“Eylenda” (Poem)

 

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it’s aspen in the eighties, basically,
but farther out,
father north,
and with tidier feel,
a winter wonderland
you’re paying for,
governed as a guest,
staffing forever,
but you’re living
your holiday life,
eating vegan food in
vinyl restaurants,
watching art cinema
with a beer in your hand,
starving, full of ideas,
full of elven energy,
peering at snowflakes
wondering how now
it could seem so right,
even in the hard ship
of a dark winter night.

‘Firing Line’ (Poem)

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William Buckley Jr grinning
white tombstone teeth
listening rhapsodically
to LSD poetry from
Ginsberg or Leary,
looking from
window paned eyes,
though
both seeing clearly
the truth behind the mystery.

It’s a scene to call for,
cultured carnivores
fighting
the artistic valour,
a kaleidoscope privilege
looked upon from
the higher floor,
growing and gleaming like
the ball-clustered flowers
of a Californian sycamore.

This odd couple,
unbuckled and ready for
rebuttals
a coastal hustle that puts
money in both bubbles,
burying counter culture
prophets with a
televised shovel,
peace and trouble
carved into the knuckle.