Friday 28 August 2009

The Wall Isn't A Person

The wall, silent, groans
at the impact of a slovenly ball.
It can’t speak back, it’s the excuse
for what the thrower lacks,
who with upstretched
arms, aims for it again.
The wall takes this abuse,
crumbles at each targeted piece of footwork,
the tapped patter, the resounding
full pelt bouncing back,
as brickwork chards to powder.

The child, bored, runs off looking for his
mother elsewhere, he’d begun to build a wall of defence,
brick by brick for when she wasn’t there.
She cleaned, fed and clothed him,
reassured when he did nothing at all,
scolded his arrogance when he did.

No demand, nothing expressed, a silent receipt of every noise,
with frustrated absence of mind, the wall and the ball.
Now a young man, looking at a picture on the wall,
rehearsed, the pleasure fades. But as a ball, reminded of his
former basic needs, society says a mind is not required.

The wall is flat she doesn’t speak back
to his fantasy with an absence of mind.
He recalls the frustration when the child was denied.
All is confirmed, make a noise against the wall
it’s pay-back for an earlier meagre time.

Over the road, in the pub, mates, sisters,
brothers, wives and kids, winners, losers
and a not so friendly sexist goad.
Who will be his scapegoat?
Suggestive images leer, urging his body
towards callous, over-arching or trivial need,
and nobody’s there but him, looking at the
pictures on the wall, which fall to waste.
It’s become a habit to look at things, expecting
a service to bring satisfaction in haste.

Outside he searches unfulfilled,
he stares and gapes at a pitiless picture on the wall,
looking back at nobody there, just talking to his ball.
From the window, he hears women talk,
they laugh, love, hate, resist and negotiate,
and he’s confused, he’s missed it all.
You can make a noise against the wall
no matter how the brickwork falls,
but the picture on the wall is you,
you are the sacrifice, a thrown
away appetite.

Tuesday 11 August 2009

Resistance

These poems are about resistance to intervention for whatever reason –other people’s preference, discomfort, submission, health, examination, not wanting to conform, wanting feelings rather than actions or habits of power.

Orifice One : tunnel not in use

(vagina not for use)

Boring through a tunnel
disenfranchised from her body
of the road system, with helmeted
torches and convenient workware,
they’d decided to dig the hole
in the sense that it was theirs.


It was their passage-way, to drive,
skid, rev, slosh, elbow, tear, bash,
and claim as their domain. Naturally,
this was of great resentment to her.


Approaching the entry point of open
and without her welcome, they
pulled the doors, and dry and
resistant, they squirted in gunk
to ease their tread, even though
strands of the walls and the careful
repair work had become too sensitive.
After they’d been in there, the feeling
of the atmosphere was one of open invasion,
discomfort, displacement and colonisation.


The fact was she’d decided to put up a sign
“tunnel out of use for heavy good vehicles”.
But with suitably designed operation-ware,
they then tackled the tunnel with fit for all
stream-lined devices, and a voyeuristic
young male work force - as
if that made it credible.


But unfortunately for them the tunnel
had its own mind and put its foot down, and
there was a new sign now, “ no vehicles at all
to pass now” . They were displeased, so what
made them carry on? Was it donning the uniforms?
Or the sheer control of the use of the tunnel
and to have their turn with their apparatus.


It gave them importance, despite the fears, that in the dark
the tunnel could give way, but not to them, if you see
what I mean, but that the complete road system would
collapse under their insistent pressure. It was
these mindless tactics which were under question
and needed to be overhauled.

The main problem was that there’d been no consultation
with the architect herself. This rendered the digging pointless,
because it was going nowhere, and there were no connections
to the mind and the soul of the city, and a journey such as the
kind they’d started, would be a ghost ride with
nothing particular going on, the users climbing out of their
tiny tin trucks looking big, numb, gormless and dumb.

Many people wish they’d just give up their obsession
and leave the tunnel alone. That’s of course what she wanted,
it was her tunnel, not theirs, and they had no right to be there.


Orifice 2: canal not in use

Rebuffed by their primary digging procedures,
the tunnel management then audaciously decreed
that a second tunnel was to be taken. This ran
parallel under the first. Already prepared for
the invasion, a ‘No Entry’ sign had been placed
at the entrance.

