omnia mutantur, nihil interit

Listen

titforrat — Thu, 06 Oct 2011 13:56:17 +0000

Steve Jobs (1955 – 2011)

Making tea

titforrat — Wed, 11 Aug 2010 11:36:42 +0000

Making tea, they say
Is easy
Like planting a garden
Or making a child

But before you know
The tea’s gone bitter
The garden overrun by weeds
And the child is a man

Untitled

titforrat — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 03:32:47 +0000

When I packed and left
my life split in to two
half rode into the future
half stayed home with you

Today I look back and wonder
Which of my lives is true,
The one that I have lived
Or the one which stayed with you

Pi

titforrat — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 18:09:08 +0000

In the house of my heart
there is a hole,
a perfect circle,
you could divide its
circumference by diameter
and it would be
like my love,
irrational
infinite

Longfellow’s Middle Finger

titforrat — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 20:23:15 +0000

Remember how it was said
Anyone can write poetry
All that is needed
is to make sure it’s not prose
(rose is a rose is a rose)

If you can, rhyme it
To a repetitive beat, time it
Obfuscate
And make the meter mellifluous
(and let the women talk of Michelangelo)

Then gather around in a circle
or amongst the stage lights
Read it with passion,
enunciate and moan
(fuck fuck fuck)

Bow once it’s done
Applaud your peers
Nibble on the cheese
sip on the wine
(real poets don’t drink beer)

Kiss the critic’s ear
Ideally the air around the ear
Pat everyone’s back
Buy the house more wine
(Who’s your favourite poet? Bukowski & Dylan)

Then wear a dreamy look
And remember
how tough it used to be
this poetry shit
when you din’t know the rules

Untitled

titforrat — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 06:33:28 +0000

Who will buy from you if you keep an empty shop
Who will come to you if your shelves are empty
People walk by and glance at your dust covered sign board
Where once they waved to you, now they peek
to know if you are still alive, if the shop still stands
if the walls still hold
or have they toppled to entomb you within

If you will not sell or buy or laugh or cry
then shut this place down
whose once happy memories rankle
and slight passers by who once knew it
as a place where they could stand
look at your wares
the candles and the books
bookmarks, ribbons and coloured papers
paints and dyes and shells and angel wings
rubik cubes of a single colour
a jigsaw puzzle with a piece missing
which if they went looking for
they would find their one true love holding it

Heed the call of the children who pelt you with stones
turn the key in the lock and lock it in a box
weigh it down with stones
drop it into the deepest sea
and
let yourself go

acta est fabula

titforrat — Wed, 12 Aug 2009 06:52:19 +0000

If I ignore you will you go away?
Fade from the whorls of my fingertips
like your kiss on my face feels ancient today.

There is a method to my madness
as I burn every bridge between us
in small, sure, secret installments.

Where once all my days were owned by you
Today is an orphan girl
who sits and cries silent tears by the kerb.

My sad days I make into little piles
burn them and sit by on cold evenings
as the smoke rising from them stings my eyes.

Happiness is a mango

titforrat — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 15:01:56 +0000

Happiness is a mango
wrapped in a newspaper
given to you
on a train station in the ‘burbs
with a sarcastic remark
about the effort it cost
to carry it to you
when what I really mean
is something else

Pearl

titforrat — Sat, 24 Jan 2009 08:13:33 +0000

A grain of sand
in the universe of my eye
around which my world revolves
constellations and stars
rise and fall.

A grain of sand
holds hope within
of a life unseen
where the sea rushes in
to feed the dark rivers of my soul

A grain of sand
between us, to
share and to slaughter
to fight over and forgive
for the before and the after

A grain of sand
in the universe of my eye
makes waters swirl
a pearl forms
a tear drop carries it away

Absenthe

titforrat — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 08:13:04 +0000

Forgive me,
the feast I promised
is dead
the rivers of my lands are dry
no poetry will flow from these lips
parched are the eyes
as they stand at my doorstep
beseeching hope
while all I can offer is
some of the things which I no longer have use for

I care for you not my traveler friends
I shut down my tavern
That night the village pulled it down
built a temple
or a mosque
I cannot be bothered which
No one drinks of wine anymore
I will not bother you
and you will not follow me
or ask me why

A mans life must be measured
only on his passing
Consider me dead
don’t hold me a wake
judge my deeds
find me guilty and exile me
let the memory be a grain of sand
in the eyes of the travelers
who came so far
to curse me at my grave