Poetry and the earthquake of your mindstate. The burden of being temporary in a world of permanents

Those Poor Devils

welcome to the world of machines and men

you graphic mortar marrow, mortal fellow

who thought up

who just showed up

in the suburbs that look different at night

tattooed under the chassis

over the fields of scoria, you parasite

and paradox

pandora box of parables

plugged into the primordial plasma


full of dread and emptiness

fat families and cash

rubbing two sticks together

how those old beings taught you to create fire

forging lovers things

haunting fingers looking for ring givers

let’s do away with white, give me black

we don’t know what comes out at night

the congregation you belong’ta

moves down to the water

unconcerned by forests and meat

teeth on the purse strings

disinterested tigers at the feast

bags of guilt and dollars

old bags of quilts and soldiers

old flags that own us

the artist pushes and persists

placing bets

as they equip the narcissist

who never repents

you pet shops in pockets, sex shops in lockets

and restaurants in toilets

from pyramids to fast food, and Ambi Pur

empires of literates and liberals to multiple priors

pornography and pistols

we have inherited the art of violence

though our art of love is equal in part

and my war is a personal one

time is money and our time is in jeopardy!

did you leave your dick in the village?

you pavement writer, late mail arrival

with sugar on your back and salt in your pack

look what you’ve done with fashion and fame

I know you’re from around here, I watched you cross the road

you give me places where god doesn’t go

in your neighbourhood

a house in your street

the tender of the dollar and the change

gatekeepers of scraping together, and scraping by

cloaked over with hunched shoulders

park statue Marlon Brando, from south of the border

who built a stage for my enjoyment, and only mine

in nights of red carpet self-exile

ringing out, the consistent sound

of my piss watered down with beer

drinking to untie language

drinking to embrace expression

drinking to… I forget

loose legged in brown boots

relayed down a relaxed straight line

pulling down the sky

on a surrealists necklace mimicking the stars

dim lit lustre leather astronaut

in a tin can, an ashtray

floating on the fumes of your Sedona perfume

can you pull the mountain out of me?

you electric lady fox in my field

and gravitational pull

a man explained to me, the universe

and how he knew me

perched on talk from California

Oklahoma lives on the back of a tshirt

a burn scar on her sweet thigh

Virginia’s knees on the highways

the nowhere man’s thirst cursed

no mans land, lords of the burnt toast

and overpriced dinners

with gullets full of fillets, sick of cutlets

let the poor lamb out!

how long

descendants of descent have dynasties dormant

a kingdom I can’t give you

only what I took home in a shoebox

and the human war

we are still taking to the streets, and to the sea

could you kill a man today?

one hundred reasons waiting for a good one

the wards end warden is burning for a beating

with enough bullets for the children, ten

ready to paint the nurseries, red


the river, like everyone, wants everything
though it has more patience, momentum and grace
a shiny black diamond mirage
I am beginning to look like
what I hate about the world
and what I ate yesterday
I am seriously too serious
when you answered ”vaguely”
I reply “that is a vague answer”
I have a toolbox that bridges the ocean
and the gift of human tools
where is someone to go if not anywhere?
I am a citizen of nowhere in particular
with a current distaste for leaving the house
there are not enough doors to get me out
there is not enough floor to get me where I want to go
there I was
    there I will be
        there I am not
I have cast many shadows
and left them all behind
I kick the stupid fucking dirt
the dust of millennia is caked on my shoes
there are too many colours to have names for
there are more stars than we can give our names to
the faces of my friends are still young to me
and I love them all
when I mess the bed of mortality I untidy my mind
I have been tired of tired of typing
and not-so-tight-rope walking
I have not been busy enough to ignore it
nothing is ever as straight as on your back
nothing is as big as the big picture you forgot who painted it
I wish I had never seen myself in any kind of mirror
beautiful and moving are moving paintings
I am raw in comparison
you cannot hear me, you cannot see me
no one touches me
maybe I should let you
I am black and I am white and this has just appeared
is your spotlight between the lines?
are you trying to find me?
is there enough room for both of us?
does it make it any easier with more of us?
all I am are details
I am not near capable yet of golden eggs in baskets
exultation of expression with a complete lack of resentment
life up to this point has been an eternity of not really knowing anyone
what is to be the future is already determined to be the past
we are peeled away from ourselves
pasted into the pages of new histories
though the world will not remember your disgusting birth
as it is sure to forget mine
predictable is not always dependable
I am able to assure you
and love, may be the death of us all
if it requires a gun it is a hostage of one’s desire
or distortion of it
let an empty room love you
the rivers will keep running
and yesterday the axe became redundant
after all those years
it’s as sore as the shoulder that swings it

John Martyn 'Discover the Lover'

© Calvera Tomczak

© Calvera Tomczak

© Calvera Tomczak

© Calvera Tomczak

© Calvera Tomczak

© Calvera Tomczak

© Calvera Tomczak

© Calvera Tomczak