Morning has broken in

At first I was annoyed thinking

who the fuck’s that and where the hell

did they come from and how did they get in

and what balls they have at six on a Sunday tapping

on my door with the edge of a gramophone

recording of a Scouse poet?

About a minute or two afterwards it became apparent

as my eyes, still full of dreams in which feral cats groaned

their way into hell and dark forebodings managed musical acts

encamped outside the city and nomads boiled tea in wooden pots,

fell in tune with the rhythmic awakening ritual, cracks between bent blinds

wriggled into the motion picture and the sound checking wet wires relocated the source

to the bedroom window outside and a woodpecker systematically attempting breaking

and entry from the still dampened sill;

annoyance crossfaded to starkly contrasting miniature rainbows blazing

laserbeamingly through thick eyelids making their inverted marks on my retinae

only to be edited, have blindspots filled in from memory, shifted through coffee making

breakfast wonderings, wanderings in grocery aisles to recycling centers and dishes, bills and conversations to be had with loved ones and lovers, the imperial depth of tread on that front tire

publishing projects left undone, boxes of books to be reunpacked now no one was moving yet before moving to Europe unless the bailiff comes with padlocks and sheriffs and notices and cash for keys

if we’re lucky, if I play the right cards in this game of grab and go now while the chance still

avails itself and an unfortuitous economic upturn is announced on the ten o’clock news

and where did I leave my wallet and how is it such an impossibility to maintain much

needed fitness routines and eat right with all the room in the world? and I began

to wonder at the persistence of the little bugger and why he would pick

my Sunday window and if he really imagined he could smash through

glass and what he hoped to accomplish or if perhaps he too

wondered about a fresh brewed mug of coffee when

suddenly my nostrils reminded me I was not yet

at the theater and I saw smoke rushing in

beneath the bedroom door, heard swift

wingflapping, more tapping echoed

off in the distance outside

my next door neighbour’s

Sunday window.

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Lancaster, California

Copyright © 2012 J A Lee

Starbuck George

You start out with the mango passion, an espresso,

toss in some sun dried tomatoes and steak

recall your last beef in a pub

and substitute chicken Panini

spot the California style free refills and since you're here

to write your novel today

get a Grande and pronounce the tomatoes in British.

Through the glass wall

shoppers and lunch breakers

smartly keep in touch

pushing pushchairs through

the mall single handedly,

absently; Bluetooth salesmen must starve here;

osteopaths make a killing in elbows and shoulders.

It's a trip to the zoo for the price of a sandwich

but inside the glass cage

no laptopping student tycoons

no philosophers or poets not even

a polisci major passing out

manifestos. They come here from Next

to exhibit their bargains, dissect soap and

 exercise George, a wild two year old

specimen with highly evolved lungs.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Guildford

Copyright © 2012 J A Lee

Jessica

Imagine we really had met in the seventeen and nineteen year old flesh

the love we would have made as spectacular as every atom

nuclear reactions blowing up each nerve in our systems

a fusion of elemental beings exponentially exploding

into the vastly expanding cosmos the way we are this morning.

By now we'd have evolved astronomically probably

and become an entirely new species and our child

would have grown up to be buddha. She'd teach both ends

of the universe in mandarin and english speaking in pictograms

and parables and the world would understand.

Her name would have been Jennifer Charlotte. She'd be

the great writer and philosopher of her generation and

sometimes I'd call her Jessica.  Perhaps it was at the party

where we met that we both let go of her hand and now

she comes to us only in our dreams.

