JIM BENNETT
"THE BEST PERFORMANCE POET IN LIVERPOOL"- Liverpool Daily Post









walking on the mesa

we walked out here
across the mesa
in the brilliance of night
and on the darkest of days
saw it crisp with frost
wet with dew
covered in cloud
and bright with summer
heard the birds
and the crickets
saw the flowers bloom
watched them
turn brown and die

now the first shoots
of the spring crocus's
are emerging in clumps
erupting
through the dark earth
the wintered trees
in-bud again
the cold air
once more
pregnant
with summer


and all this still happens
even though

you are no longer here
to see it
 
 
after a visit to London when all had gone well
 
black beetle taxies crawl curbs
while crushed glass voices
shriek for attention
an underpass opens legs wide
sucks in the worms
excretes congestion
onto constipated streets
that stink of death
 
outside, the river
wind churned turns
grey
bridges lines against
the blue black sky
birds on bankside
peck for crumbs
suspend on wind currents
then drop swallowed
by the river
erupt
waterspray and blood
back into the air
 
spit stained pavements
drip into gutters
umbrellas joust
people mouths moving
speak
or want or wait to speak
or dribble
beg unnoticed
for attention
poster colours run down walls
eye suck advertising
screams about an exhibition
of surreal art at the Tate Modern
 
razor blades at eyes
sharp enough to cut you
 
I don’t think I’ll go
POETRY
clouds

If clouds were made of candy floss
I would be at a total loss
to explain
rain
 
the definition of art
white mesh honeycomb
transforms light as you move
changes shape
draws you in
makes you think
you are seeing
into other dimensions
it is all in the eye of course
but something happens here
the shadows live
like creatures in your mind
challenging you to make
new pictures
to move
to see it differently
confined only by your own
creation
 
the artist worked with
wire and shaped the skeleton
wound it with ribbon
to give it substance
bound it with plaster and paint
you could take a hammer
and reduce it to its parts
but like this
it is something else
something more than its parts
and connected to you
it is recreated
an infinite number of times
changes as you change
perhaps that is the definition of art
 
or perhaps it is our attempt
to interpret the frightening
unknown universe
and all that science
has left mankind
of the knowledge
we once called magic


the last groove

the plates drip dry
cups up-turned drain
as water runs in rivulets
into the sink
smoke escapes
from the chimney
of the house
across the garden
while black birds forage
pull up worms
from moist
new turned soil
music is playing somewhere
but for now
my revolution is over

the sterile CD unscratched
version of the Pistols
has come to an end
but I miss the sound
of a stylus
playing the last groove
forever