd like to think
lack of sex
is an emergency
time to call
triple zero-
000
for a minute or two
of mature chit-chat.

easter

the saviour died for our sins on friday
we give thanks to him on sunday
we go right back sinning on monday.

Zeitgeist twenty-eleven

Some stranger on the street

asked me if could write a poem about

the zeitgeist, I gave this a thought

whilst sippin’ on my franchised coffee cup

and asked myself if would smile at this

zeitgeist of twenty-eleven.

twenty-eleven

year of earthquakes and floods-

and in the middle east

the dominant status quo

getting their throne rocked

crowds on the streets

are fucking tired of tradition

and the rest of the world’s

cheering them on

like an underdog sporting team

You could make it as a sportstar-

its all standardised center of excellence

training these days so it can’t go wrong-

you earn more than a CEO

but you could smash a limb so bad

you’ll need a severance package,

but too bad you’re no CEO cause

this golden parachute means of takeover

defense- rewarding and hi-fivin’ someone

for all those monumental fuck-ups

you see plastered on newspaper headlines-

never really quite fits with the corporate

logic but then again it never made sense

or understood in the first place to begin with.

Corporations- the ‘c word’s’ by word

for psychotic dsm-4 greed

you could hold them all responsible

for all the globe’s exploitation-

but don’t forget how much of

your economic life you owe to made in china

that’s the globalization the antis

are always bangin on about

its only kindness to give poor countries

like Mexico and some sub-saharan African state

a slice of the American pie that’s slowly

getting cold.

There’s new a cold war coming back

wanna light a bonfire with me in

the spirit of ’64- it’s the free world

versus the so-called terrorist, the ‘t-word’

the he-who-must-not-be-named

every politician’s treating this

dictionary definition like

the microscopic germs on your toilet bowl

every politician’s promisin’

to kill 99.9% of those germs

but the 0.1% still haunts dreams to death

that our time’s blessed

for us the chance to dream

whether you want a multi-million mansion

or a Spartan one-room shack tenement

living space and everything else

we just about do to craft ourselves an

identity that ain’t passed down

from parent to child

The first time

we said we can’t be fucked with

the rat race the past generations

tried to stop but failed-

how much choice in profession

we’re handed on silver platter

this chance’s gotta be seized

or else God and Lucifer

gonna facepalm themselves

and shake their heads

God and Lucifer

fighting divine battles

on mortal planes- over

certain socio-political issues,

one can’t quite fight back

because no one wants

to declare publicly

with this guy for reasons unknown

one side’s fighting for a purity

that’s already tainted to begin-

but its some of his fan club

that give him a bad name-

no one talked down to their placards

and say that God couldn’t hate-

but his engine’s getting old

needs a re-tune

it can’t quite keep up

with the rest of the high-speed traffic

Not that I need to be on the road

to get to work cause of high unemployment

you and I are concerned about-

in this country if you’re a Chang

or a Papadopulos, no offence to these surnames

but you’d have to be twice

the level of Smith

before you have pot-luck chance-

maybe its got to do with too

many Gen-Y wannabes like me

wanting upper five figure close to

six salaries with intent to retire before

thirty- cause there’s only so many poker chips

on the table- rules say someone’s gotta

have the most by the end of the day

and someone’s gotta have the least.

Gen Y’s getting all the flak these days-

lazy, job-flitting and aiming for fun

with baby boomers telling us to shut up

and work hard if we want to own our home-

but then again maybe these boomers are

reclining on beach chairs with

umbrella unsheathed in the sun

sipping martini and chomping down

on Castro’s Cuban cigars to notice

how fucked up negative-geared

property prices have become.

The neo concept of property

defined as a race you

to the finish line game- you

have the freedom to own maybe

ten houses or more

like some kind of medieval king-

except middle-class instead

of royalty and the king’s

the hetero white middle-class

land and beer gut owning male,

he’s society’s emcee and

to his eyes, the rest of us

minorities can get fucked cause he’s got

the freedom of speech to tell us to

shut the fuck up.

Maybe I should shut up now

before the culture police

chloroform me and have me

tied and bound on an electrified

chair- I met the stranger again

under a tree like we’re both

waiting for godot-

we talked about the zeitgeist

whilst we wait, and to be honest,

I smiled, but I did that

cause I felt a sarcastic urge.

Coffin

There it lies
something sealed
in this gilded willow coffin

A toast we all raise
to life lived in honour
let us not talk about sins
for today it is forbidden by law

What is it
sealed within
that makes us
harp with virtue?

How to make poetry popular

Advertise it
make the words
pleasing to the eye
and soothing to the ear

Have an mtv timeslot
make it rated pg-13
or localized equivalent
give each poet
a persona

Make it worth something
Give it an economy.

But then we forgot
poetry had a soul.

more dispirin please

thirty-something fucking degrees
shambling around dazed and spaced
there’s a cringing feeling at the top of my head
can’t quite precisely pinpoint
the feeling of an assassin’s tranquilizer dart,
up I go and request to myself,
more dispirin please.

Idyllic Hell

This photograph of
a suburbia two-storey
everything shiny polish
for something hundred
thousand- your very
own slice of
dante’s inferno
in this idyllic hell
can be yours
just ring the number
underneath.