Tuesday, 24 April 2010

Oakham, Rutland

Copyright © 2012 J A Lee

Of bondage and idle buddhas in my pretendo zendo

. . . bondage

i don’t know

but i like the word invisibly

surrounded by inexplicable tyranny

the word i am fully persuaded is so in love

with me it takes away my sinful desert ass

with stained glass dildos

makes me bend down and lies in my face

(coyotes howling at another c-one thirty midnight test flight

have once again desecrated my most holy meditation)

your only peace and no pie man

(howled at eight ten to twenty five past overtime)

a hundred thousand howls from

the highest eye queues this planet’s seen

prophets and poets and bands of professional

eccentrics grinning at the rest of us

behind bud stained beards

and buddhas and

one of the buddhas here in the zendo must go

right now essentially

exit

the departed

beatific italian buddha

catholic antichrist impish criminal cherub

a bargain for only ten ninety five at ross

six buddhas weighed in

all unbalanced in the twinkling of an eye

one found wanting at birth

caught up in manic devotion

the italian was sinful

post gild

(we are peter)

yesterday a similar revelation:

wood buddha is missing the very end

of his flipping finger

and his ultraviolent block pedestal inconsistent

with the skin tight designer robe

the painted silk genital sash

ersatz buddha, his right hand disguised as a blessing

he’s brutally out of proportion

no art here only capitalist famine kids

his enormous nazi feet are carved out of course to

step to siegesmarsch der erwachten nation

his vertical palm pushes away anyway

i will hide and go seek

the twin of fools gold buddha announcing

samsara lotus buddha

his right hand man

(almost looks gilded

clutches plantlife or a silk handkerchief)

on ebay and maybe

new gilt coats and some black and gibson sunburst paint

with fondant hands and

these three buddhas will be one

and you will be one

surrounded by howling buddhas and peter

on this church we build god

(your only peace be with you)

more buddhas wait to help you howl into the night ocean

when the crimson curtain is rent

behind the bamboo screen

from chinatown still in their plastic shopping bags

huge hollow head buddhas

with no place even in my ersatz zendo and

others outside may someday awake

in a relative's mock hawaiian zen hammock garden

if he wants them

(a golf cart ride of the mind from the south pacific)

and still there are more untouched and bound

wood buddha is cia and won’t be converted

black buddha ten thousand nations united

a matt one with salvadorian copper robe endowed

and gentle buddha meek and

made in china high, aloof

blesses the unborn three in one buddha and all are

surrounded by candles flickering in the mighty rushing wind

of the spray painted altar before this howl

which is still me stuck inside my non-existent soul

December 2007

Lancaster California

Copyright © 2012 J A Lee

First amendment

I must confess it's hard

writing poetry when all the decent words have been used up

and the indecent ones are disabled for your own safety

all the feelings have been expressed and everything you like or detest

has already been filmed in three jolly dee.

I need a new experience but when I phoned they said

all the best . . . booked up . . . next ten years

. . . owing to . . . potential vat increase and

social service cuts . . . finance a new Iranian war.

It was a really bad line of course.

Perhaps then the best course

may be to steer backwards down the literary high seas

criticise someone's already famous rhymes and submit

an essay to a poetry blog but quick

before it goes offline in the virtual war.

Oh gracious oh goddes shall I seek inspiration

in your solid gold X-Box, your four thousand pound sandal?

Is your antique Aston Martin designed to make me scream

or cry in my local pint?

Or shall I purchase my poems cheap now they're past

their sell buy date and moulding your fair trade brie?

I must admit it's a bit of a squeeze

coming up with words that ease your dainty conscience

when all the art's been sterilised, boxed up

commercialised and supersized, disenfranchised, sold out

advertised, materialised and left to die left

to dry out the sun dried vine dried reader.

Here's a teaser dear editor

dear dealer in syllables, investor in riddles

collector of puzzles and giggles oh man in the middle.

Here's your horoscope and here's straight dope to give you

proverbial hope or better rope. It's not the kids you're protecting

but their parents whose dreams of connecting with them

you deny with your censorship, your rubber stamped sadistic

whip your tired tongues and limpid lips, those you claim

to represent. Don't stake your claim in my email box please

don't let my name be mingled with your dinosaur disease.

Don't fly your flag or try to guess what's in my bag man

don't tell me your aim is art which is liberty and please

don't try with your platitudes, your saintly attitudes

to let me sell my soul for some place in your nice clean hole

the stinking grave of your torpid ghost.

Copyright © 2012 J A Lee