Orifice 2 group considered that this tunnel would
provide an alternative route for the sporadic
traffic influx, accommodating those attracted
to a divergent and scenic landscape. But this
road, like the first, neither reached the mind
nor the soul of the city; it was therefore pointless.

Orifice 2 knew that behind the very thin walls was
a mineral supply that could easily be contaminated:
specially protective garments had been issued.
With work going on, irrigation and ventilation
simultaneously ran through tunnel 2, now
moistened and inflamed, with a sore, more liquefied
sludge which passed along its discomfited walls.

The land herself, where the tunnels are located, as
previously noted, had strongly objected to the first
invasion scheme. Orifice 2 tunnel was considered
a further gross violation scheme to the land, which
after all was green belt, no build, considered to be
under a preservation order.


Orifice 2 knew that it had to tread carefully, but
was furtively smug about this further catchment
area – it being ‘underground’, transformational,
daring, appealing to the ‘in-the-know’ revellers,
groups who themselves knew about sub-branch
systems of tunnel work.

The land had to be careful how it objected, for fear
of alienating the reveller groups who, conversely
to her predicament, may have agreed to their land being
tunnelled, which was the main point of contention:
they had consented to excavation, this stretch of
land had not. It was her land, not theirs.

Monday 10 August 2009

Epic New Waves

They kept me from my
joyful ways and stopped my cosmic play.
They assumed it was for them to judge me
they refused to let me be.

When I invited new rhymes in
none was celebrated mine.
They couldn’t even stand aside
or see the chances here and wide,
they made it all so limited
for them alone and me omitted.

Relief they aren’t just of one mind
plenty more ignore biased bind.
There’s something wrong about their power,
it’s not for all to fear and cower.

Is it wrong to think outside
and follow the stream’s currents of a new tide?
I’ve moored my boat just by the jetty
and looking back beyond the bay.
I remember the waves
of those afar afloat on crafts
in schemes of hilarious castaways,
just agaze in futile laze,
waving back to me and others newly found
because to a future encounter for us is bound.

Betrayal

Betrayal

The door to her room was open and welcome
then it shut behind like a stranger unkind.

He tapped it softly and called her name,
to offer recompense churlishly
but without any shame.
Another game thought she
not enticed by such a wanton plea.

Creeking the door ajar, he took his chance,
and there stood she, realised he unconvinced,
a disbelief unseen not yet since.

Her eyes met his then disengaged to look away,
then he stepped forward not thinking any better,
persuaded by himself without affection or fetter.

Standing so near he recalled her warmth,
but she stood her ground and kept her sense.
He felt forlorn and beckoned towards,
she was not impressed, neither sorry nor with pretence.

In her dream he’d smiled, reminding her he cared,
but he’d left her nothing of desire
his affections elsewhere shared.

Saturday 8 August 2009

The Cuckoo

The Cuckoo

The cuckoo lays its eggs among others’ nests
for her to nurture is considered elsewhere best.
Some might say a clever tactic
a ploy to maintain jurassic.
Her flight is not just pillar to post,
but an echo of a future among leaves keeping close.

Perchance ready made for a brooding muse
there’ll be nature’s clock’s door to open
shrill hungry mouths to soothe.
Fledgeling creativity to continue in its ruse
appetite first to hasten the food’s thrill of clues

Cuckoo, Cuckoo how will we know who?
Some to be excluded soon
to have gone and flown the nest.
Make way the cuckoo comes home to roost
meanwhile for the gatherer hen no rest.

The wood is quiet waiting for the cuckoo’s song
ascending wings far near and beyond.
Where could she be found among
unseen mysteries from the ground?

For us you are a wanderer some cuckolded
for what can’t be told.
Established barriers transcended -
laughter, songs and merriment descended.
One flew east and one flew west
and one flew over the cuckoo’s nest,
where long tall trees reveal the ways of others
free and open to perceive.
Cuckoo cuckoo, where are you, cuckoo?

