Tuesday, 29 November 2011

the cure

the cure 
for having your heart broken
is having your heart broken again

eventually your heart is in so many pieces
that it stops hurting

once this has happened
gather up all the pieces
and burn them

if you listen carefully
and wait for long enough
you may hear among the desicant
the tiny pulsing smile
of a new heart

Friday, 23 September 2011

There used to be a poem here

There used to be a
poem here. Reward offered
for its safe return.

Tuesday, 5 July 2011

The ONE essential pre-requisite of a poem

The ONE essential pre-requisite of a poem is that is says something which needs saying. Nothing else matters as much. It can be beautiful, or funny, or scary. But unless it says something that needs saying, then regardless of how beautifully it is crafted, it is still going to be unnecessary wordage.

Wednesday, 20 April 2011

Salsa lessons

(1)

It is not as though over there
is more important than over here.

The only reason that we went over there was
so that we could have fun coming back over here.

It turns out that the dance is more entertaining
if you keep changing your mind.

(2)

It is not as though close together
is better than further apart.

If we hadn't moved apart we couldn't
have come together.

It turns out that the dance is more entertaining
if you keep changing your mind.

Whereas

Whereas compared to
non-existence, anything
is a bonus, huh?

Thursday, 24 March 2011

Plotting the mathematical function of x-girlfriends [Gf(x)]



Girlfriend x plus one
tends to get subjected
to the ornamental and furniture tastes
of girlfriend x
and the fashion choices
of girlfriend x minus one.

Girlfriend x had a smaller circumference,
possibly owing to the fact that she had a lower value for pie.

However girlfriend x plus one
has a much higher x-rating.

Perhaps we are three terms of an infinite yet bounded series:
an arithmetic progression
with an ever-smaller determinant.

We tend towards a place marked on our x-axes,
but our infinitesimals never quite add up
to the perfect integral of our thighs.

Although there is a limit
to the curve of their breasts,
we will only arrive there
when "why" tends to infinity.

The limit exists as an imaginary number:
the un-square root of minus one;
sometimes it is written as "i";

a point in Euclidean space
where love initially seems
to not be equal to anything,

but later
it turns out
that it is
equal to something
after all.

[Gf(x+1)]

[OfGf(x+1)=Gf(x)]

[FaGf(x+1)=Gf(x-1)]


[CGf(x) < CGf(x+1)]


Thursday, 17 March 2011

In brackets

Not any of these words belong to us,
not even that comma is really ours.
Nor that full stop.

I’m not sure who they do belong to;
perhaps the dictionary
or people who win poetry competitions
or layer upon layer of dead people.

In any case they inhabit us,
words of others’ choosing,
sentences of others’ design.

A horizonless grammar determining every moment
how we should think about everything,
even how to think about the grammar itself.

Secretly there is a horizon;
out beyond the edge of the wordable,
there are new lands of ecstasy that we have never before explored.

Come with me!
Set a trap,
designed so you cannot avoid understanding!

While no one is looking
see if you can’t squeeze a sentence in sideways.

Cut off the escape routes!
Then stick your foot in
and let the barbs tear the flesh from the bone!

If the trap works,
you will not have so much
to say about it.

Friday, 11 February 2011

The big advantage

The big advantage
that being alive has
over being dead
is that you can Do Things.

Dead people cannot speak for themselves,
and because the present moment (now)
[I mean this present moment (now)
not that present moment (now) i.e. then]
is in many ways unpredictable,
it is a real benefit to be able to act in this present moment (now)
rather than having to anticipate all future present moments (thence)
(when I will be dead)
and take action now
with respect to them.

For example this poem
may very well no longer be
something I would wish to have my name associated with
by the time You get around to reading it.

But despite this
I confidently predict:
readers will still be saying,
"ah, yes! Bonkers Bindon."

Sunday, 6 February 2011

About a bird (or two)

[A fourty-four year-old body skips up Mellstock Avenue
just like it skipped down Mellstock Avenue
holding it’s mother’s hand
when it was a four year-old body.]

[I say "just like" ...
I mean, obviously the body is bigger and bulkier
but it is the same choreography
the same dance step;
the spring in each is the same joy;
a memory of how to make joyousness
imprinted onto it's flesh.]

For a moment I am insanely happy for no reason;
I try to think of a reason:
certainly I have every reason for being happy
(the boiler man only charged me twenty-five quid for a call-out)
but also every reason for being sad
(I just split up with my Very Attractive Girl-friend – quite possibly the prettiest girl I ever dated)

Somehow none of the reasons it can think of provide
sufficient explanation for my mood;

Glancing upwards at the dull grey 4 oclock clouds
plausibly seeking an answer from somewhere
outside itself
I gasp:

a huge multi-faceted flock of some bird
suddenly filling the February sky
as far as the next street on each side
coming together
breaking apart
composed of vast sub-flocks
a myriad of flapping nodes refract in all directions
while becoming the same direction
waves on a choppy sea
perhaps orchestrated by a professor of mathematics
they deliberately attempt to explicate
the principles of complexity theory

[It skips a little faster and little higher]
then I notice the adolescent girl
coming down the street towards me
and remembering fourty-four
[it slows into a brisk walk].

Probably
like your drunk uncle at a wedding
(drunk on being)
[in his mind he is dancing majestically
but he looks ridiculous
to everyone
else].

Tuesday, 1 February 2011

Open letter to God

Lord, I pray,
please don't make me have to make
too many moral choices.

Don't make me have to choose
between the life of the mother and the unborn

Don't make me have to choose
between love and duty
or love and pleasure
or different kinds of love

Don't make me have to choose
between my son and my daughter

Don't make me have to choose
between courage and integrity

Lord, I pray,
I know it makes good television,
but couldn't you just spare me
some of the moral choices?

With love,
from your disobedient servant.
xxx

Thursday, 13 January 2011

Of course I'm fucking depressed (a sonnet)

Of course
I'm fucking depressed;
my life is shit.

Does that mean I need to be medicated?
No!
It means
I need

a less shit
life.



(Join me on the fight back against psychiatry!)

Monday, 3 January 2011

Badly written poem

So as it turned out
I gave up all the good things in life
for the sake of a poem

and a badly written one, at that.