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Goddo Faggotte Poem
Like a child losing eye-spy something beginning with a...
perhaps... No... No ! i lie... that thing with a 'P' -
the past... it's not at all dark and distant dreaming
they just change the target - it's not what its seeming,
"Look... look - they got me / they shot me."
Last year, right now or in the morning -
all the time, just a different space, like a three-in-one place.
Eye-spy the holy trinitye, exactly so
the white-clad father begot the bloody son,
who, once spent and done
released his light spirit as surely as black night
ejected illuminating day,
for the past to birth a brilliant, busy present
to slow-breathe a still-misted future.
And we, humbled in the mud,
badly believing the impossibility of sameness
(thrilling and cheating at the eye-spy gameness)
shout : "Look... look... this time it's different !"
No... No ! we lie... that thing with a 'P' -
you name it with your mouth, i'll call it to your ear
all the way down the remembered shadows
of every bristled, notched, forgotten year.
We end where we begin, on our backs staring up
at yesterday's shining light, and,
as we slowly lose our sight,
lose the final eye-spy game,
like memories in a tarnished frame,
motives, movements, moments stride purposely 'round.
Still we talk without sound,
where we walk without friends
and cry our love away.
Lives lost to time filled with detours.
Copyright © Goddo Faggotte | Year Posted 2018
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Goddo Faggotte Poem
Tiptoe the finest, fine twine, needle-eyed thread
and a glitzy sequined clasp, tiny
tweezer-tie it finger-tip fast with a nuanced knot -
my, my, the pedantic perfection of the master jeweller.
I have the servile subtlety of thick thumbs,
all clumbsy carpals, my fudging finesse
better suited to a beanie'd stevedore, loud lugging
heavy-haired harbour rope to ship-secure
a brutish lump in the line.
Tongue tied up, spun on my own silver yarn
like a crystal jeweller, giddy with champagne giggles,
dizzy on a spinning chandelier high strung from the pressed ceiling.
Oh non, pas moi! Mine is more an oiled elegance,
heavy handed, ham-fisted like a scabby wharf rat,
chased and unchaste.
Dextrous in the strangest ways -
gutsy and glamourous,
ours is a nuanced life of grunting grime
with the briefest flashes of bedazzled dance.
Copyright © Goddo Faggotte | Year Posted 2025
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Goddo Faggotte Poem
A lonely, cold gecko unstuck itself, unsteady,
from the cliff-face, bedroom wall.
A certain, short leap onto my pillow, then to calmly
move up over my sleeping form to my open face,
and there to kiss my closed
eyelids with rasping lips and sticky tongue.
"Lickety Split !"
"Spittle & Slick !"
It clicked and twitched this little tune as it did its rough work
on my quiet eyes. A slow massage,
moving orbits in their boney optical universe,
rolling, rotating, revolving behind the blue-veined lids
of my galaxy.
You didn't spot the camouflage,
didn't see the gecko,
just thought I was dreaming
with my eyes open
Copyright © Goddo Faggotte | Year Posted 2025
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Goddo Faggotte Poem
On a racing abseil down a scarred, breathless face,
I surprise stalled, smelling the waxy comb
before hearing the anthem-buzz of stinging sirens.
To a zipping stop, there deep,
back in the dark out-of-sight
lay flashlight hidden, shadowed away,
a secluded cave of stone sweetness.
From out the needle-sharp, eye-biting karoo light,
the bees rocket dive like shining embers bright,
fire-honed, humming into their honey cave home,
swallowed into the dense sweetness.
As Life extrudes with centrifugal spin,
each to fingernail climb her
chosen rockface of cold hardness,
or
to flurry, fret and fly a million flights
from high forest or low scrubland,
all seeking the warm softness
of our own honey cave,
safe on an untroubled cliff.
Copyright © Goddo Faggotte | Year Posted 2025
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Goddo Faggotte Poem
You’d mind us kindly once again,
for our good health, and the wealth
of the nations.
You mean … you’ll mine us,
ours will be the running sweat,
the burning toil to unshutter the breathing vents,
drain the dark shafts, pump the carrying oil, then
back to work with bright canaries
strapped to the buckling back.
We’d sing our bowed-head, whistling songs
underground in the damp earth of memories,
where we’ll again be wed
under the stars of your crosses and banners,
our dry roots will knot like twisted longtime lovers.
The grand old parents left seawards so long ago
taking the deep gold and crown diamonds
with them, and we were left, lonely
children in the wilds to fight it out
with dusty dingoes and the lion prides.
Now the proud, younger lords return
to exact their blood inheritance, tax free.
A century of tomorrow’s sunsets
will see the grandchildren abandoned
on these seething shores, again to kindle
fires against hungry tigers and slinking panthers.
Show us the canary.
Copyright © Goddo Faggotte | Year Posted 2025
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Goddo Faggotte Poem
Glinting-proud yachts, sun-boasting, deeply invested
in their mirrored moorings.
Floating checkers on a liquid board,
slowmotion pirouette on bank-heavy anchor chains,
holding position in wind, wave and water.
Furled masts attend like stiff antennas,
line-brushing the breeze in signal-search of clicked,
clipped messages from unsighted seas.
Barnacles bunch and tap out morse code
on the hard hidden hulls, sending syphered
wishes of 'Bon Voyage!' out into the tentacled currents.
A steam-forgotten train, olde power mist-swept out to sea,
once rattle-puffed and rolled over incoming waves.
The frail-fallen bridge, prostrate as the vertebral bones
of a fossilized dinosaurus, its ribcage of pylons exposed
in rusted spines, grips with a last grasp, down
into the sucking mudbrown silt. Only its bent,
buckled back heaves above in the tide flow.
Fingerling fish, flash and race to beat the washaway waters,
shoals break the miniscus in silver slivered eruptions,
shattering the glass-still surface into a thousand shimmering
shards of luminescent liquid to splinter-splash, then sink
to the swaying, submarine sedge.
Come down to the lagoon with me,
and we'll whisper our names into calling-cone conches.
Hold my hand, let's cross this bridge over the waves.
Our spirit-sails filled to billowing,
sail with me from the lagoon-safe harbour,
out into the blue deep where salty, scimitar
gulls will screech warnings.
Copyright © Goddo Faggotte | Year Posted 2025
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