It is said,
that the name you are assigned at birth,
by loving parents
or by the invisible masks of state
are only there for the price
of administration, that but for the benefit
of paperwork, those in charge would call
out a series of random numbers,
bar codes, binary relics
and your parents
especially when in the blackest of moods,
somehow remember your whole name
and not just the one of endearment
when you make them a cup of tea.
…And in life there is so much more besides
than the way you present yourself to the mass media tribes
for the way you come across, capable of mass-homicides,
you have to see, that you are the very worst of scribes.
The shuffle of insistence that where is spelt were
and that a book is written where a sentence will do
makes me believe you would spit feathers and set fire to fur
just to make an essay of a point, to see the waste of ink through.
Roll the dice and fill the barrel,
it is the constitutional right
to bare arms and so that makes
it alright and yet people
in the island, set against
the blistering swell of Atlantic Blue
get confused and gnash their flexible
fingers in outrage
as the flash of the blade,
the final cut,
takes a young black lad’s life
in South London
as the Thames gently hugs
the Westminster circus
votes to rain information
down a population
who cannot tell the difference
between Western aggression
It is how it starts,
the weapon of choice,
the painted slur, the smear
of government, of a Prime Minister
justifying his own peculiar judgment
by saying those who don’t agree
with the rhetoric of war,
those who argue with passion
the side for pacifist solution,
are nothing more than
Terrorist Sympathisers.
It is how it starts,
the verbal stain and before you know it
white feathers are being handed
out to those who oppose war,
before you know it,
internment camps
There is a picture
of a man in a crowd, black and white,
taken when Europe stood
once more
on the precipice of age old
and defiant war, when the man
in the comedy moustache, Chaplin like stance
a true ragged disease and blot,
but without the humour
of the boy and the subtle refrain
of the decorator of Vienna,
raged for destruction, raged for annihilation,
with frenzied fury and dire plans of Mercury
filled wrath, rage it is all the rage;
the man in the photograph, Chaplin out of sight,
She should have considered crucifixion,
self induced thirst for the sorrow
of a Winter’s passing, the bleeding of snow
upon the higher ground of a December
day, the pitying cries of the lost and lonely
applauding her angelic face
and the darkness of spite, sacrificed, despotic
craving that lay in her bloated heart
and which would, in time
give birth as it ripped apart
to a black bulbous spider
eating away at the Winter Bride’s soul.
She should have considered crucifixion,
The ghosts of the living
are just as impolite
when it comes to invading
your dreams
as the dead, the dead, the forgotten
and those that were never really there
but whose screams and howls
carry the night
like a matted grey she-wolf
giving birth on a deserted snow filled
field.
The ghosts of the living
taunt you, they criticise and in dreams
their punches, fully weighted,
leave bruises that grow black,
that insult and mock,
even when you know you were right,
The long since decommissioned steam train,
is only hauled out for public displays
and the for the chance to show
an audience just what was once
freely given, the age of beauty wrapped
in a sheath
of experience
and dedication to service;
now all that is forgotten,
all the crowd see is a relic
from a bygone period,
a shiny vessel primed to fail at the first breath
of electro glory and whose
soul, whose better days
of glory
are left behind in a once mighty shed
Feel the sweat
drain off me, pulse,
back and forth,
the body slamming sideways
into the fear of the awkwardly
thrown punch,
stop, no breathe,
searing heat exploding
as fear takes hold,
walking slowly in a daze,
my thoughts unclear
as my head hurts
and the safety of home dying
in my arms
and unconsciously I mouth
for help.
The blackness came quickly.
The shaft of bursting light
from the draught excluder
strip light above my head
I gave thanks only the once,
over a meal hosted by my grandmother’s
cousin in a small town near Philadelphia
and the small party of four, a second cousin
twice removed
and his wife both took a hand of mine
and prayed.
I was silent, but acknowledged their words
and I thought of home
as we sat in the heat
of a crowded restaurant,
the steam of the passable gravy
warming the inside of my nose
as I prepared to smother the turkey.