SOMETHING DIFFERENT

by Brenton Booth

Sunny summers day
laying in bed
at 9:13 am
the penguins drinking
lemonade through
straws while
the green hills
of Africa kick a
penalty goal
and my neighbours
have all gone to
work and
all I can hear
is the tiny famished
birds in the courtyard
the soft rain at
Machu Picchu
the planes flying
into space;
the garbage now empty
and clowns already
taken away
wide awake on a morning
that reminds me of what
could be
if things went as they should.

UNTITLED

by Brenton Booth

Screaming isn’t much different Brenton Booth
to silence—
its not about saying something;
its how you say it.
and those that do it
best are rarely understood;
but remain small question marks
to all eternity.
and those who do it worst
have awards, praise, money,
and sex heaped upon them.
though a few months, years,
decades, centuries later
their works look very
dull and uninspired:
its never until the orchestra
stop playing—
that you truly hear the music.

LEARNING THE WAY

by Brenton Booth

They get us thinking ahead.
making goals & working to
achieve them. & days, months,
years, decades pass by. & our
only recollection of them is
that we are slightly closer to
getting what we need. though
what we need keeps growing
year after year. & we are never
really satisfied. & before too
long we all end up the same.
living without life: banking
ourselves for the future.

THE END OF THE BEGINNING

by Brenton Booth

on the final page
the cars dim the headlights
the Tasmanian devils scream
the oyster eats the pearl

on the final page
the speakers play Delius
the forward kicks the winning field goal
the past is left behind

on the final page
the sun shines
the mail box is empty
the ambition has been replaced

on the final page
the seagulls walk the plank
the radiator sings hallelujah
the sentence is like the finest jewel

on the final page
the fools flee the cities of the wise
the Nobel Prize goes to the best book
the Academy Awards cease

on the final page
the equipment is worn
the keyboard brilliant
the alien asks the human for advice

on the final page
the love is gone
the hate is gone
the fear is gone

on the final page
the machines are silent
the ammunition rots in storage
the economy is no longer important

on the final page
we all look the same
and what we saw before
is very childish to us now
the gods have been recognised
as a mistake
and the only way is forward:
away
from            here.