Seven

My palm lines are changing –
Life is rearranging,
Slowly, piece by piece.
Scintilla soul,
Tesserae hole,
My apocrypha, at least,
Is over
For now.

A cloud that day,
That cloudless day,
Revealed its fury,
Furies revel
In sixes and sevens.
Spectacles covered,
Pigeons survived,
Dustsheets all over,
Sevens and nines.

Dead escalators.
Tokens to green,
Covered in dust,
Dust and debris.
Sirens pervasive,
And pervasive
We collapsed
Or scratched
Or stretched
As an inflexed
Naked armpit.

Asphyxia,
Suits say die,
So they said,
And so we trust;
Yet truth can be
Evasive.
Grey faces,
Early grey hair
Like a Lowry abroad.
Hatzalah paramedics
Abound in my
Parallel dreams.
I wake
In a sweat
Into boundless rust,
Into blue sky
And a useless sword
To thwart a seam.

Everybody Matters

I am my own death.

Uplift blackening acrid smoke.

People fall down.

Blessed observers
Surviving
And thriving
On wi-fi
And serendipity.
Some did choke.
Some awoke,
But not all.

I gave birth
To twin apostrophes
Then suddenly spoke.

Bleak confetti,
Death wedding,
Lateral bleeding,
Distant heaven.

I dreamt last night
That every living entity
Has soul,
So why is there
In some buildings
And some people
That deeply observable hole.

Taxes, beliefs
And comfort
Paid for all this.
You can talk and share
All you want,
Blind and besotted,
But beyond a white cap
The next one is
Already plotted.

Ode To Fame


One day, you will be old
And as wounded
As putrefied fruit
On life’s dining table.
Memories of your folds
And your unmet fears
All but faded,
They melted away like ghosts
On the road to
Your home in
Villanueva del Rosario

So you flew far and wide,
And you documented all
As the infernal place cemented;
People love colours
If purposes suit,
Lovers of movement
With a kit and a boot,
But all movements made
Give illusions their root.

You owned the diurnal,
You owned a dispersal;
They made arrests
On Grecian beaches
Yesterday, refugees
On deflating, sinking dinghies
Paid the price of your coat,
And you traded it all
For a soft drink and hope.

Aboriginal

Lunar mood fringe,
They placed several tiny pins
In my undernourished sides,
My diaphragm and then
My abdomen.
They did this for a promise,
For prophecy, and yet
When no blood flowed
Nor did I flinch nor wince
Nor died, they hauled
And winched me up
By my rusty flehmen lip,
To survey all extents
Of the damage they once did.

Far away from my vantage
I could discern a dust bowl;
Local Angle diminishes grief.
Despite the best intentions
Of actors and musicians,
Also known as charlatans
And often politicians,
We are worse off now
Than we were back then.
There is a bald eagle at war
With itself, it circles and calls
In brawling self-doubt;
In a dream irrepressibly
Parallel with that downy beast
Four bearded men rode side-saddling
Into a town where football grounds
Are venues for public displays
Of punishment and the schools
And universities and places
Of worship were left deserted
Long ago, long before my desertion.

When misappropriating men
Chase flags or desecrate chalices
Or bulldoze summits
To landscape the world a little flatter,
It is always women out of love
And children out of hope
Who are doled the most to suffer,
And at last I could see
From these barren heights
How Time’s helices reverted
To a more peaceful place
Wherein my less bleak thoughts,
Moreso than all of these,
Became at once atavistic and
Goldenly aboriginal.

Kalaallit Nunaat

On a glacier peak in Greenland
Landfall felt unfortunate rain.
Unnatural, wrathful kiss,
I dreamt of this;
Firstly, as an ornament,
Then adulthood the same.

Pacific atoll,
Bliss of cooling fish,
These skimming stones
Evaporated into sky.
I know why the hourglass turns;
For a wrongful man we burned,
Wearing a suit and a tie.

See: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/aug/20/rain-falls-peak-greenland-ice-cap-first-time-on-record-climate-crisis

I Am Not Unique

I am not unique.
There are another ten thousand
Just like me (sub-meaning being
I am far from irreplaceable)
In these unredemptive moments
Which fall like old snowflakes
In baubles and saucers,
In reflections and in tendencies.

I am not unique.
This sadness is ubiquitous,
(Engulfing and never retreats)
We are woebegone experts
In the ravenously bleak
Mapless frontiers with our
Purring batteries
And silent artillery.

I am not unique;
Stone-filled arteries
And bruisewort disease,
We sit in our cages
As cycles continue
On the last of the piers,
Or lost, haplessly,
While out at sea.

I am not unique.
By our army united
And spirit-siphoning industries,
We comb our hair
And wash our beards,
We go to bed,
Amazed when we wake up
The same way as someone else.

Generation P (Work It Out)

Preferring by nature or my curse
Cold winter rain and isolation’s
Frayed and penniless purse,
A sarcastic plastering of sunlight
Forced me into action – a walk
With my faithful dog on a Tuesday –
Late afternoon.
I felt like death.
Reverberations unsighted,
We are Generation-P;
Modern cells breeding irreligiosity,
Ferment the wrong and then the worst
Politically dressed as progressiveness –
Anything can be acceptable
If you are just elevated enough;
But my dear, doomed youth,
Therein grows a truth:
As long as you stay tube-fed
Governments will not address
Syphons in the climate
Or typhoons in the west.
On my perambulation and yes,
That is a word, on my walk
Around this mistake I observed
A herd of drunken monks à la mode,
Raucously belting out anthemic notes
Like overweight jackdaws whose rote
Is to caw and claw and breed
In black and white-striped uniformity,
Yet the only way anthems are sung
These days we teach our young
Is when our nameless neighbours
Coalesce to upbraid linesmen
Who are predominantly male,
Predominantly white,
Over another tin of alcohol,
And I am told I am made in his image.
I did not linger in our
Plastic-polluted parkland
Once overemphasised sexual congress
Spilled from a nearby open window
And I could not understand
The need for these over-compensating
Exhibitionists to announce
Their unannealed dependencies.
It is a well known fact that during
International sporting seasons
Domestic abuse atrocities
Rise exponentially;
Some governments keep statistics
For the rhyme and not the reason.
I had been reading about another
Child murder within a murderous country –
A better MP from Birmingham
Stands for once a year in parliament
And reads a list of women dead,
Murdered in one year again
And again and again by men;
Surrounded by blind owls
Who do not usually allow
Or dispensate for lists,
For time might be an enemy of truth
Or even accuracy – what good are lists
Or t-shirts with laudable and
Well-meaning slogans
To avert injustices and oversights
While as I write about my journey
Another daughter and yet another wife
Died for loathing dressed as honour,
For horrors dressed as life.
We said we went to war
For people better off than this.
I am not one for opprobrium,
I returned to my home and my cell
And took another dutiful spell
With ibuprofen mixed
In hydrochloric sodium.





For reference: https://www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/read-this/list-of-uk-women-killed-by-men-in-the-last-year-read-by-mp-jess-phillips-in-parliament-3163774

Unguent

Fire, smoke,
Heathen folk,
I live my life in miniature.

Contusions eased with daisies,
Soapwort and from comfrey too;
Overtures for unguents.

Nature was once cause and cure
For every man-made affliction;
Long since fields and meadows too
Were ceded for a pound or two,
I’d appeal that you are sure
Of remedies we bore
For illnesses, and a new
Zoonotic dereliction.