Microsoft Word - Barnes.doc Copyright © 2009 by Christopher Barnes and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 Selected Poems Christopher Barnes Topsy-Turvy In widow’s weeds, the bull, the sun, the flower, the light bulb – it clings to room 7 of Centro de Arte Reina Sofia, Guernica,* the fizzled-out horse, the woman. Ma’am so long as I assimilate themes from a cubed root suchlike “whole pictures” in gone-bad colour you will remember: gun-burst at railways Jose on the bicycle, rose-tinting an escape in the blackness of your lace. *Spanish Civil War painting by Picasso Copyright © 2009 by Christopher Barnes and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 Another Rationale “By accumulating & replacing commodities, obligatory work merely boosts the power of bosses, bureaucrats, leaders & idologies. So it becomes the object of workers’ disgust.”* If this was a proem to carnage Where’s the inference? Cannon fodder’s under the paternal roof fathering a squirm. With no intent to talk tall on factors ponderably grave we’ve received corpse desperadoes. We’re ready to spring to shock. *Raoul Vaneigem, Contributions To The Revolutionary Struggle Legacy They ramrod his insteps. Ear-splitting. Tongue-wag at your peril on lose-a-chance auspicious hours. Dead duck dupes do out-on-a-limb hurry scurries. His potency rattles firewalls into our palms, we’ll thunder the door with combustibles, greasing the downdraught. Don’t turn a dead one to the free-for-all on your streeet – anyone can stunt ballistics. Copyright © 2009 by Christopher Barnes and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 Ideology It hemorrhaged into the midline of fingertip packed lunch, a wavelengthed playing field, an excess, full-fraught inanities. I’ll shadow-inch your daily round unrolling a once-only way to your soon-dead self. Resign to what’s indulged, in flesh-creep credulity. Spits of ammunition, a Browning, cordite and a Beretta’ll squeeze you – catch the eye. Think! Seeing Red We’ll facelift the darlings of sedition, tyrannise haunts of overseers, backlash the purge of upturners – newsflash! – Our “cussedness” is decreed to exist. There’s dustup nerve-wracks in this call to arms. They vote against knowableness, the well-grounded. Is he despaired of? A dying breath? Has The Minister croaked? Copyright © 2009 by Christopher Barnes and Cultural Logic, ISSN 1097-3087 Policies Pummel die-hards. Poker-faced power-drivers in the format of thorough-going damnations. A nod, but do you scan, that far-flung pitiless glare, the biophysical essence of interception? Puke, dishevelled, an unwell envelope scares The State. Pressure’s to be husbanded. We don’t kneel to the back-pat of wet blankets. Tit And Tat In our neck of the woods at dawn chorus, the garottee was dragged clangourously into the Peugeot for some tucked away provocation. We’re a lullaby, miscalled, white-collar root-and-branchers have gamesmanship to plot, 33 bludgeons of gelignite, a proclamation. We’re no mercenaries.