Biography I am a writer from the South of England, right at the bottom. I have tried all my life to write well, to communicate, to talk to others;I cannot understand any other reason to write.Envoi, DreamCatcher, Picaroon Poetry, ShotGlass Journal, Tuck Magazine, Dissident Voice,an anthology in Farsi/English ‘Where Are You From?’ and others have heard my plea and answered. I want to talk that's really all.
The First Apostate
You cast me — out!
name me other
ochre and marrowfat
melt on cooked stone
to pigmitize my new face.
you pierced me — cut!
marked me other,
conch shell and three
apophatic my new course.
as hearing demons,
as crawling sentries
mewling screams to terrify,
my brothers abandon me
divje-flute my only voice to speak,
jiahu mead my only solace
to drink. Drunk,
I fight blackened panthers,
visit ghosts of my tribes dead
visit Wonderwerk crawl myself into
embracing sediment. I will wake!
and in terror, moving blinded,
Out camp fires
with my burning feet.
see a distance,
coal stack, burning
a witch doctor experiments his mercies
Mudflat hovels turned to brick-bone
houses, my history run from terrors
to be forged in an absolutist steel,
a gods’ eye view of unproductive green
turned to a brown carapace of insects
a hopeless forever and forever,
laying down in deep-baked coal-seams
In there, a fossilised skeleton
skin, blood, fat
hopes, dream and all stories,
dried-out and dead,
- Divje flute — one of the earliest examples of a musical instrument
- Jiahu — one of the earliest examples of an alcohol recipe
- Wonderwerk — one of the earliest examples of a human burial site.
Crete and Sumeria
"I'll tell you this;" listening to the music in the bar,
"Once a time there were two countries,
one ruled by women and one by all men,
and they never ever met in all their days.
But in Crete there were rulers who were Just,
but in Sumeria; well they used the whip.
In Crete art was the highest calling,
but in Sumeria the strong-arm knew any race.
In Sumeria, women wore chains about the neck,
the men, though, wore glory and bronzed blood:
In Crete the men were pampered and oiled,
the women wore unctuous clothes and presided over all,
And Crete ruled the winds of trade;
but Sumeria used iron and powder
to burn all the maps that they could not read,
and although the nights in Crete were long and luscious,
the days in Sumeria were harsh and blood-ended,
And many writers and philosophers of the Cretan day,
said sometime soon the countries must meet,
and balk, confront and war with each other,
but...it was not to be, a volcano: ended all of Crete.
That was the dawn, you know, of creation -
do you like that wine? Anyhoos, if only the Crete
had survived; there would be like no war or anything,
'cos you know that's just a creation of men; just
like porn and all that terrible exploitation,
women you know, they are like just, so noble
and righteous with their birthing life out and stuff,
Do you want another glass? Anyhoos, that's like
a bit what my play is all about - like that women
are so great and stuff, and we - have to chuckle -
men are just... not so great, a bit poor, really"
- Patriarchy is a system of male dominance, rooted in the ethos of a war which legitimates violence, sanctified by religious symbols, in which men dominate women through the control of female sexuality, with the intent of passing property to male heirs, and in which men who are heroes of war are permitted to rape women, to seize land and treasures, to exploit resources, and to own or otherwise dominate- paraphrase of a feminist tract
"Actually, I wouldn't mind another glass-"
He clicked his fingers and shouted 'garcon'
'bring us another'; a waiter coming over,
refilling glasses not looking into any eyes,
it was not his job to make a judgement,
or see the girl's eyes opening; to him
"Of course, y'know it's like more than that
just a horribly complex story and-"
"It does sound really quite great!"
Moving in for the kill then:
this has to handled with subtlety,
and another wine-bottle moving off then,
a nice little cushion on the floor, then…
back at his/Sumerian little flat;
"Would you mind, if me, an evil Sumerian
stuck my hard thing about your Cretan slash?"
“Giggle, burp "Stick it Stick it!”
And in the morning, strangely, there was no volcano
dull and throbbing heads to be sure,
-more Cretan then Sumerian-
but just a dazed light little morning, panties
and bra to be found wherever they were lost, in sleep
Our proud Sumerian stood naked to his windows;
not caring at all were his clothes lay,
his back to the toussed bed and Cretan woman
the Cretan mouthed things about phone and number,
our Sumerian in victory deigned no real response,
“I’ll tell you this:
I have filed an ass-volley in my battle!
conquering complete, I need no further sacrifice
from your weaker kind
turn off your phone! and leaving me be…”
The woman who I have decidedly not named:
looked at his beautiful male-muscular form,
the taunt buttocks flexing in the sun,
gave up searching for her underclothes, and left,
with a thumping head to be sure,
but, still in her naked overcoat
retained a little shiverous dignity in her silence,
clasped her legs tightly home,
always around her easy-marks to be found,
on subwaytrain, streetcorners and anywhere
were an easier screw could be found.
Smirk, on her journey home.
The heart left ventricle, right ventricle
the lips unpainted and laying red,
stains on the pillow; fresh smell of sleep,
unwaking lives living breathlessly beyond
the touch of shame; the red, is blood, her's she
has spilled in her own bed, sleeping awake
coiled in dream of losing child-ness
A time without need to dream, when the end
of sleep would mean a new face to show
light, her smell our smell mingled somehow in
the toilet. To fill the emptiness; hours
running between the taunts of memory
in the cracked dusk and floating dust of life,
I would wash your clothes, brush the hair
falling from your eyes; Sleep.
With me laying beside you smoking, smoke
tails clog the air the imperfect machine:
Me, your symbiont would between your
aorta and pulmonary veins, coaxing
your living flesh to warm, the heart as
a muscle that pumps blood thru the body,
seeping and surging, listening to the storm
of your body's thunder... blowing colder.
The darkest sweet
the hour of our enmity, the
poisoned look, peroxide
hair. The still wanting,
that outlasts youth,
The mirror by
the exit, the crease
of lapel. The
lipstick smudge across lip.
The wanting still, that
ends in pain, in
pain behind the
eyes. The sour taste
of home, the bile in
the unbetrothed, the starved
hunger of it when
the wanting still
outlasts all the pain.
And the wanting
is all that's left
in the twenty-sixth year
of the married bliss
of the husband
and of the wife.