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Poem

August 4, 2009
tags: ,

I thought I’d post this little poem-part up on here.  Couple of reasons.  Firstly, it’s the one that contains the lines from one of the Slow Magic cards.  Secondly, it’s one of the poems that have inspired a collaboration with Karen McLeod, Gavin Osborn and Shelly Atton – we start workshoping on 20th August, and I doubt this draft will survive that process.  Thirdly, there is an element to which this poem is about the emergence of evil, through the steady accumulation of process.  Then there is the fact that quite a few people are reading the blog at the minute, and my ego won’t let me let you go without showing you some of my poetry!

from FIGURINE

1.

How Biblical we were!

I swore. You turned on the torch, sniff,

we shuffled into the Father’s garden and pinched his small apples.

Parted his bushes and examined our bits in the mirror,

making up names for them.

Language held life up to the window of language.

Life pushed language into the soil of life.

At night, my light finger drew a path, bent, a brook

to travel down, and wee would, for want of any another:

The word, and me and you. Daft doubles.

A pair of beams on a route around the collider.

We understood nothing, still do.

2.

We understand that now and then

the world comes up with weak and lusty men,

small churlish girls and soundless cells in which to keep them.

But do not understand.

This the world, learned by the book.

This is the word, learned by the world:

As a child, he would sit in his bedroom while his mother sat

in the bomb shelter and outside the world turned to booming and

the shadows of booming and booming’s own children:

screaming.

Is life any sort of refuge,

when words come peeping?

I am born to abuse. Boom.

Boom. Boom. Born to abuse.

There is no truth other than the one we’re told.

She could not touch or see the lies.

She could not hold the Saturday night laughter,

I read something in the paper, about that.

The growing man, with the neat moustache, who rapes,

Is locked up, sentenced lightly and escapes.

(He must surely smile at this point, and may

Buy a chocolate bar and walk along in the sunshine eating it.)

The baby is born. The monster is born. He makes himself at home.

Starts his business. Gets away with it. Does it again.

Get in there. Get in. Get. You

coward. You cower. You cow.”

Hatches a plot in the flower bed. Plants a seed in there too:

speech twists life into a figurine like this. Speech is cruel.

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