“Sorry kid … we’re a bit late.
Queen Liz has left the building.”
Where Beauty Resides
The bells of liberty
by your stockings rung
The deepest restraints
in my hands … undone
A ladder of splendour
slowly climbing
Your sacrament melting
upon my thirsting tongue
quenched in the ocean
of love’s perfection
Down on bended knees
lost in the tender squeeze
of your wholly communion
To ride the high tide
of hard won liberation
Yet … I’m a captive slave
to your will being done
Art From The Heart
let them go
line after line
let them blossom
or die on the vine
generations generating
like fish in the ocean
there is magic
in all creation
the diobolical
and the divine
the synthetic
and the truthful
poetry in motion
birth and death
the beautiful
and the hateful
feeding at the bottom
with hungry desperation
or at the top of your game
riding a high
of natural exhilaration
The Grand Artisan
God … the ultimate Artist
The supreme Scientist
The intimate presence within
and throughout this existence
Regenesis … poetry in motion
Is she masculine
or is he feminine?
Is the answer
beyond our understanding?
Are we just avatars
in a game of actual reality
Is this life
an artistic documentary
viewed through
all the agony
and the ecstasy
the triumph and the tragedy?
Have we truly
been given a free hand
by the Artisan Grand
upon the canvas of eternity?
Or are we just
rats in a laboratory?
A collection of quarks
traversing the dark?
Mere particles within
the part and parcel
of subatomic intricacy?
An infinitesimal spark
in a dimension mechanical?
Speaking of relativity
where is the power and the glory?
A perpetual quantum
crunching the numbers
in some mindless continuum
Is that the universal story?
He Eat Dolce Vita ~ revisited
… sealed with a kiss and a warrant
He fly da vulture
He stranger than danger
He swamp da monster
He got winner envy
He lose by plenty
He look orange monkey
He big sunshine faker
He red carpet bagger
He Passé da posse grabber (?)
He dat hound dog’s brother
He da Beastie’s bestie
He one mother trucker
He be Frankenstein’s baby
London’s Burning
From the Tate
On the banks of the Thames
beyond the doors of the Tate
glimpsed through the haze
of a London heatwave
the Post-Modernist of Fate
painting it all black
whilst trying hard to forget
his brushstrokes of regret
Absolute Power . . .
The Used Lover Blues (3)
A Pathenon of Seduction
As a naïve teenager
a youth of pure innocence
I was ruthlessly seduced
by a mysterious Grecian lover
who’s pagan charms
were impossible to resist
Was it the insatiable desire
of a reckless Aphrodite
that so graciously
nearly killed me
with her all consuming divinity?
Or was it the passive aggression
of Athena that turned
a carefree choir boy
into a reprobate man?
I truly don’t know
. . . but for just one
heart pounding millennium
she touched me deeply
with her nefarious wisdom . . .
“Hard up against the impetuous
of an Olympian Goddess, there will
be no winning for any mere human.
So take what is given while you can,
and do your best to make Eros jealous!”
David Redpath 