[ public intellectual property ] – trademark zer0™

public intellectual property
of a similar name
like the film in which
Spielberg pinches scenes
of diners eating – monkey brains

we step into the mall
buy some labour-driven coffee
confronted by students
activists with smiles
selling charities for cash

waiting for some action
youths grow up
they change their pants
their stance on everything
the price of fish

Scorcese rants
fascists growing up everywhere
sharks beneath the sea
the rock of change
is hurtling at me

Sergeant Peppar marching
with the band to Innisfree
to where there
is found another bunch
of beauty products for sale

they don’t belong
to William Butler Yeats
copyright is caught
lying on its back

a hunny trap in lace
plagiarism and me
we’ve got a whole thing going
not a trace
of doubt in my mind


Posted in edenbray POMES, edenbray OPINION, PROG-PROSE, edenbray COMMENT, THAT'S ME IN THE MIDDLE, POEMS FOR CHANGE -, BEAT | Tagged , , | Leave a comment







                              IN THE MORNING .. .


Oh the damp and the unemployment

    the sun is shining but I am not feeling well

and its in the air, all over the place

    cannot get away, cannot run away


Looking around I feel fine

    hearing the sounds, seeing the sights

my eyes are wet with lack of sleep

    my neck it moans and moans and I cough


Never thought I would be in this place

    thinking these thoughts, knowing how it feels

and I am happy, and I am sad

    I have learned to write it down and this helps


So much of it is down to conditioning

    our angst, our anguish, our fear

if I were an Ethiopian, no roof over my head

    no food to keep me alive,

    I might have something to say


But my suffering is temporal

    yet real to me and others in the west

not happy with enough

    we are searching for Nirvana

    indeed the hippy’s are here


Social upheaval, living with less

    the pressures of society,

    how should I dress?

I am uptight, I am running

    things don’t go the way I choose


Enough food, enough heat

    so much today is a mess

oh the damp and the unemployment

    think I’ll get up and get dressed!



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noisy ocean .. .


as January passes
  and February starts
scent of dopamine roses
  sounds beneath the sea

a madrigal of excellence
  the tanker passing by
windfarm helicopters
  hear no ocean clicks

insurmountable beasts
  beat-up planet creaks                         
it’s trawler men who whistle
  the enormity of catch



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howl louder .. .

hands that are tied hold faces
   traces of love shed from caverns
sinews wrenched, borrowed shoes
   pale and bruised, whitest lilly petals

teasel spikes, black hole shapes
   silhouetted on barbed wire brambles
the fruit of our isolation, tanned leather
   chains, electric wires, screams and pliers

murder not the innocents so barbarous
   the camber of war planes, missiles flung
sheep shorn, bloodied, Abram’s son passed over
   hells fire leaps higher than the jig of Judas

consolation of torture, a leopard’s attack
   none seen or known at any judgement’s altar
war counsels wash spit from their own eyes
  honorous guilt surmises, forever hides souls

by the coppered brook, the glint of red is not sun
   trenches, heaps and mounds upon our landscape
a history of pain a regret none will soon forget
   its passing shapes, sad bitterness of reparations

tousled moon it turns gaze to other seasons
   waves claim to satellite this bloodied alluvium
yellowed saturn, beiger jupiter tighten their belts
   planets talk, often gravely, of earth’s elegant confusion


Posted in BEAT, POEMS FOR CHANGE -, PROG-PROSE, THE ATIST'S SKETCHBOOK .. . | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment


august .. .

Breezette by glass of august moon
just a few more puffs upon your
marijuana cigarette before I die
lend a moment basking in the sun
for those inclement of fun
counter-weight my loss of intelligence
with excitement, erotica, morbid suspense
the jack-rabbit flies in face of fear
jack-snipe disturbed shows no tears
his face placid – eyes stay closed
organ flaccid, far too many years
we waited by the corner
for the steel road grinder to appear
the clench of purpose
morbid gash of ancient steam-roller
time on our hands slips through
death angel’s cold rake
python skin discarded
red and black the suffocating snake
I assign the moon to watch over me
yet the ramparts are rusted gold
drawbridge in need of repair
children can see naught
in his ageless stare


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because Picasso could draw .. . 


