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

After All

Under margrave groves
Of peach blossom trees
There flows the falls
Of a winding creek,

Their blossoms’ aromas
Are mild and are meek,
But those torrents below
Are baleful and bleak.

My iris-blown beard
Diurnal and straw,
But under my chin
Eternal tears pool.

Snowfall cloaking
After all,
But when the snow melts
(If not long before),

Those bodies revealed,
Their mortal hands hold
The one different future,
Distant and cold.

Production Lines

A killer resurrected
On carnival streets,
Arrested, re-sentenced,
By wigs weighing meat,
Though fogs are a prop
And a juror’s asleep.
In the filmmaker’s lens
Victims aren’t heroes,
The victims are missing,
Their paycheck’s a zero.

Each vision has errors,

Ruptures and holes, Boxed set collections, Out from death doled.
Dear Mr Producer,
What good is your lesson,
Your replays reduce
Any sanctified blessings.
You’ll profit in pounds
And buy your new houses,
From parental lost souls
And bloodstains on blouses.

Song Of The Sand

A grain of sand I did not own,
On a beach I did not know,
I kindled in my hand like sticks
Until it turned to blood and stone.
From stones there scattered
Seven pebbles, seven roots
Within the middle, and
From those roots did climb a devil;
And I did see there shoots of growth,
Of Time Above, and Life Below.

Skulldugerry and his mistress,
I have seen foul play;
A body in a brazier,
A human with no name.
They brushed their hair,
They drove to work,
Wedding planners,
Dividend perks;
We can only feel rain falling
When our eyes are blind as worms.

A bison-shaped cloud shifting
Dispersed the holiday crowds;
I was alone on the beach again
Wishing to breathe new life
Somehow, yes, through my hands,
But all that remained was the loss
Of the waves, and song of the sand.

Hallmarks

Where do they go?
Soaked in grief,

I walked to the valleys
On a road with two.

Hallmarks, a white van,
A lost dog still howling

While as dead as the moon;
There is no end, no, not soon.

For years, insomnia grew
As empathy clotted

In violets and blues.
An empty bed, a job or two.

Some returned later,
Much more as survivors,

Adults and artists,
But all were haunted

By what men might
And some indeed do.

Milwaukee

She said these words:
I can babysit, shoot a gun, and cook at the same damn time.
There are plenty of one-eyed
Rain-sodden teddy bears
On hell’s roadsides.

All the trees are used for shrines,
The trees will blow through the breeze.
There are fathers without handles
We will never find, and I believe that
One day, when they are all absent,
We will run out of candles.

British Columbia Feet

Several separate feet washed
Up on pebbled, shingled beaches,
Belonging to British Columbia
Across its furthest breaches
Over a decade, and various
Authorities slowly reached
A consensus that bodies
Which belonged to those lost
And neglected and homeless
Vagrantly inebriated
Often detach through natural
Wear and tear in salt water
Their hands, heartprints,
Feet, thighs and forearms.
It’s an explanation intriguing
Me because I have beachcombed
Many bays and inlets where
Collecting sea-glass, I have
Seen empty crab carapaces
And plastrons of unidentifiable
Species, but never did I see
A human head or teeth.
So is this what happens to
Men and women who found
Their escape on wide Pacific
Shorelines, or is there someone
Preparing their next murder
In a garage or a shed, while
His partner makes ablutions,
And prepares to go to bed.

I Went For A Walk Outside Our Hotel And This Is What I Discovered

I found a secret pond
Hidden behind our hotel,
Undisturbed by human touch
As far as I could tell.

Cow parsley abounded,
Poppies and wild orchids
As high as an ox’s haunches,
As quiet as a glade where

Kine chewed their cuds;
Harbingers of summer rain,
They survived for years
Near this pond in a spell

Without knowing.
I later researched the spot
And read in a local newspaper
(On a whirring microfilm reader

In a library which burnt down
To appease an arsonist’s wishes;
It was not rebuilt but
That’s another plot)

About a boy found nearby,
Murdered thirty years ago,
Face down in a muddy brook
Which filtered through that pond;

His body turned to browns
Then younger dust, as does
Memory, as does Love.
The ox transformed before

My eyes to become a great
Black swan with a neck as long
As a distant sun, like beams
Which slipped through our blinds

In the hotel room we shared
As I kissed your back, and
Inhaled, and found a mole
Beside your spine I had not

Observed until that afternoon,
Just like the pond and
The boy and the swan;
They all took flight.

I kissed you there as you slept,
Grateful for your affirmations,
Your vivacity, your life,
And I thought about a community

Seeking a child through
The scrub and the reeds
And the sum of all strife
They would not find alive.