Long Goddamn Poems
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What is this life, this reality?
Why do I question it so relentlessly?
So many moments seemingly meaningless,
meandering through this meaningful sentience.
Chronology…
Continuity…
Spirituality…
But really, Oxford will tell you:
Property of being real, resemblance to Original.
Accountable, in my opinion, only through dissemblance.
What I ask, is it original?
It’s all rather subliminal!
Made up by man and the idealism of 'ideal'.
Be like Budda, be like a tree,
pray to Gods, pray for money.
This will make you healthy, that will make you ill.
Where is the free will in all this obscurity?
What is this substance we call reality?
I beg your pardon, Sir and Madam,
excuse my blasphemy if religion is your reality,
But goddamn, Sir and Madam
It’s outrageous and random,
The idea…
The ideal…
Any idea for that matter!
For what is blaspheme?
Speaking irreverently of sacred things!
But what is not sacred down to a grain of sand?
If all by the hand and will of God,
Or aliens...
Or angels…
Or spark of light,
Let us not in the slight pretend,
to know or name a single thing.
Sacred cannot be named,
Or unnamed…
Or claimed…
And yet it is,
as tangible as anything alive.
Let's not deprive a word as 'sacred',
dictated to be, this or that.
Of all facts I know this fact;
Sacred is as sacred be.
As she walks, as she decrees,
she is ancient, beyond antique,
she is the vessel through which divinity speaks.
His name is spoken, heard and seen
As part of every goddamn scene
Sweet be a cap on every bottle
It all goes on, without a throttle
A new banknote? Oh, there he is
The Arc of Trump? Well, soon be his
The Center for Performing Arts?
Rename attempt, sans playing parts
Half of White House's gone for good
Big void where once the building stood
Leave stains, not marks, is way to go
Our pride’s absorbing every blow
A golden phone, "Made in US"
Except it's not and what a mess
Cashed in our loyalty like a chip
When crypto fails, abandon ship!
He yells and screams and stomps his feet
So, heads of states are rife with grief
Hey, "pay attention to this matter"
Or chance become a worthless splatter
It's one step forward, two steps back
"Go make a deal or we attack"
The weak and meek don't win no war
Phone calls end war, he’ll stop few more
Vane jester of his own court
Amusing pledges, then abort
It hurts to watch, foresee effect
Entire world's pain in the neck
Forgiving History wouldn't be
No lion shall behave like flea
With vanity's his love affair
Except in bath, it's good nowhere
May 30, 2026
the heat presses down like a drunk cop’s boot,
metal fences shiver in the sticky Florida sun,
concrete walls spit their old secrets at you,
black mildew crawls across everything,
like it's alive and goddamn winning.
men with broken teeth laugh in corners,
playing cards with cigarette ashes and dreams,
the guards walk slow, like they own death,
keys jangling like a bad symphony,
boots scuffing, breaking the silence open.
sweat pools in the cracks of your skin,
rats wiser than the wardens,
paint peels in long strips, like shedding snakes,
you hear screams, sometimes,
but mostly you hear the waiting.
somewhere far off, a dog barks—
but not for you, not for you.
Studious at the desk, disinclination to speak,
Solid state of matter, I find impossible to pique,
Engrossed in esoteric lingo, but all in his mind,
Nonsensical gibberish, of language undefined,
Attempting to engage, shows no interest in me,
This room is totally empty, so far as he can see,
Abstract images, behind eyes bereft of stares,
I flick a torchlight, responsive stimuli are there,
Capturing attention, through cognition of light,
A brief interaction, however tenuous but slight,
I shake a box of marbles, tiny smile on his face,
Guess how many, he just scribbles a number 8,
Would you like to see, count them out together,
Turns and walks away, mumbling ever forever ??
I shake the box again, you like one more guess,
He rocks back and forth, showing signs of duress,
That’s enough for today, heading towards a door,
I hear the marbles, crashing down upon the floor,
He starts to pick them up, handing them to me,
But on closer inspection, there imitation galaxies,
Why thank you I say, universe is back in the box,
Fluently he replies, they are life’s building blocks,
Now I’m lost for words, powerless to interrelate,
Goddamn! that 8 was sideways, it’s a lemniscate.
