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Paul A. Green

Five poems from 'Shadow Times', a work in progress


Time Hotel

I am writing myself into this hotel checking out as a gnome
eyeing His Otherness in a mirror the bombed tree-lined square over his shoulder
the time strata spilt and heaped a shambles of  recollections

Just keep logging my jiving archives a glossy bead game
I was at a party announcing a new culture - a girl in another room
entrapped in memory like an azure insect - incomplete data

Death is my unique selling point the omega point for swinging
grasping at flies but you got to laugh and make speeches
re Lycidas  and his holy rolling sheep on the battlefields of youth

Now that we're Martians hobbling goblins back-tracking the maidens
and I squeak as I find myself gravely descending a cadence of falling towers
try hard to make or break the Law: love = death squaring off

Splattered against the curvature of time window to the stars
I and you and all the plurals locked on to a straight line of fire
spores on the solar wind burning in the noosphere we are

In the time hotel  the bland light deceives it's roaring out there
in Saturnian deserts of future-proof space wars our own molecules
subverted by macro/nano event  A DUMPING OF DARK MATTER





CKLG FM 102.7 1971 oozing McCartney, then out of radio darkness:


jerks around

a corner hunting ivories

sticky insects between the keys

                        trinkets dropped right in there

                                                fell off and on the stool in his Polish hat

SPHERE called unto his self THELONIUS

in nowhere man

testing tone science like Ra

                                                God of the


            he stuck the bright knife in

black icicles between the keys

            an epiphany such an epistrophe

cats wigged in and out

            to catch notes on the fly

obliquely in the bleak light of Minton’s




At An End

At an end of the exhausted day
penned  inwards like a hunched scorpion
I rode a crimson tricycle into a past quite slowly
through woolly trousers and a monochrome suburb
around and around cracked pavements
in 1953 when subject discovered short sight and/or flowers blotching in a sun dance
Later he contacted the moon-ships via the Light Programme
the night provoked an uforian dream
God as luminous blue sphere
descending too fast
false memoire syndrome?
In the time-flux a screen saver dances around
usual pink noises of the body erupt softly
have just decentred myself but memory is corrupt
a byte of the cogito ergo sum
won’t check out a checksum
to take stock of all the bodies I’ve used
cells hopefully repeating in the write order/rite order
so I fill up in the right places
like it here on the mappa mundi of Hastings
in a house of phantom cats and actual books
scanning JMW Turner sundowns


The Dream is a Sentence


We are fleeing some terrorists.  I escape with Ken Edwards, through a kitchen door into a long narrow field lined with blackened hedges.  The clouds thicken.  We know the Taliban are over there.  They torture eyes.  Run, run.

I am in a platoon of soldiers in the jungle.  Our compound is protected with yellow sheet-metal fences.  Our only protection is a giant grenade.  We lob it across the barricade.  The enemy troops burst in flames.  They run around twitching in an inferno of blue fire.  This is a horrible leakage.

Jack Kerouac is climbing up the drain pipe to seduce my wife.  I am disbelieving and rather annoyed.  ‘You’re just too old, man,’ he tells me, not unsympathetically.

My publisher tells me my book is ready.  He has a cover idea.  He is going to take a photograph of a boy in a grey school blazer and cap being pursued by a bald red-faced man brandishing a cricket bat.  I  asked him to halt the photo shoot.  This wasn't what I had in mind.

A winding path between high grassy banks.  The dream light infiltrates everything.  The path leads to cliffs.  Cascades of water tumble down the shining black rocks.  Everything glitters and the sea glares.

I walk out to a protracting crag, flying like a massive  granite buttress over the bay.  Along the beach beautiful half-naked girls with long hair are playing ritual ball games in the surf.  Runes are tattooed across their buttocks.  They smile at an old man.  This is a friendly place.  But I can’t stay here.

The Third Eye winks from  a puddle of mercury.  Life is a deserted table top.


Descending a Tree


unbearable nuclear light/white hole/a void/flux-trap


vast countenance of Odin


calibrate her vinegar distilleries of justice


crystalline rings interlocking a dark matter


 he crossed on the rope ladder woven of  frogs


we are your Martians now/battle-trucks of Planet Blood/out of meat/out of mind


a control room in the sun has the complete settings but too late


our tigers are burning baby/cackle of green stuff /her Venusberg catch my fire


 machine chatter under a yellowing sky


dreaming breast again against breast/apertures in flesh defences/


frack an Earth-God in the depths of his plummy bowels/mix down water/fire in an alchemy of mud-dolls/festive tramplings beat a path to death’s door/


Copyright © Paul A. Green, 2015.