A Waiting Friend

A Waiting Friend


You’re waiting there
Without you
Would have gone
Don’t know where
Talk and laugh
The coffee swirls
Hers to hers
A woman’s words
Tell me he’s gone
Told you so
Now keep away
No need to say
No going back
The angry trap
Shout and cry
The sleepless nights
Same old game
It’s me to blame
Get used to two-time
Intimate crime
We sit in the park
Looking at the pool
Calm and cool
Float leaves and flowers
High blue skies
Low puffy clouds
Free from lies
And what’s now kept
Are hidden depths
Lost now found
Could not have thought
What wasn’t there
No return to before
To what didn’t care

A Moment Passed

A Moment Passed

Suddenly our worlds collide
something inside watched and ticked
knocked and rocked, and there you were again at last
you’d stepped back in from a forgotten past.
Of regrets unsure tho’ to me you had drawn,
not expecting you to be there
at such a moment rare.

Perhaps you knew the wish I felt
those mute years your silence had dealt,
but when our eyes met
it was not our hearts which leapt,
instead our feet walked on to an individual beat
away from a fate that came much too late.
So I wept and cried because of my pride,
and promised when a future meeting next arrives
I’ll embrace the wonder of its prize.

Primordial

Primordial

Later when I swam in rivers lakes and seas
passing through each day chased by shadows of the trees
I dreamed that one thing was really another
absorbing stories told in pictures
and I saw myself as mirrored
suspended and adrift

Some time after I was crowded out
and needed to scream aloud
it was time to be going
to lie back floating
to the rhythm of sensation
where I kept aswim with everyone
wondering what I might become
inside uttering a silent screech
which instinct told me could if wanted
resonate from jungle depths to wild ascent
of trepidation.

From leaving lofty nests I travelled on
guided by the slipstream to following the ocean’s boats
skimming over the water’s surface
of ponds with enormous toads
and while carefully avoiding vipers
I harboured by the dock leaf offering
comfort to those in need.

I stared into the pool once more
and listened to what I thought was me
and I recoiled and doubted ever wanting
what I hadn’t known before.

Thursday 6 August 2009

Intercourse

Sexuality is a floating mystery,
hidden in everybody’s mistaken Freudian ministry.
Better with affection, agreement together,
but for women it’s a travesty, a vacant point of entry,
a wham blam sham.
This habit of unnecessary intercourse
is done for a class act purpose,
and for the brutally ignorant - forced.

Intercourse is the standard performance,
men expect this act, a handshake for a
slave’s contract. Get on side, be part of his class,
he’ll get inside, but you won’t be equal in his class.

The male persists, he occupies and penetrates, uninvited for his satisfaction alone. ‘Help me through,’ says he, ‘my painful passage in this cruel world, just reciprocate, be my willing victim,’ – a parking slot for his need.

He burrows, frustrates, hurts, pushes, wounds, forces, surely not in pleasure but for power, and rarely together, in those who are his captured prisoners, any age will do, pregnant and fragile, lonely or unwillingly fertile, injured or ill, but he doesn’t care. His consuming passion for the moment? Maybe just flippant, he might not even want it, it’s propriety, a safeguard for his superiority.

He segregates the fallen from the pure,
but for both, his dirty pain is intended to procure
It’s a bully’s act without permission
the folly of a sadistic fool’s mission.


Every colour and creed, smile an innocence to believe, blackman, Chinaman, Muslim, Christian, they’ll all make you a whore, you’re just the slut in their flaw. When you protest they retreat behind their class - defensive, accused, impeded to fake that gallantry, but what you get now is a vanity of bigotry -
that’s the arrogant fault you want to halt.


Have sympathy for the ‘normal’ male act of sufferance, and when they do, remember, 70% of women don’t.
It’s a waste and an endurance, empty and sore, and for me, a violation, an act of war.

The Wrong Date

It was against her will
a bully’s cheap thrill,
he’d laid her out on his table
once more to degrade,
for her to conform to his control
the forced male sexuality role.
Silent, drugged, without her watchful mind
not for her to be awake with any fault to find.
He’d organised his appetite
her dignity for him to sacrifice,
to take place a ‘normalised’ rape
for him to judge and gape.
She’d already refused
in no unspoken words could
he have been confused,
but for him it was a stubborn use
for her the knowledge of disgusting abuse.
She woke the next day
a soreness invades
she waited for his supporters to legitimise
his filthy actions, but of them, who like her, would despise?

Why is there always an excuse,
for a male to hate and abuse?
today it’s wrong,
but the unconscious past is long.
Men enslaved females in the Bronze age
their vantage enabled by the weaponry
colonial man then enslaved the non-white races
when men can, they will enact their history.