Solid states of matter, every so often sublimate!
By
David Kavanagh
The gun seems gun-shy in this space;
where deer hides hang on rustic walls
and granddad-tick-tocks beat, instead
of hearts in hollowed skins. The gun
a “trophy-bagger” in its rack,
a loud-mouth predator at rest,
this motherless, brother-less thug
perceives no pity-pangs... the gun
now quiet, buckshot empty, cold.
Above the stove’s phoenix soul hangs
an antlered head with prideful tines
the man, with bear-paw hands, had won.
A fox in freeze-frame-trot, a stiff
with cat glass eyes, attests his prize.
Indeed, like litterfall they fell,
unseen his haunt in hunter gear, his gun
a junkyard dog of steel. I say
they're beautiful in life. He says
they’re beautiful in death. Between
our words — a stand of pine — the shot!
that brought the shock of ammo air
that rib-cage-ripped and broke the breath,
that hurled the crows against the sky —
the blast that felled the 10-point buck that failed to sense your goddamn gun!
Yeah... blame the buck his reckless pose
and buckled throes. You felt the king!
Behind tight trees you sat with dawn
in sniper-silhouette. The gun
felt nothing; no remorse, no joy
—it, too, hangs upon the wall.
You can barely keep your eyes open.
Not from sleep, but from awe.
From the ache of wanting to take in everything at once.
The sky unraveling in soft peach and gold,
the hum of the tires still vibrating through your bones,
the sea so close you can feel the salt in your blood.
You want to see it—every grain, every wave, every goddamn shimmer of it.
But you also want to let it consume you.
You want to close your eyes just enough to become part of it,
to let the scent of honeysuckle and brine slip into your lungs
and settle in the parts of you still learning how to breathe.
Caught between the car and your dreams,
you hover there,
one hand on the door, one foot in another world.
And maybe you don’t need to move yet.
Maybe you’re allowed to just exist
in that sacred pause—
not running, not reaching,
just receiving.
Somewhere on another world, in a far away galaxy
Aliens built a quantum-scope, our world they could see
I also built a similar contraption, and maxed out the lens
Now I witness these ETs observing earth, but in a weird tense
See, as they zoom in closer, it’s dinosaurs they view, not me!
This is no illusion, nor does it defy relativity
I’m in their far off future, watching them observe our distant past,
I spot a T Rex on their monitor, Barney I called him, for a laugh
Now I live stream earth, via a planet no one has ever heard
even though the creatures I see, are 66 million years dead
Everything observable that has ever happened
embeds in photons racing through space
All we need to unlock them, is quantum technology
in the right time, pointing to just the right place
I hope you follow my postulation, the implications seem insane
But what good is science fiction, without stretching out our brains
Goddamn! here’s a thought, about this poem
Say on a planet, merely 2000 light years away
If by chance they’re observing Jerusalem
Christ son of man, we could yet live stream today!
I rolled like Caesar down the boulevard the day I came to town.
My triumph was impromptu and abrupt.
I parked my Chevy by the curbside on a gentle downhill slope
In hope there’d be no need for backing up.
From near the Devil’s Crossroads where I’d tempted fate
To the edge of Austin in the Lone Star State.
I walked my hunger to a roadhouse, spied the waitress shooting pool.
She ignored me, so I had to volunteer,
“I’ll have the Humperdinck pastrami with a Chopin polonaise,
And Jesus Christ, I need a goddamn beer!”
I swear her body English, when she broke the rack,
It took my breath away and wouldn’t give it back.
She was a cowgirl from the city with a wide Bonanza spread
And the guns to run the rustlers out of Dodge.
I had an immigrant’s desire just to lay my burden down
And shack up in some low rent motor lodge.
I said, “I’m here on business, babe, but heaven knows,
How your desert blossoms like a gypsy rose!
She played the accidental vixen like a cunning ingénue
And adlibbed her audition for the part.
She said, “The Workman’s Daily Special comes with saucy bedroom eyes.
If you’re picky, you can order ala carte.”
