Joseph Robert

DEATHCYCLE

A fetus perceives hot, warm dark.
A child perceives reality,
under the glare of a congenital optimism.
An adolescent perceives what should be.
A young adult perceives what could be.
A mature person perceives reality,
under the shadow of a congenital pessimism.
A robust elder perceives what should have been,
and what will likely be again.
A fading elder perceives what was, intercut with reality.
A dying mind perceives warm, darkening past.
A corpse is The Dead, is one yet are none,
and perceive nothing or everything,
Which of these?
Don’t hurry the day, friend, for we’ll both know soon.

I'M HAPPY

For the swirl of my senses
Gels the simulacrums of my mind
Into a serving, that at present,
Makes me seek not endless sleep
Even though, I was . . .
Bought on supermarket clearance, half-price reduction
I’ve surpassed my Use By Expiry Danger of Death Date
With the refrigeration of philosophy
And the nitrates of romantic love
I’m happy
Because I’m not part of the next generation
Of botulism infection vectors

THE GOOD

The Good is no gilded treasure best hoarded away
The Good is a gentle spark dependent on sheltering hands
And the sequential stewardship of those who search
But do not root in mud while planning on wallowing in slops

Giddy about charging seminar fees up the wazooo?
Back to the trough!
Pigs that gobble every snout-scented truffle
Are fit for bacon and tombstones of gelatinous goo.

Eager to share understanding?
Good on you.
But clean up that whole (fire = truffles??) noise;
It doesn’t pay to manufacture sense freelance on spec.

BLOW HARD

You cannot own the wind
But you can sell it
If your politico cronies
Give you a slice of tasty monopoly
And delegate the hiring of a sub-contracting consultant
To secure the day-to-day management of your own subsided
Wind Farm

IRRITABLE BASTARD SYNDROME

Nervous Anxiety:
That Scab Of Years-In-The-Healing Fear
Squirts My Higher Brains Across The Toilet Bowl
Wipe Away and Flush It Round And Round, Never Down
So Hard To Move On When Hate Nests In The Breast Of Id
Wide-Awake, Weary, Wobbling and Weak
Out of spite, Convincing None I’m Out Of Their Sights
With Teeth Gritted, I Shamble To And fro,
Then Plunge Forward
Blood Up And Bent On Having A Really Nice Day
(Rx: Placate With Placebos, Dosing Sugar Pills And Smiles,
We’ll Write This Off As A Case Of A Qualified Cure, Dispensed.
When Life Gives You Bitter Oranges, Concentrate.)

ALTAR IN A CORNFIELD

They built a brick altar in the midst of the rows
Bringing the polyunsaturated fat of the mind
To the polyunsaturated fat of the land
Kernels of wisdom or silage wastage?
Cook it for ethanol, drink it, pop it, burn it or pour it
And that’s what they do, make-believing it’s not corny,
They present the place as the laboratory of a workshop,
But it’s The Church of The Proud Selves Declaiming (Reformed),
And so they monk on, and nun on, and on and on,
Skimming specialist puff pieces,
For their cloister’s cohorts’ bylines, meanwhile
Scattering about the altar their own-sanctified writings:
Humanist orisons after rules-gelded diaries,
Altered to taste.

These scrips are so rarely read for their own merits,
But so often written about,
In Curriculum Vitae
Feel free to knock it,
It’s a career.

© Joseph Robert 2013

Joseph Robert was born and raised in the Midwest. However, he has always been partial to Hawaiian beaches. Nevertheless: Go Badgers! After living and working for several years in rural Japan, he now resides in London with his wife, writer and poet Leilanie Stewart. In his spare time, you can find him at the British Museum trying to teach himself how to read cuneiform. Don’t worry, yes, he has seen Evil Dead, so doesn’t read any of it out loud.