Poetry – Nothing is Sacred – a poem about the establishment, justice, freedom and hypocrisy.

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Book of Ginny cover

Nothing is Sacred

This is the world of hypocrisy where the establishment preserves itself and wields its power.

Religion is used to control the people and our children are taught the rudiments of violence through play. This is the world where money talks. The last rhino, gorilla, chimp, dolphin, whale, lion and tiger will likely be purchased by a trophy hunter. If you have enough money you can buy a jet-fighter or even an atomic bomb.

We are living in the free market and we’re up for sale.

The whole planet is becoming a Disney-world tourist trap and we are stuck on the paper.

The media control our thoughts, tastes and dreams.

The media produces an endless diet of distracting, mindless trivia.

We can be bought if the price is right.

The rebels are incorporated into the consumer package.

Morality?

Morality is a victim of the system. It speaks where the money is and is quiet when the victims scream.


Nothing is Sacred

There’s a plastic Jesus on the dashboard,

A toy gun on the floor,

A poster Bosch upon the wall,

All bought from the local store.

 

If you pay the price

You can buy everything

From a rhino to a bomb.

No one cares about anything

They’re all going for a song.

 

Nothing is sacred

Anything can be bought

Including every one of us

In this world

Morality counts for nought.

 

Opher 2.9.2015

Poetry – The Spider – It’s real – I know it’s waiting for me indoors!

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IMG_9805

The Spider

It is that time of year again. The large house spiders are on the move. The big males are off hunting females to mate. They bounce across your carpet, veering and halting unpredictable.

They lurk in the recesses and under everything.

They are huge, dark and hairy. Their bristles are evil.

At night they emerge to climb walls and on to beds.

They appear in bath-tubs and showers.

They also loom even larger in my imagination!

 

I am an entomologist. I should know better. But childhood experiences combine with evolutionary instinct to tell me that these things are dangerous, evil and a malevolent force.

Nothing will persuade me otherwise.

We have a huge one in the house. My wife saw it scurry under the bath.

I know it’s there, somewhere.

The Spider

Malevolently scurrying across the floor,

Scuttling to a standstill, assessing,

Watching with its many eyes,

Weighing up the scene.

Then darting into dark crevices

Impossible to squeeze into

To lurk and plan

Its evil re-emergence.

 

When darkness falls

It is there

Under the cushion

Under the pillow

Brushing the sleeping face

With its bristles

Legs and gnashing mandibles.

Delighting in its success.

 

No web

Or patient wait

For this one.

He is quick

And unpredictable,

Equipped with

Many legs

And a brain

That intends

To terrify.

 

There

When

You

Least

Expect.

Huge

Dark

Hairy

And

Fast.

 

No ordinary spider.

 

Opher 3.9.2015

Poetry – We Service the Machine – a poem about rebellion.

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Antitheist's Dictionary

We Service the Machine

I was thinking about how the rebels of yesterday, who made the walls of the city tremble, were bought off and incorporated into the very structures they stood against; their rebellion and anti-establishment stances becoming the icons of consumerism, their wealth buying access to the higher echelons and their posturing as trendy designer chic.

You cannot go anywhere without images of Elvis, James Dean, John Lennon and Che Guevara staring you in the face. Even Sinatra is in from the cold, Marylyn has her skirt blown in the air and Marx is the beard to wear.

The celebrity culture parades Mick Jagger as the epitome of revolutionary cool as he deploys his hairdresser and fitness trainer to prolong his marketability.

The establishment is adept at absorbing the blows and deflecting them so they are turned upon us. Johnny Lydon sells butter and the rebels become commodities to milk for profit.

There is no escape from the machine. We all service its insatiable needs as if busily gobbles up the earth we tread upon, the air we breathe and the life that sustains us.

My wails are pointless until they become exploitable.


We Service the Machine

Che is on the T-Shirt,

Lennon on the mug.

Quotes are plastered on our mouse-mats

To give our minds a hug.

