Redux Ockham

These are my best words - Redux Ockham

Before, I used other words.

I spoke them clearly,

directly,

in my own voice.

I did not resort to metaphor,

or simile.

Though, I used rhyme,

and may have tried to use satire.

That being said,

all things considered,

notwithstanding,

taking into account,

regional cultural understandings,

of words, and phrases.

It was still a simple poem.

It was, a little, pessimistic.

This one. Is not.

These are my best words.

And are the ones I wish,

to fall alseep upon.

Much as I did,

when a younger man,

to the haunting words,

“Remember when you were young,
you shone like the son.”

It was being sung,

so it may have been sun.

I’ve not really begun,

to be the sun,

born to the son,

of the son,

of a Seller of Fruit.

That seemed to matter.

When I was younger,

Now?

There’s a look in my eye.

Black Holes in the Sky.

This is where I say something funny - Redux Ockham

I don’t trust these words.

They have failed me,

even before I type them.

Even. A colloquial hyperbole.

Even. Not odd.

Odd words are odd.

I am odd.

You are Odd.

John is the Walrus.

Paul is a Jet.

Ringo is the fat controller.

George got his mind set on you.

Which leaves me, oddly.

Even if I could find the right word.

I would still hate it.

I wish I ate it.

Find a partner and mate it.

I wouldn’t masturbate it.

Though.

Oddly, or not.

Poetry,

and getting older,

suggest a quiet solo,

to an empty room,

late at night,

even if you don’t trust it.

This is where you came in.

I was about to say something funny.

Cue the Emperor - Redux Ockham

In days of yore,

if you wanted more,

you just took it.

Conditionally.

Meeting the circumstances

required to be king,

ceasar, not salad,

emperor.

Anything that would demand

the loud braying of trumpets,

throbbing cellos,

absent hellos,

Cue the Emperor,

Fanfare…

FANFARE…

(FANFARE!!!! implies more noise,

Ellipsis implies more…)

The Age of Empires is not closed,

Slap the table with an open hand,

stand fiercely,

shout.

Being right is all it requires.

Cue the Imperial March.

In fact, even inverted, the fable is useless - Redux Ockham

In the beginning,

the woman found herself.

Yearning for the bony cage,

she crouched in the dark,

rocking and singing herself

smaller. Smaller.

No need for potion,

choose me or not.

The Garden beckoned,

once free of breasts,

laughing eyes,

smiling lies,

dear snake, man, god why’s?

Smaller and smaller,

invert the fable,

Unbegat lies, why’s eyes,

there is no tree, neo,

there is no tree.

The Hollow Men have left the building - Redux Ockham

Lurching to our feet we learn against the wall,

momentarily, straw whispering from edges,

of clothing, straw men walking.

Left behind when movement began,

we fill the spaces with the bits

each other drops,

unseeing, caring, feeling.

It is quiet now,

The Hollow Men,

have left the building.

The No Thing - Redux Ockham

Fein this,

that you may

decieve the night

into being day,

having light

enough to imply

the presence of more.

Fein this,

invoke the ire,

of block of ice,

to be fire,

and sense,

the absence,

of the no thing,

that was never,

there.

Insanity - Redux Ockham

Divinity Irreference - Redux Ockham

Oh,
friend,
there is the Divine.
Picture an image,
a clear, vivid, colour drenched
image.
The magician says
“Don’t show it to me,
just remember it.
Can you remember it?”
You can,
and he shuffles it back into the pack.
That is the Divine.
That image,
that idea,
that feeling of slim cardboard
rubbing in sets of 52 against
the pads of your fingers.
Except,
it isn’t.
It is all of those things.
But it does not reference
the image.
The image does not exist.
Rub your fingers together,
see if you can tear the feel
of the memory
of the joker
out of your hand.

Baudrillard’s Ghost, thank-you Malcolm - Redux Ockham

Madness is the mirror.

It is the real.

Because.

As you stare at the mirror,

your madness stares at you.

It can see you.

This is the visor effect.

It is your madness which sees the truth.

Perchance you will quickly cast aside the mirror

and let your madness see the world directly.

Directly,

then,

or however,

you will notice you are surrounded by nothing.

Your madness will return.

And in winter it points - Redux Ockham

A coffin is a mirror of shards of glass,

it is open, walk to it and stare,

at the face of the dead.

Death returns your questions unflinching.

You will break your gaze first.

Death always wins.

Outside the window a small tree

blushes fiercely, raging, raging,

quoting Thomas,

‘til each day becomes night,

doubt not tomorrow,

and tomorrow,

and tomorrow.

And in winter it points,

a single branch,

thrust knowlingly,

casting shadow on closed eyes,

it echoes the question whispered

most oft in this place.

And I answer,

last year,

that was me.