New Short Writing/s

Wednesday is about books. And/or writing. Today, as it goes from time to time, I share a few new short pieces I’ve written over the last month or two…

The List of Changes

I am at the bar, the music is
loud. It’s good too. It only has
to be one of those things,
if you get both it’s a bonus.

I won’t buy a drink, but I did
pay for my ticket. So there’s changes
there. (More than one). I can only
overhear the boring bits

of a conversation in front of me.
But I’m happy they’re happy,
which is probably another thing
for the list of changes.

*

The stridency of some of my cherished positions is softening

Time
takes time,
makes itself more
known with its passing.
We are forever asking if
there’ll be more, if we have more,

if we can make more. Mostly what
we mean is time. Even and
maybe especially when
we forget to even
mention
it.

*

Pieces of The Man

What Gil Scott was hearing was
the truth. It all lies in his
word on the page, squeezed

from his soul for the stage. He
was Jazz, he was Rap. Pieces of
this. Peace from that. He went in

too heavy, came out late. Truth always
hurts. It is tought at the top, of course,
but it’s always hardest in the middle.

*

Collaboration

There’s you. And a hammer. And when
you pikc up the hammer you never think
about whether it is using you. You also
declare yourself the hero of the work:

Look, honey, it was I who hung the picture.

The team that formed, however briefly,
was you and the hammer. A new entity,
the two of you working together, becoming
one, becoming something other. A new thing.

We did it. We made a piece of work together!

*

Organised Religion is Atheism’s Greatest Gift

Organised Religion is
Atheism’s Greatest Gift
——————————

oh god, she screams
but she can’t mean
that – not this many
times in a row.

Though how could
I even know. It’s
time to be born again.
The water hits my head.

I am home. A baby in
this world once again
& forever. Let me fuck
it all up some more.

*

A high five

is always a collaboration, which, precisely,
is why it is not ok. There is never any
consent: Don’t leave me hanging bro.

But you didn’t ask first for our palms to slap.
You won’t even take responsibility for the
bungled half-hit. It’s my fault now? But

I never asked for any of this. Our hands
awkwardly meet, while villages around still
crumble, cities burn. At best all we can

learn from this is we did it together. You took
a gesture that never belonged to you, and
forced ti on me. The world is not free.

And nothing is pure.

*

Write of reply

I can say what I want in my poems,
though they can’t always hear me.

You can say what you want about
these poems, they can never hear you.