Ode To A Garden Snail, Part 2

Little snail,
Evening journey,
You made it so far;
Will you one day
Reach a yard in to
Something like me?

If you have to,
And I hope you may do,
I am sorry now
For inevitably what
You must go through;
Blackbird beak,

Your shell will leak,
The soil below takes
Its toll. We will
Exchange in time
Our pace, our hearts.
Just keep in mind

And keep your guard,
For there are magpies,
There are sparrows
Who’ll tear you apart;
Stay steady young snail,
You’ll do better by far.

The Place Of Mistakes

Here, the God of Hammers reigns,
Long live the God of Hammers!
Swinging clubs, set me in place,
Secured in Plasters of Paris.

I looked into that pit of Hell
Where he tossed his mallets;
There I lost my sense of smell
And all the sensate palettes.

From my perch the lightning
Bruised throughout his business;
I hear that loathsome striking still
Within a loamy distance.

He pushed me through the hole
Of souls, in to new abysses;
In this way, I claimed coal,
Feeding the fire of kisses.

Superinjunctions

One day all the press,
Online and print,
Will be formed completely
With advertisements,
One hundred percent
Fillings, from habidashery
To gasoline proponents,
To hide and collude
And ride and dismiss
The dissenting
Foaming waves
As they rise and crash,
While starved waters
Of truth inundate
Studios, penthouse flats,
And meeting rooms.
If that’s not already
The case, then I’m a
Pregnant seahorse adrift,
Or a starfish colonising
Panamanian dunes
And Honduran rifts,
Just like that
Spate a decade ago,
When some matter
Or other took place,
A tort-law judge
Deigned beneath his silks
That we too were beneath
His bar of knowing
What does and doesn’t exist.

So I superinjunctioned myself
And no one could know,
Neither families nor friends,
The life I deprived
Of myself, unpublished,
To the public unknown,
A red headline splashing
Other content to fool
The populous into confirming
Their pre-suppositions,
While the actual event
Slipped by unopposed.

The Traps

Within wars weft, lifetimes before,
The traps of my self were set;
Bearded sappers breached the shore
Where future selves I met.

I surrendered myself without fuss;
The ingenious tools of men!
Colonels, handlebar-moustached,
Still sing of the clamps on my pen.

Clamps with jaws and razor teeth
My pen-holding hand ensnare,
Poisoned punjis shape a wreath,
My soul is pierced and bare.

Confidence and care suppressed
By granite rocks atop a stick,
Man-made methods, liver-pressed,
I watched the other authors tick.

Pelagic scenes the sappers reach
Where I was meant to live,
But mines entrenched along the beach
I cannot now forgive.

Ninth Sonnet

Less the requirement for tablet or shed,
Poetry’s gardens are seeds in your head;
Daily distractions will chatter and chase,
All their dull efforts, one rhyme will replace.
Minutiae delights, heaven’s your ceiling,
Don’t hide from your self, hardships revealing;
You don’t need a war for a war poetess,
Injustice and conflict sow your success.
Your heroes don’t live in scripts or a screen,
Your heroes prevail inside you unseen;
Don’t over-bake, or burn with keen edits,
Don’t wait for their praise, the obverse discredits.
More words you’ll intuit, let the free world fight,
Follow terms for your self, and freely write!