LIGHT IN THE GREEN OCEAN

TOTTENHAM CHANCES

Under a glowering sky unbelievable light plays 
Against the west wind. 
The blank street is unexpressive. 
Few people are walking. 
Buses, vans, cars 
Whizz up and down the High Street. 
There’s nothing unremarkable as the vital light 
Of the adiaphane catches fire against 
Invisible sunset. Although nothing is happening 
The everything that constitutes the lives 
Of ordinary hearts and souls is blazing against 
Muted series whites, greys, greens, blues. 

LIGHT IN THE GREEN OCEAN 

Is playing like myriad dolphins on the dappled surface

That are replaying to the bizarre sophistry

Of shoals of words that are pouring out

On the waters from the abyss of language.


Etymologies, phonemes splayed like duck’s feet

All the rest of the words are dumb, shark-like

Terribly carnivorous dictions of mutatingly unstable

Coral reefs implying something dark, lurking in


The great gorge deep untold shadowy depths.


WARS LIKE NUMBERS 

Wars duplicate come in twos like demonic twins.

Numbers comfort the multitude wars likely create

Plastic epic plays, wars tuned up like violins.



Infantry are like pigs on chairs, helicopters resemble

Great flies. Grey rusting hulls of tanks.

One of the best ever wanks when the enemies head



Fragments like a crushed strawberry warmed in the sun.

It’s all about money, no one can explain why

The wars repeat in cycles of 17 years?



Why the numbers are growing in algebraic conundrums

But mostly numbers of dead who can fall

Like clouds of dust or clouds of insects



Covering your new jeans in ugly vomit.

Subtraction is a separate entity, only the work

Of genius, unfolding in plethora abacus.



The stiff upper lips shatter like porcelain.

The unkempt stare, sang froid of Navy SEALS

The gigantic gaze of limbless Buddha statuettes. 


TRANSYLVANIAN GENT

There’s an ad in my local newsagents.

Transylvanian gent, 40 seeks

Partner for intimate relationship

Long lasting naturally, longer


Much longer even than eternity.... 


CRICKET 

Cricket is the war that poets abrogate in favour of war.

It’s a longed for eternity replacing actual gods with

Timelessness. Manipulate or cheat the time, refuse

To leave the crease, become a chucker. Heave the ball

like a grenade right into the sun’s dusky face. 


Paul Murphy