Three “poems”

Adam and Eve in the home for the cognitively impaired

Adam and Eve together are

Admitted to a home for

The cognitively impaired.

They are fed

They are watered

They are entertained.

But for what and for why?

There is no tree

There is no apple

There is no serpent.

Neither Adam nor Eve

Is tempted by anything.

The garden is empty.


Olé to Wimpole Street,

Sir Frederick Treves,

Doctor to the Elephant Man,

Lived here,

And so did the Barratts,

Although I’m not sure

Who they were.

The knockers are shiny brass

The porticos grand.

That American in the pale grey suit

Has cancer, I bet.

The Iranian girl on the steps

Is surely for an abortion.

The man in the black suit

Is not an undertaker

But a cosmetic surgeon

Shrinking and enlarging breasts

All day long, and sometimes

Doing noses.

Me, I’m here for an extraction

My upper seventh on the left.

Mr Majerenski, or something like that,

Will do his expensive magic.

I will leave one tooth less

But more whole.

When I type Wimpole Street

It comes out Wimp Olé.

That seems right,

Olé to Wimpole Street.



My prayer

According to John the Scot,

Who was Irish not Scottish,

The world has four divisions.

First, what creates and is not created.

This is God, who was, is, and will be

The beginning, middle, and end of all.

He, who is not a he, is all but has no opposite.

He is because he is not a what,

Incomprehensible not just to us

But also to himself.

Second, what creates and is created.

No, not man or woman or living thing

But ideals, the offspring of Plato,

Eternal and yet created.

Third, what is created but does not create.

This is me, you, space, time,

The birds that sing, the animals that die.

Four, what neither creates nor is created.

God again, as the End and Purpose of all things.

And across all,

Between the One and the many, Logos.




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