New Poem, “DEATH IS COMING”

170410_r29691

Photograph by Alex Majoli / Magnum for The New Yorker

Death Is Coming

Death is coming, and I can’t stop it,

even if I were an Angel with a flaming sword

I can’t halt Death’s advance

—fuck—

I can’t afford bus fare to the funeral.

So many words left unsaid,

Not in anger, but in love.

Words unspeakable on the phone,

Because I need to see their faces,

I need to see their eyes,

And I want them to see me.

Death is no conscious entity—

No Seventh Seal, no Sandman

But a very big can of insect repellent

Wiping us out, indiscriminate,

(This is not news.)

I love cemeteries, I love the sleepers in the ground,

With their tombstones, their names,

Their stop and start dates.

And I know—more to come.

Not strangers. The ones I love.

And I still won’t have bus fare.

November 3, 2017

Ω

Happy Anniversary, ALWAYS APOCALYPSE

Always Apocalypse Cover 1 Rev

THIS HASN’T SOLD A SINGLE COPY. Which doesn’t make me sad, it just make me shake my head. I don’t think it’s a “brilliant” collection of poems, but it is my heart. Which Gojira, King Kong, and the world all appear intent on smashing.

But my heart is greater, and harder, than all three.

ALWAYS APOCALYPSE.

Ω

New Poem: “Do Not”

Do not hit your pets.

Do not slap your wife.

Do not pound your machinery when it doesn’t work.

Do not ridicule others you think beneath you.

Do not call your son a loser.

Do not rape your daughters.

Do not, do not.

Do not surrender to rage and fear, the terrible tide of night and anger, when all seems lost.

Do not pick up that gun. Do not pick up that gun. Do not pick up that gun and aim it at strangers who have never harmed you.

July 23 2016, After Munich

Ω

 

HELLO, BEAUTIFUL (and a poem)

Sun_Earth_Moon

ALWAYS APOCALYPSE ALL THE TIME just get used to it

by Simon Drax

We are ruled by the moon.

Werewolves, schizoids, fools.

Dragging up and down

The coastline of our life.

No drowning season, this.

Nothing so fancy.

Just another month,

Another death

Without fanfare

Flowers or even cinders,

Another eclipse in the sky

And broken toys

Lolling in the tide.

The doll, the sword, the robot,

The spools of rope and wire,

The dead dumb crackle of

The sound and the song,

The LP, the diamond needle

Scratching, scratching,

The spinning, spinning circle.

The moon is down

And there is no hope, love,

But also no goodbye.

The eclipse approaches,

The sky lowers, the ground

Trembles. Nothing, not even

Remember, remember

Can save us…

Not the math of God

Or the motion of the planets

Will ease this grief, and

Sorrow will be our

Only supper, but

There is always a but,

Thank God for the but,

Even if we don’t know

Its name.

For within this patchwork

Quilt of guilt and dead

Bent grass of our flesh,

We will always have our

Apocalypse, always, all the

Time, never young and always

Dying, always, always, always,

As the half circle of the Eclipse

hangs over us, the horizon,

everything, always, here,

Now.

Ω

  • Calendar

    August 2019
    M T W T F S S
    « Jul    
     1234
    567891011
    12131415161718
    19202122232425
    262728293031  
  • Archives

  • Categories

  • Avail @ Amazon, B&N, iTunes, Smashwords, Everywhere

  • COMING SOON