The Grand Artisan

God, the ultimate Artist.
The supreme Scientist.
The intimate presence within,
and throughout this existence.
Regenesis … poetry in motion.
Is life but an artistic documentary?
Seen through all the agony
and the ecstasy,
the triumph and the tragedy?
Or are we rats in a laboratory?
Are we but particles
within the part and parcel
of subatomic intricacy?
But a quark traversing the dark?
An infinitesimal part of the mechanical?
Speaking relativity,
where is the power and the glory?
A perpetual quantum
crunching the numbers
in some mindless continuum.
Is that the universal story?

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The Elvis of God

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. . . and the Glam Rock

A child playing
with wildfire rebellion
The tailor who fits you up
swiftly twisting
sweet venom on the tongue
with chemical smoke rising
Into the ghetto of the soul
a toxic river flowing
Body and spirit
within the echo of a scream
a tangled web
of a deceptive dream
For heaven’s sake
sleepwalkers awake
Is it ever too late
to make the big break?
Who’s pulling the strings?
Can you hear the truth
when the Elvis of God sings?

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No Exits ~ Exist On

NO EXITS ~ EXIST ON

In the car park
of a stark oblivion
best leave
your engine running
Don’t phone it home
all on your own
If you’ve got the app
of a beating heart
with an overflowing cup
don’t text it to the exit
Within the recreation
of divine sublime trust
Sexit up …
if you really must
Ever since creation
Viva la différenciation
Just don’t let
your love rust
and turn into dust
when life is a bust

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Of Cotton & Things Rotten

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‘Poetry of America –
The Cosmic Athletes’
~ by Salvador Dali

Everybody knows
that the dice are loaded.
Everybody rolls
with their fingers crossed.
Everybody knows the war is over.
Everybody knows the good guys lost.
Everybody knows the fight was fixed.
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich.
That’s how it goes.
Everybody knows.

And everybody knows
that it’s now or never.
Everybody knows
that it’s me or you.
And everybody knows
that you live forever,
ah, when you’ve done a line or two.
Everybody knows the deal is rotten.
Old Black Joe’s still pickin’ cotton
for your ribbons and bows.
And everybody knows.
~ Leonard Cohen

‘The Angler’ … by david redpath

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‘Heavy and Metal
Industrialised Refreshment’

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