 

But the profits from these baubles

Are siphoned to the State,

As the establishment exploits our tastes,

Our dreams, and finally our fate.

 

We are numbers to be deployed

In a pointless, superficial scheme

Where hypocrisy rules

As we service the machine.

 

Opher 2.9.2015

Beat Poetry and me – An awakening!

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Beat Poetry and Beatnik’s

I grew up in the sixties. I was too young to be a Beatnik of the fifties but their energy and vitality, their perspective, their anti-establishment fervour, their craziness and sheer exuberance suffused my spirit. I may have been a child of the wild sixties but my roots were firmly in Beat.

I was repulsed by the grey pointlessness of suburban life. It seemed devoid of colour, excitement or purpose. The whole boring spectre of work, TV, mowing the grass and washing the car seeming so dull and directionless was an anathema to me. When I hit my teens I wanted something more.

I had this overwhelming urge to break out of that pattern. I did not want to wear the same clothes, do the same things or have my mind fixed into some standard way of thinking.

I craved wildness, excitement and craziness. I had to think, to fly and to experience. I had a life and I did not want it filled with money, possessions or safety; I wanted it full of laughter, friendship, love, wonder and adventure. Memories were my wealth.

I gravitated towards the crazy people. I liked the weirder things.

At seventeen I was enthralled by my Rural Science teacher who spoke wistfully of his years living in a hut on Box Hill, getting up with the sun, doing a paper round to earn a living, growing his own vegetables, living frugally and having the day to do his thing. He was building a boat and taking a navigation course to head off round the world. I came out wide-eyed. My friends thought his was a loony.

I wanted to be a loony.

I knew which life I would have preferred. I’d prefer to be in a boat heading off into danger, adventure and uncertainty than working in an office and cleaning my nice car.

Then I read Kerouac and Ginsberg and discovered there were others out there who were outsiders, who saw society as a scourge, consumerism as an evil and wanted to pierce the fabric of life with their tongues, words, poems and lust. They saw life as a mad journey, a monster to be wrestled with, a vessel to be drained, experience   to be savoured and gleefully seized. Life was monstrously brilliant. You had to live in the moment and grab the ecstasy, sample the extent, let it explode and gush it back out in unleashed words.

These were no carefully crafted poems so much as splurges of words splattering like machine gun bullets into the grey matter to explode in ecstasies of enlightening understanding. They were ripping the fabric aside and revealing the naked truth underneath.

Life was to be lived. It wasn’t supposed to be comfortable, safe and boring. It was the ecstasy of being alive in the moment, in the midst of the crescendo of the raw universe. It was a wild, drunken, sex-filled, journey into the unknown and it sang…. It sang… it filled the blood with fire….. it sent electricity through the brain…. It opened the eyes, ears and senses. Life had to be tasted, felt, smelt, seen, heard and thought and the revealed clarity had to be expounded in symbols and those words had to express the wonder.

That was the meaning the Beats gave to me. They took away my existence and gave me life in full colour.

My novel  ‘Goofin’ With The Cosmic Freaks’ is a  story of adventure, craziness and journeys. I saw it as ‘On The Road’ for the Sixties. If you like fifties Beat or Sixties Underground, Kerouac or Harper, you will love this.

 

Opher 2.9.2015

Poetry – Each Moment – a poem of marvels, glimpses and speculation.

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Each Moment

I wrote the first line of this while I was watching Edwina Hayes perform in the Ship Inn. It is a philosophical poem.

We only have the moment. That is all. Our whole lives are but a glimpse at the panorama around us. We see it like a single frame of a film and yet courageously seek to work the whole plot and story.

Our optimism is truly remarkable and our achievements even more so.

For while the savage reverts are mindlessly destroying their own heritage in Palmira our fearless scientists are examining the heritage of the universe within a quark. They represent the two halves of humanity – the indoctrinated fools with blinkers and no questions and the wide-eyed enthusiasts for whom the universe is a mystery to be explored.

I have only questions and marvel to offer you!

