February 12, 2013


I love(d) T.S. Eliot. And then I found out that he was an American. It threw me. I had loved reading him because his work seemed to reflect that world we were told was out there. “Alienation” was the great buzz word of the 60s. Sartre, Camus, but especially Eliot reflected that cool antiseptic analysis of the human condition. Now I wonder. Were these big issues that we saw merely the individual pickles of these artists. Were they just unhappy?

The Manhatten Project was one of the first poems I wrote that was directed at the times. I was trying to write about important issues. This time I had picked on God.

The poem is part of a book called Crowd Noises now available for download at a very reasonable price.

…………………………………………………….

THE MANHATTEN PROJECT

god is not dead

he was merely blown up beyond all proportions/made light of

dropped into a glass of water

where he burst into a million tiny bubbles

with the hope

that he would bring fast fast fast pain relief

from historic indigestion

and ise eno esc ape

noe sca pe

nof ork int her oad.

the ad-men sit in a trance at SAM’S

ironing out their problems

business is slow

a spider is spinning his fine web of suicide across their eyes

the janitor is sweeping around their feet

lifting the left leg when necessary

lifting the right leg when necessary

the dust continues to collect

piling up history

he files it away in green plastic bags

that bleed internally

god had tired blood

he was the multiple million eyed monster (incl. cable)

with multiple million cataracts

surrounded by crow’s feet

that slipped up on him at night – sorrow stalking sleep – ambush

god became irregular

short of the holy breath

tired of sticking his nose in other peoples affairs

pensioned off

lost forever

swapped for ‘dialectical materialism’.

in the back of SAM’S the pinball machines is rigged

the ball leaping and shuddering like an orphan from pin to pin

in perfect retrospective patterns

A thousand times i have recalled it

and a thousand times it remains the same,” smiles richard

richard bought out sam

but is now haunted by SAM’S habits

like the prisoner of a holograph

ica nse eno esc ape

ica nge tno ans wer

the exi tsi gns pum pou tth eir neo nes cap e

RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES IGN RES I

our psyches have been burglarised

atomised

small bugs have been planted in the mob

small boys with their fresh pink bottoms torment the frenzied thought

love became the INFORME(D)R HEART

  • who will pay the ransom ?

the barbarians are at the gate

you can hear the crowd noises .

the barbarians have been inside the gate for some time,

their standards well in hand

tapping their toes , “who are the hypocrits coming back ?

must be the lawyers dressed in black.”

SAM’S place is hopping

some sassy gals are dancing up a storm , dancing to a tune

NO HIDING PLACE”

richard rubs his head that is beginning to swell like the

entrails of a puppet

the rest of us sit , and order , and wait

hoping to outlive the funeral rites

smallmodernMan2

2 Responses to “”

  1. Love the structure and arrangement of the poem. Well done. And cool artwork as always.

  2. thanks… written a very long time ago

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