gull museum tour ( guide heart attack)/title: broken poem

                        gull   museum    tour   ( guide    heart  attack)

         -and this

                     is  hauteryx (

           a    rough   tr

                              translation )

      chief    of   a   thousand

                              proud

                             nations  - thus

 ( he   died  ,   with   the   greatest poems

       of    his      life

                  un ·

                       sung

! they  all    spoke

                      the   one   proud  tongue

                title:  broken poem

                             (upon his lips)

Peter Greene 2011.

madness10 :the novel

"very   moving , and ,  of  wonderful mahogany"

      "  derogatory , disconcerting - a

                                                          veritable

          burbling". - the   Times  and Quiler's   While    and       the

                Magazine   Of   Splendid   Things

                                         is      featuring my  living  room  - doome

             of     fame    and   failure  - now

                                                          is   the  time

                    for me    tO    inhale  you  :  fumes

                            of   Time   and   vistas      wide  :screaming  hordes,

                      deep   inside

2011.

rozen

rozen

                                                     blue by any other name

                                                                 it froze and broke

                                                              but the preservation was perfect;

                                                                     snap!

                                                                  a kodak moment

                                                                     your love is so cold

                                                                but  i love the snow

                                                                    numb clumsy fingers itching

                                                              i know it can’t last but

                                                                  being out in it makes

                                                    the moment so perfect, air and

                                                         heart  so clear, my

                                                                  love.

                                                                        snap!

2010 Peter Greene.

Mad Priest's Apprentice/roguegrader

\They had seen the lean tall fellow with the .22 on his back from quite a ways away. This was due to the bright orange safety vest, very tattered and flaking now that they had ridden closer, that the man was wearing atop his battered, colourless workalls.

They surrounded him, four horsemounted, hatted men. Behind the fellow, who wore a long and stylish mustache atop his thickly curled face, Gregory unslung his rifle. The rest of them already had

guns in their hands.\

\he tells them of his watching of the goats/

/his time in the hills, dreaming of the future/

/planning for it/

/watching the long slow life of the steppes/

/and dreaming of ways to fit Man back in/

/they are surprised/

/and eat goat with him that night/

/one of them stays at the cave, farewelling and goodbyeing/

/there is no rancour, it is very odd/

\the strange plants glow in the night, wishing silent vegetable incomprehensible thoughts while silver bugs ride their veins drinking moonlight/

the others rode on in the morning \

thinking on what the old man has told them \

of the Mother's concern \

for all life/

of the great ice/

She is bringing to shield us \

from the great storms of space/

still, he explained/

it was worth watching the goats \

it was always worth watching the goats \

and they had agreed, wondering/

wiping fat from their hairy chins/

in the flickering firelight \

by the old man's cave \

2009 Peter Greene.

"soap"

empty ski place

candy for lunch (empty ski place near Armstrong, B.C.)

       thirty years old

              running a shop

          that sells nothing:

    printed with the name of this place,

                nowhere,

               somewhere.

        it’s empty: out of season ski strip.

     fur hats and beaver t-shirts

             compete jostling for no-one

       we’ve gone in,

                       it was open

             why we came up here

                       i don’t know

               i don’t ski

                  there’s no snow right now anyway

        she’s come out from behind the counter

 pale, glitter, alone

             her boyfriend is in town

     there’s no business

                i want to go

      but the older relation

              stays, chatting

          of nothing

             looking at well-priced

              nothing

    and this nothing-child

           this poor lost beast

whose mother never even taught it

                        what to eat

          offers us,

                   tentative

                         (normally there is no need

        when there are more

                                customer people

                                        they just talk , you know?)

         of her empty time

                  and of her food:

            a small plastic bag

                 with some coloured bits of candy in it:

         her lunch, she says

                   desperatepaleglitter

          such feelings as tear at my chest

                            and eyes

                  i cannot say

          we have lost all our children

                     alone, they play

          (adult), & all forlorn.

2009 Peter Greene.

bluthgelt's sayings

the village: iv: 

bluthgelt's sayings: i.

the taxman he thinks

that he's a big star like Death

with everyone fearing

his cold smelly breath

his ledger a scythe

his work one of taking

one could almost forgive him

for the mistake he is making

when out by the barn

he goes to my goldpile

and finds just a hole now

and a hand to help lie down

and a stone for a pillow

on top of his head:

Death vs. Taxes:

Taxman lies Dead.

ii:  bluthgelt was the baker:

     bluthgelt was a man

     now he lives Outside us

     as a killer of a man.

     still he does some service

     the Elder Council knows

     there are always some need killing :

     so they keep a killer dog close

     and when he spends his namesake

     at the tavern or the fair:

    no-one knows his name:

            to us he isn't there

iii

for he wears a Council token

of freedom and despair:

a coin of gold

        a red cross

             twisted in his beard.

held there by a ribbon

of nanometric steel:

'twill grow now with his beard hair,

   his madness

   and his fear

as he crouches in his rude hut

just outside the Ways

 waiting for the signal

 the Council sometimes makes

counting up his gold

           taxless, he is rich

         alone amongst the robins

       he yearns for a cold ditch

            to pitch his pale form into

            to strangle and to twitch

: but his heart it still beats strongly

there will be more years of this

           this lesson to the others

           that bluthgelt failed to learn:

           kill not of your neighbours

           or 

                forever

                              burn.

