Sunday 16 March 2014

Brussels


Sickly sun on sickly trees,
whose spindly branches crave
a better life, lets me know

I am here. I have arrived.
No welcome will greet me
and no change will be registered.

It doesn’t matter. The sad,
pale yellow light will not
shift for me, and the weak

willed wind will continue
in the same unbroken breath.
I will not impinge upon

the consciousness of this
ailing town, and not on
yours, either. I will come

and go, unseen and unheard,
unmissed and unkissed, and you
will never know.

Friday 7 March 2014

Housewife


She would go into the mountains,
or woods, or some other quiet place,
with no bullet or blade for her ally.

She would find some cold, silent
night, and lie down in the damp
grass, and let that be the way

she would go. Her heart was sore,
a dead weight in her chest, and she
wanted it to be light again.

If she could choose, she would leave
her stupid life, and start again,
by melting into the earth.

She would drift down, down,
down into the soil, and let
the worms and bugs and critters

free her. That – that would be
the way she would go, if
she could choose her ending.

That would be that


“But why shouldn’t I?”
she would scream
in a voice much,
much too loud
for indoors.

They wanted to quiet
her, and still her
swinging fists.
They wanted to
hold her down.

She knew this. It
engendered such rage
in her that she
thought her very
skin would burst,

like heavy fruit, hurled
against a wall, smashed
with the awful
hammer of the
unfairness of it all.

Her juice, or blood,
sticky and oversugared,
would spray their
white quiet and
that would be that.

But they would win
then; they would be
right if she let herself
explode before she
proved herself worthy.

They could clean up
the nasty, red mess
and forget the
whole sorry business
if she did that.

No, then. 

She must breathe
deep and spread her
arms wide, from where her
wicked, wonderful wings
would unfold, and that
would be that.

Saturday 1 March 2014

War!

War!
Glorious war!
We shall march on you,
whoever you are, for
men were made to fight.

War!
We must have war!
For what is life
without death? Peace,
without corresponding
destruction to make
you glad of it?

War!
Give me war!
A man is nothing
if he has no martial
ambition, no lust
for weapons and
bloody combat.

War!
Any war!
Give me senseless
struggle. I have no
need to think, only
crush, kill, maim.

War!
Ceaseless war!
Fall. Break. Bleed.
Die. Fall. Break.
Bleed. Die. And
onwards, ever
onwards, until
we fight again.

Your face

I wish to reconstruct
your face
I wish to conjure it
from memory
I wish to invoke your eyes
and summon your hands
I wish for more
than pictures
lodged
somewhere in my mind
I wish for solid proof
that once you existed
as part of me
I wish to recall you
and recommit you to flesh
I wish to compel you
to come back to me
I wish to resolve you
reissue, and remaster you
I wish to enjoin you
entreat you, implore you
I wish to beseech you
to be bones and blood again