Fricassee
here comes war an old order
resolving questions
about faction and protest
against the body
a war will not be true
a fricassee of notions and information
I eat every day
to ease my mind
Angry poems
Angry poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Bombing for peace
I smell ugly money
on the other side of murder
they promising security
secure a cave made by hand
like wind in a paper country
this business of war
Oligarch
I tend to business with old
man’s hands
as full of violence
as a small city
two ices that ought to be moons
in a garden gone bad
Hail from the chief
a little winter and summer rise within
and me in the business of anger
I might say anything severe
like a simple rogue
like a troubled king
I sing of the plots against peace
One-sided
the bark of merchants
who took no dole
not knowing any want
we the people
all throat
could not speak
Ephemera
who is concerned
for the foolery of fashion
green and pretty as money
we look at nature
and home in on business
sure of the owl
and the goodness of air
so cold and so close
Resistance
we prevail against the profit fist
a fine pig served with fine fat
how?
disturbed
about the letter I am forced to write
Eating the rich
high and strange we eat
the most perplexed sugars
such as white light or road provisions
a new version of coffee
or this gold edge of the ice
where others suffer
Free trade
the world is too little for us
for our merchants and tenants
our lands and all our loves
wrapped up in paper
I would not open it to see
what gold could do
a loss I could hardly bear
but for infinite comfort
Triptych: Against Moderation
Where the buck took a hunter’s bullet & lay down
in the laurel, a dozen chipmunks are calling
in unison – mallets on a xylophone
all striking the same, middle bar.
Too much moderation seems a dangerous thing.
We are only ever saved by what exceeds us.
When old fields fall to subdivisions,
the kinds of thoughts that need an unbroken span of sky
vanish along with the hiccup of the Henslow’s sparrow,
the wind in the grass.
A few house lots hazarded in the forest
& the wolves begin to forget how to lope,
halt in the middle of a howl –
a freight train wailing through the gap two hundred years later.
All it lacks is the shiver – such a small thing.
It hardly seems reasonable to demand the return
At the club
a pretty pair of gloves
on the Parliament-man
that was cursing the poor
how they fight till they drop
though their eyes be unlucky
as if they had no bread
the white hearse of a moon
set over a sad house
down into the morning tide
Developer
a deer is more than ink
something real
yet the expectation of profit
will make a man bland
like a lone shoe
or the corpse I find in my head
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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