2009 Peter Greene.

dragon king 1

big poem i : The Dragon King:

                                   Overtures

and the dragon said to him

(between clouds of redsmoke)

when you take my head, take it

with you,

mount a gold band around the neck.

There's gold aplenty here.

Then, the worm was on him

ten mighty tons of scaled mountain,

taloned hands flashing

glints in the redsmoke,

                                            in the dark

underbelly of the earth.

So long have I been here,

                 coiled around my

endless ringéd pain, so so long..

The dragon spoke even as they clashed.

   The young man did not speak,

for the battle was fast

                    and very frightening.

  Armour was gashed, sparking

                         by one blackscaled hand

  the boy stood swinging

                 his brazen knife,

      sword of kings, pathetic, blunted

                   on the hard arms of his foe.

 His wastes ran down his trembling legs,

and he feared he  would soon fall

         in terror or to the flashing deadly

   hands and darting hissing head.

 The beast did not throw itself upon him;

        for this he was glad,  knowing

              not

         the wishes of the beast, he knew

                not

          the reason for it.

                 In the final heat of it,

     the dragon

             seemed much smaller, much

    like a man, but all unclear in the

            choking redsmoke there.

   A hand caught his, as he reared back,

     an eye sought his

                  as he struck, unhindered,

     and  a form fell slumping, liquid,

             disordered,

                         even as the  perfect

         spike-bearded snake's-head

                    dropped at his feet, eye still

            meeting his.

            A gold band, he thought, and

  with a heavy sorrow on him, he searched for it,

      Hurrying ,with dread so 

   dark and nameless on him, he ransacked

       rummaged

          and tore through the treasure pile,

 technology  and gems ,gold and famous papers,

  fine footwear, clasps torcs and diadems,

    old records and their players,

older drawings on cloth paper :

     all was hurled aside

 in the increasing pace of his looking.

   From the floor, in the clear rocky throne-room , dust-streaked,

     an eye regarded him even as it glazed.

 Amusing ,this

          game of control, amusing

 even in death.

Peter Greene 2010.

bearded god

                                                          bearded god

                             unveiled

                                  swelling belly

                                          painted eyes

                                               furréd mouth

           strapped above the altar she struggles

                          her contractions begin

                  deep chanting drowns her howling

                                       she is hidden

                                         hidden from the robed fools

                         the painted god's face on her belly

                                      twists in agony

                         its mouth beginning to open

                             forward steps the priest

                                      silencing the hairy mouth,

                          with knife he bursts the brow

                                       of the bearded one

                            he has summoned here tonight.

                entrails,

                       brains,

                            it makes no difference

              to the drugged horde gathered here tonight.

                             in a wash of lifeblood,

             the new god bursts forth full-formed

                             into the hands of the Fatherhood

                          into the hooded robe, the caul

                                  stained with his Mother's soul.

2009 Peter Greene.

energy transformation

                                  energy transformation

                   and the swallows became bronze birds flying

          and instead of tears the sky is crying

                              diamonds

                  and a river of electric light

                            flows outward:

                          borealis galacticus.

                           Mother is awake.

2009 Peter Greene.

spider survivor

spider survivor (j-blue 53: washing a mat)




         she thinks she is abandoned : a lost, tiny princess. She
         saw the others go, whisked
                                           away  on the mat
         where they all hatched -oh, fond
                                                    mat! gone now, and
         only this      lorn green bath room 
             wallto cling to  ,and this

       gnawing  hunger   in her belly.  -don't fall, little one

        of the yellow diamonds, little one of   the
             orange    and  black  (soft fur)  keep tight

                        to that barren lone wall

        for   you're the last  -i
                  drowned the rest.






2011 Peter Greene.

the village: one

                                   the village: one

                       when the old man kills a rabbit

            first he strokes it

                   touches its head and soothes it

            always a fresh clean chopping block

                      always a clean dry place

         where the sun can reach its open eyes

                         when the head comes off.

                he did a small dance,

                        carrying, stroking, shaking

                                the small corpse

                                     as its life and blood pour out.

                       then cold streaming water

                             and the small, sharp knife

                      skin,

                          a dinner,

                            and crow's meat

             to be raised on a pole platform

                                   in the yard

                      an offering,

                              triumphant,

                 to Mother's janitorial crews.

All around the village the poles are raised, stinking.

                        It is the spring.

2009 Peter Greene.