Today the mascot slave commodity is complex
self- hate, control, oppression, their own class annex
a love act as violence known as forced sex
Who does he choose for this bellicose use?
She’s weak, defenceless, strong, useless, gifted or
stupid, loony, insane, ugly, superior, criminal,
inferior, too intelligent, less intelligent,
plain different or just celibate, whoever
at the moment fits the expression of their sick pleasure.

If anyone cares, stop these males who dare,
why should they conduct this war
against females they say are whores?
As predicted the next day, a complete lack of
conscience, he’d owned her with arrogance
and callous disrespect, for her, unconsoled,
outcast and wrecked.

Pandora's Box

Released the shutter
of Pandora’s box,
unleashed the clutter
of the given and the misbegotten
the entangled clasp
of what was never asked.

She looked inside at
the mismatched tryst
the hungry pangs of
flesh promised and missed,
the shivers of desire
its wishes sealed but denied.

Her curiosity had got the better,
for what the gods had foretold,
if she opened the box.
‘Aswarm with secrets, be warned’,
thus accept Pandora’s gifts for all.

Tho’ her natural charm was bestowed to attract those,
with their very own needs for her allure to appease,
the frustrated plans of leverage
had now prised loose a feverish haulage
Chaos had emerged, misery gasped, and
treachery erupted the sticky power of the corrupted;
for Pandora had not been fashioned in war.

Frightened by what had escaped
she retreated to avoid her peril.
So much for messages mercurial,
the lithe whispers of Venus,
the lustrous vigour of Aphrodite,
the harp of Apollo and Zeus’s halo,
Pandora had been given the gifts of ethereal.

For this was the puppetry of others’ design
the strings of a history’s closed up desire,
and the wiles for ulterior reasons and plans
were now seen off by the clamour of love’s fans.
No more for Pandora to envy and wonder
at the lost affections of false friends, as
from the shuttered camera obscura
ushered the warmth and fend of the
genuine enquirer, with neither
hatched plan awry nor strings attached.
For Pandora, the bearer of gifts for all
Went freely as she wished in love’s enthrall.

Selfish Wishes

The wishes I found were drowned with the fishes,
they flowed away on your river’s tide.
My boat arrived, you went aboard,
you took your horde and dissed my pride.
My efforts were goaded, floating through my fingers,
lingering on chances, wished and missed.

I had looked and thought in vain
the weather’s direction pointed to rain,
I could only think of you, wanted and admired,
the launching of a cruiser while I
was the envious downstream schooner.

Up on deck you clicked your heels
under the shine of a moon’s conceal.
You were chuffed up, a glowing northern star
I was alone rebuffed in a bar.

My boat glided past you in the dark blue sky
hoping for something better and blithe.
Your sails billowed, but I
was let loose on the wisp of the willow,
those wishes grounded scattered by the fishes.

My sorrows drowned I looked to the horizon,
a ship of dreaming fools sailed towards
vistas of elusive gem pools, wishing for their
missing in lonely places bleak and cruel.

A wind of change blew my schooner round
and at my table a friendly crew was found.
A wish isn’t selfish if the wishers heed together
for the wishes of desire are unentangled and freed.

Dawn

Brightness anticipates daybreak
the sea gently raises and harmonises a pale sky,
they swell together, waking from a vivifying dream.

At the shore waves quietly roll,
each one flopping and letting go onto the sand.
Shallow departing rivulets uncurl a white foam
of creatured shells, green strands of barnacled seaweed.
Beneath, the wave pulls away,
a mass of deeper waves swallow it, and
undercurrents massage the seabed’s memory
into ridged valleys and people’d pathways.

Through the windows at the foot of the bed,
branches creak and quivering leaves reflect into the room.
Eyes blink and glimpse from the bed’s quilt of hills
a sea’s horizon not looking back.

Driven upwards by salty gushes, gulls
fly on a breeze from a glimmery sea.
Slow awakening shimmers dancing shoals of whites and pinks
from the sea to the sky, to the room’s walls.

A wave curls up waiting before it releases affections,
stretching and encircling over imminent sand.
Her feet move beneath the quilt, her hands shift back the covers.