the battle scene lay behind us 

the colour of his blue

the landscape of the Guernica

where our senses are distilled

I take to analysing

    the dismembering of torsos

with subtle forms of beauty    

    lithe lines of muscle, angled shades

don’t bury me on my own 

bury me in this mass grave 

with others who have died 

alongside the bony lonely

we will wrap our arms 

    around each other

appreciate our common stench

    grasp tightly with mortis clench 


bury me in a grave with women

    beautiful women who have died

they are not forgotten

    I’ll lie forever with Monroe, Garbo

not on my own, not left alone 

    when I rise I will cling 

forever to their ashes

wearing naught but heaven’s sashes

intelligent women when they are dead

Marie Curie, Mary Astell

Maya Angelou, Daisy Bates

Malala Yousafzai, Ban Zhia and Myia

caring women i will lie with

    in the cleft of bosom 

with my mother, my only wife

    I’ll not leave them lonely or assaulted

by ravages of corruption 

    our bony fingers reaching out 

to caress and comfort the lasting night

    o’ poignant, happy sight


then bury me with men who wrote with pen

held within their rigid digits

Whitman, King David, Rachmaninov and Tolstoy

Aristotle, Gaius, Tennyson and Proust

where is the music for the dead poet

and their deft society 

who congregate to pontificate

sing boldly in the afterlife of their choosing

I’ll listen with a rotting cartilage of ears

spirit running down my clotted vertebrae 

which have lost their cushions and their ease

    boned legs, knobbled knees 

laid out within the sands of time

  next to bloody evil’s grime

lay me next to sweet young things

  those mourned by loving parents

who privileged to watch them live 

    but also die of ailment, of disease

of sadism and of torture

    Auschwitz – alway bring me to my knees

 in reverence, respect and disorder

    I will lie with my arms 

hung out above them as wings 

    to their mercy and their love


I’ll lie down with artists 

    who smote canvas for a living

watch the earth spring forth in paint

    of anger, blood, filbert hair and feeling

 flashes of the mind caught in mud

    chiselled out of crumpled rock

these are Picasso, Vermeer, Rodin 

    drawing their deaths in sepia tone

Macbeth, Hamlet, Annapurna

  Picasso, a scientific butcher

without thread or needle

    sewing skeletons together in different order

played with wooden cubes

    and the lives of marionettes

hanging in their chambers

    Braque, Metzinger, Gleizes, Juan Gris

juvenile of true Picasso anger

    waiting to be devoured

to be consumed and exhumed 

    by nations of our future 

learn well Pablo’s secrets 

    techniques of indivisible suture

a new jealousy, a new art and culture 

  Picasso born of different mind

intensity, colour and temper

  walked a cat-gut rope

who was a cellist fiddling

     an old man playing at a violin

‘a weeping woman’

     he could draw long before he saw


WRITTEN 05.06.2021 EDIT 21.04.2023

Posted in BEAT, edenbray APPRECIATION, edenbray POMES, PROG-PROSE | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

edenbray edits .. .


edits front cover

edenbray edits (1966 ~ 2023)

The journey of a poet recorded over nearly 60 years. If you remember Frank Zappa or lament what we may have lost but believe there is a brighter future you will love edenbray and what he has to say. Homespun philosophies moulded by history, a desire to face the challenge of humanities mistakes and a youthful willingness to adapt and change, while clinging steadfastly to the things that still mean something in this digital age. Self-taught, sometimes radical but always delightfully human – edenbray’s edits might make you laugh or cry but it may also renew your vision and your hope for tomorrow.


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after Picasso

grey blood shivers
runs through my veins where are the brothers of your tortured canvas wiped with a paint-rag to your Spanish bull
like an ass wipe
of Richthofen’s bombers greeted only by mothers, lovers
their children
who lay dead
your greyest colours and lifeless shapes
a dead horse


Posted in BEAT, edenbray POMES, LIFE AND DEATH, PROG-PROSE, THE ATIST'S SKETCHBOOK .. . | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

. .. ‘les deux caméléons’ .. .

. .. ‘les deux caméléons’ .. .


By the turnpike
we stopped off at the corner
whispered stories to the wind
my spy glasses slipped
and fell
you crushed them under foot

no more secrets any more
in the glass menagerie
we’ve all been seen before
applies to change of circumstance

Natural desires
are not required to be human
once affinity embarks upon a journey
we trace our steps and find confusion
lust for life
minimalist, extremist, parabolic

The escape
trucks speed past my window
rain and spray, the sound of distance
can we meet again, say things better
as in letters
I bow my alligator head to sleep

I ain’t going
to truck with war no more
I ain’t going to fuck with my depression
my anxieties, my addictions, Ive laid them out
upon the floor
my disillusionment is pure



AN – understanding depression

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Aurora Meteor Flash Lights Up My Sky .. .


.. .

…. when late skies of the aurora part
there is no feeling in my hands
no senses running through me
death is a dim cloud descending
like cold water trickles down from the mountains

from the mountains of Araz-kana
where there also are wild ponies, goats
serpents under rocks and smallish, brown birds
that climb the rocks and trees their beaks are curved
jammed full of insects, ants and splendid nectar

these are the high plains of our civilisation
where the induits once roamed
on stellar journeys clothed in animal fur
soft, rancid skins cut from seals
that in the morning make you retch

I too am a sharman
not to touch the earth or its trees
not to see the sun or categorise
the energy of this constant storm that rages
within the intelligence of all peoples

we are born waiting the solitary night
wailing at the morbid separation
from our mothers skin, her open pudenda
thrust into a dream we cannot divine
we embark upon a journey with no end

each one of us is a nimbus, a Columbus
a Ghengis, a warrior as a snow leopard
focussed on her awesome kill
under the star-filled night with dancing lights
my wild love goes ridin’ she rides all the day


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