 

Each Moment

Each moment is the first;

There are no rules

Only habits.

Each of us lives

In a universe

Only she inhabits.

 

We learn to make sense

Of the patterns

We discern

And flounder in the darkness

Of the colours

That we learn.

 

We follow my leader

As we grope

To understand

The universe of quarks

Is never

At our command.

 

We are fumbling through life

Making up

As we go along.

For a glimpse is all we have

And it

Will not last for long.

 

This moment has never been

And will never

Be again.

We see it for the first

Time in

This wonderful refrain.

We must live it now

For it will

Never come again.

It will never come again

The same.

 

Opher 1.9.2015

Poetry – Once Upon a Time – A poem that is a fairy tale for all life on the planet – with a happy ending.

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Prose Cons and poetry cover

Once upon a time

A fairy tale with a happy ending.

Life’s slow evolution from such unlikely circumstance to the triumph of intelligence has to be the most remarkable story of all.

How life grew from slime to mankind without a pumpkin in sight, no fairy godmother and no wish. More remarkable than any genii in any bottle. More incredible than any story thought up by man. More wonderful than can be imagined. We are alive to look out at this incredible celestial infinity with minds enough to gasp and wish to understand.

That is my gift of a fairy tale. It is really called chance creation and evolution but I prefer to call it …. Once upon a time.

 

Once upon a time

 

Once upon a time

There was a tiny green jewel

That circled round a beautiful golden dawn.

It was on this viridian gem

That mankind was born.

 

Through multitudes

Of chance and death defying stance

Stretching all imagination

And every circumstance

We created this fascination.

 

Riding the realms of fire

Through the aeons of fury

Minds were forged that led to you and me,

Created this fantasy

And brought all life to be.

 

Step by slow step

Up the ladder we climbed

Blind, ignorant and by instinct primed

We sought to break the bonds

Through which we were confined.

 

With sight to see

We looked around with awe

At the celestial majesty outside our door

And sang a refrain upon the wind

From all the days of yore.

 

This is that song

Of wonder and delight

Sung to the rooftops of every resilient rafter

That we finally get it right and

All live happily ever after.

 

25.8.2015

Poetry – Pushing the Edges – an idealist’s fight for a meaningful life of creativity and harmony.

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Vice and Verse cover

Pushing the Edges

Ever since I was young I have been an outsider. I don’t fit in. I cannot be content mowing the grass and washing the car. I need broader horizons and crazier people. I view this mad society not with mere suspicion but utter contempt.

I hate the twee-ness of ordinary life with its superficiality. I detest the history of all human culture with its brutality, superstitious beliefs, arrogance, superiority, ignorance and stupidity. I cannot abide the hedonistic senselessness indulgence of the modern society with no values, aspirations, depth or creativity. I abhor the celebrity culture. I am dismayed by the senseless direction we are being jerked along in by the power seeking, wealth gathering, blinkered morons.

It’s a wonder I’m not seriously depressed. It is even more amazing that I remain an optimist who still believes in the ideals I set off with – or most of them.

I am a devout antitheist who practices tolerance religiously and teaches respect and peace.

I want something more out of life that is not cruel, is productive, creative and in harmony with the natural world.

I’m not a dreamer; I’m a fighter.


Pushing the Edges

Always pushing these edges further

Trying to see deeper and round the corner,

Wanting more.

 

Not wishing to be safe within the

Limits imposed on us by those who seek

To close the door.

 

Striving to create something better,

That always lurks around the bend,

We’re looking for.

 

Not settling for more of the same

But wanting change that is enough

To make us sure.

 

Life is never ordinary

Though most would make it so;

It burns from the core

 

Opher 23.8.2015

Poetry – I hold my breath – A poem about symbols and communication.

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Vice and Verse cover

I find it amazing that I can have ideas, thoughts and images in my head that I transform into solid words. I can write those words as symbols using letters. Someone else who I have never seen can come along and scan those symbols, fused in ink upon a page, and translate them back into thoughts, ideas and images. They can communicate the same visions and feelings I was having at the time.