It seemed an outright bargain in a joint like this,
A spaghetti western with a Hitchcock twist.
I said, “I’ll be your Prince of Darkness if you’ll be my guiding light
And lead me down the path of least regret.”
She said her hands were always busy, but her heart was sometimes free,
And humored me by playing hard to get.
I offered Old Persuasion from a bootleg flask.
Heard the waitress answer, “Thought you’d never ask.”
She left her apron on the counter, took her jacket off the hook,
Deposited the tip jar in her purse,
Then we motored off to Splitsville down a narrow one-lane road,
Playing chicken in a car with no reverse.
I watched on
as the universe fluffed its lines,
tripping over evolving stories
keeping me in the dark,
gravity pulling my leg
Impossible to ignore
those below-the-belt punchlines
and a Big Bang
that leaves me seeing stars
It all happened so fast
A "hold on there”
kick-in-the-nuts moment
a doubled-over realisation:
I am mortal
and painfully aware
fairytales must cluster
in a galaxy elsewhere
In truth, I could have a brain bleed
tonight and die in my sleep,
just like my father
when he was my age
I won’t even know I’m dead,
no more than I knew I’d be born
Only the living are subject
to such subjective things
What a waste,
a goddamn waste
in all eternity
Why does consciousness
surface at all
only to drain back
into the vacuum of space?
Yeah, thinking about death sucks
especially lying in bed
tossing and turning
trying to sleep
Wish I could fantasise instead,
tucked up nice and cosy
dreaming about all things rosy,
Like those early simians
who went to sleep as monkeys
woke up knowledge-hungry,
bipedal junkies,
after digesting the original
chicken-and-egg omelette
that self-prepared in a forest fire
As for me,
I can’t even distinguish
divine awe
from Sod’s Law
since that probabilistic day
my buttered toast fell
and landed vertical on the floor
Such aberrations occur,
stuff one cannot conjure or control
Adult stuff?
If you like!
Except kids experience (stuff) too!
Most frustrating part:
the universe tells no lies,
only portrays truth,
albeit in an emergent sense
Past to present tense,
the future unravels;
knock-on effects travel,
sometimes producing
sudden knock-backs
as temporal waves
come knocking on one’s door
Still, I’m with the action now;
life hasn’t gone away
Besides, if I knew everything
or was omnipotent,
I’d eventually bore myself to death
in every possible way.
?
so came the morning
and just look at my pillow
well and truly fluffed
By
David Kavanagh
I really should'a read the fine print
When Evil came calling
On a fine sunny day
I was caught full napping
Didn't know what to say.
The dapper gentleman
With a Van Dyke set fine
Spoke in dulcet tones
Like sweet and mellow wine.
My name is I Levi
Very softly he said
I grant all one's wishes
Till the day they are dead.
For power and for pelf
If You strongly desire
Or bevy of beauties
To set your loins afire.
You ask me what you will
I'll grant it with a snap.
There is no hidden catch
There's no devious trap.
I had heard of dealings
With powers of the dark
Of dire trades of soul
Of hell-damnation stark.
I asked of I Levi
Of what I had to do
Just sign he smiled and said
Just common ink in blue.
Great doubts I had at first
But soon dispelled by greed
Quickly I read the script
Signed the mystic deed.
Great was wealth and power
My lot from that day on
Youth, vigour, virility
My cares and worries gone.
For full twelve months I lived
A life that Bacchus shamed
Wild, wanton, to the brim
No rein could make me tamed
Then one fine sunny day
While wining with a wench
Came Levi with a smile
And a terrible stench.
Your Time's up, my dearie,
He most cheerfully said
You are now Satan's guest
As now that you are dead.
I pleaded and begged
My tears started to sting
I told him of the deed
Where there was no such thing.
Softly Levi told me
What that day he had said
I grant all one's wishes
Till the day they are dead.
Your time here is ended
As ordained on Above
Your soul will be taken
Your Corpus feel the plough.
I've now learnt my lesson
Rather late in the day
Caveat Emptor holds
The fine print's always there.
I really should'a
Most carefully read da
Fine print then, Goddamn it!