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The New Guardians

 

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

!!!
Detox
Retox

Like like like
They like that you like
But it’s not love, baby

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Dissect
entrails
of mind

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Entrails are jewellery

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Your body
is a temple
#outertolerance
#innerdiscipline
#nocompromise

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Clean eating
Clean decor
Clean mind
Dirty money

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

Repeated stories
Feedback loop loop loop
Mindwash until clean

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

There is no life
outside the machine

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

You are predicted
to choose a tree pod
burial which will
be offered as a lifestyle
package linked to oil
drilling companies

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

You are only
as beautiful
as versions of you
generated by the machine

!!!
Detox
Retox

Hurry
Grab
Fast
While this lasts

While this lasts

While this lasts

 

 

 

Gravity Boots

Your voice was
Motown
frozen in acid,
thawing out at dawn
in the Nevada desert.

Your embrace was
a pair of gravity boots within
an exercise in weightlessness.

Your walk was
like a time machine slowing
detail, casting a magnifying lens
over surface.

Your wit was
like one magpie being joined
by another;
broken shells hanging
from beak as the sun sets.

Your words rest
within this vacant mansion
of my heart;
marionettes with their strings
laid to rest.
Inanimate but present.

 

 

 

 

A Midsummer Night’s Dream

I found God in Vermillion House
a glittering brutalist council tower
totemic on the horizon

He was loitering in the stairwell
and stank of piss and PineFresh
glittering with tin

the tinkling sound of empties
strung out in the morning breeze
forewarned of his divine and glittering presence

and decorated these concrete angles
with infinite glittering space-time
and celebration cake on lace

the glittering tinkling filling my head
with clear water and ice;
my thirst was quenched.

Today is a new day and the longest
of the year
standing on the balcony fifty-two floors up
humming the glittering sun in

hands empty, the photographs of home dropped in dry Libyan cells

just the glittering of fire sparks
everywhere I look

igniting paper in old books
which tell of milk and glittering honey for those chosen again and again

extolling what makes one life grievable and another’s not-
when the glittering truth unravels beyond sea-burial

and in the surviving speeches
of primary school teachers
hanging in mildewed classrooms
like small glittering triumphs

and in the making of tea in battered
glittering pots from Baghdad
to warm the elderly neighbour from Broadstairs

and in the pile of glittering cellophane -wrapped flowers seen from this window

not in those subterranean glittering gold dens
of numbers and rank and numbness

not in my glittering name…
Come here, God, take a look
at this view

 

 

 

The Theatre of Sudden Death

It was a middle class delight
a five quid Easter workshop crafting
a miniature stage with backdrops
and tiny props of clay and card
for kids.
Everything under control.
At the end we all promenaded
past each other’s simulacra.

There was a stone henge forced
by a Druidic parent,
a wizard’s incantations realised
in grotesque pipe cleaners and Macbeth’s three hags around a pot.
In one scene a Victorian nanny
was decapitating a child with her
moving arm, a brutal Mary Poppins.

Perhaps they were all channelling
the Easter message, the perfect
puppetry of animation over death,
the confronting of things in neat boxes.
Contained and of interest.

Painting in circles, loving in triangles

I was born on the floor of a gallery;
my mother’s blood pooling
in front of a Bacon triptych.
The audience sketched me
and derided her
as she lit a cigarette
and hauled us both to
the leather couch.

Childhood was bucolic
and mostly feral in the mansion
where God was dissected,
splayed with pins on a board
and painted around in
mint and lavender gouache
against gold.

We were encouraged to
personalise all things with art;
reimagining purpose and design-
turning bath tubs into feather beds
and eating under the tables;
it was a place of libertines
and lovers,
re-wilded by vision.

The day my quiet sister fell into
the pond after eating codeine
she was celebrated whilst we picked out
lily stems tangled in her dark hair
and an Epic Poem was recited
although she had convulsed, refused dinner
and pissed into a palm pot;
forever altered, a changeling.

Now I slash canvas and write omens
on napkins,
always on the road and looking
for bread, coffee, the back seat of
a car for one night
I am free but as lonely as a cloud,
bitter sweet.
To the manor born but I’ll
choose to die in a vacant lot
with birds nesting upon me.

 

 

Notes:

Is cruelty morally better if by omission rather than commission and also if aesthetically pleasing?

Does ritual enable healing?

Are personal freedom and depth of relationships on two opposing scales?

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