My visions are frozen into concrete meaning forever.

Long after I am gone people will be able to scan those symbols and understand what was going on in my head.

Isn’t that astounding?

From the universe within my head I speak to the universe within your head via coded messages.

I hope we see the same pictures!

I Hold my Breath

I hold my breath

And exhale it into these words

Trapped in ink upon a page.

I scan my thoughts

And pour them out

To be imprisoned in symbols.

I snare the moments

In my mind and freeze them

Forever into this ice.

I sense my feelings

And express them in inadequate

Markings on paper.

I speak from here

Inside the depths of my head

To you who might be reading.

Somehow against all the odds

You see the black and white

And recreate the colour pictures

That I envisaged.

Communication is the wonder of life!

 

Opher 23.8.2015

Poetry – Rhymes and Reason – Poetry book in the process of being published!

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AppleMark

My third book of poetry is in the process of being published. It is called Rhymes and Reason.

I have laid out my poems – mainly recent works, juxtaposed to a commentary and expansion. I think the prose and poetry complement each other well.

It will soon be available on Amazon.

Poetry – Justa – a cynical look at the Youth Culture of today and its vacuity.

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Vice and Verse cover

Justa

There are those days when you just get cynical about everything; the whole direction the world is heading and the future of humanity. It is so sleazy.

The businessmen look at everything as an opportunity to make a buck, to fleece you, scam you and induce you.

Everyone is so desperate to be noticed, to stand out, to be famous. Skirts can’t get any shorter, lads any lewder or heads any drunker.

The whole of youth culture is a hedonistic free-for-all. It’s not that I have a problem with morality; it’s more that I cannot see any substance to it. There’s no depth. Everyone is either sucking on some spliff or a tube of gas, looking to shag someone or jumping to the next thing. The attention span is minimal. It’s all surface deep.

Anything goes. Fun and easy laughs. Mindless drunkenness.

It has its time and place. I’m all for a bit of fun and occasionally getting out of your head is fine, but as fulfilling life’s purpose it’s sadly lacking – it’s sad.

There is no engagement, depth or focus. It’s vacuous.

Let’s get our kicks! But there’s other more creative things to do with our lives, things that give it purpose – love, music, art, dance, appreciation of beauty. There’s more to life than being a superficial moron, tottering on high heels, staggering with your shirt unbuttoned with your ubiquitous tattoos on show, shouting, larking and repeating the same thing night after night.

Back in the office they prostitute themselves at the screens, on the phones and filing crap, striving to get on, get more money, earn, get bigger tattoos, more shoes, matching purses, bigger cars, more pulling power. They claw at each other’s eyes to get on.

There are those days when you can see that nobody really cares about the real issues. They are content to party along in a Narcotised haze. It’s fuel to ISIS. It’s death to the world.

The businessmen will sell the last chimp to the highest bidder, the last tree to the logging company and the crass, meaningless Pop trivia will blast out to great squeals and shrieks as the Titanic goes down.


Justa

I done cold champagne and caviar

Along with marching powder from Bolivia.

I smoked the best and I must confess

There’ve been days when I had to give it a rest.

I’ve been up all night rapping til dawn,

Teasing the truths that have never been born.

I could shoot you the line

But I’d be passing the buck.

I’ve come to the opinion

Life is just a suck,

A jump

And a fuck.

 

I’ve been filling in time in the stress factory

Mining the ulcers that stop men being free.

I’ve learnt all the lessons

And attached the noose.

They promised me tomorrow

They’re turning me loose.

Thought I had the answers

But now that I’m stuck.

I see life is just a suck

A jump

And a fuck

 

I see the young girls all squealing

And the guys strutting their stuff.

I see the shady deals

Where we’re all selling our muff.

We stare at the art and read all the books.

Straight between the legs

Is where the businessman looks.

I drink in your dreams

But I just have to chuck.

For life is just a suck

A jump

And a fuck

 

Opher   24.3.98