Belgrano
Can you hear the curses? I hear them still
dead in the air rolling on the grey high seas,
fluttering, stuttering, up in the cold stony clouds,
frozen like kites in the middle of nowhere.
I hear the silence too, of the boys, the young young boy's
pressed against the bulwarks and the dead eyed iron,
sense their gun metal faces hidden inside the masks
of home spun green wool - skittering eyes peeping
through knitted balaclavas worn as cold comforters
dripping in Atlantic spume.
I can hear the whispers, the trembling pampas whispers
of near men, close men, light shaven, cropped near-to skull men,
some with dark, bull herding eyes , hearts full of Spanish guitar
and pampas whistles and beside them the rich city blond men,
quiet and bookish, alone with their poets and pebble black rosaries
running like the southern tides through their cold chapped fingers.
All hugger-mugger equaled by forced conscription, circling in silence
within their sea shrouded fears - crammed like live fish quivering in their ancient tin of old victories.
Yes I hear them still, calling out for a distant mother's arms, ripping
loose their little boy screams that are clear as over head seagulls
yet eight thousand miles away. I can hear their raw primitive panic,
ancient as the whelps of beaten camp fire dogs echoing back
from the steely grey clouds; I see them tearing at the
sea born mist, slicing the strings of their pampas kite curses
with broken bones and shattered skulls, loosing curses that rise to run
above the waves to our shores carrying the lost, little boy simpers
of clamour and death that found roost in our forgetful hearts.
Yes I still hear the screams, the sea drowned, salt soaked screams,
a cold southern ocean full of drowning young Argentine boy dreams
(pronounced men before their time), those fire soaked screams and I remember how we the civilized danced on their sad lonely deaths in our distant dry victory soaked streets of triumphant,disregard and screamed ;
"Gotcha".
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Come hither he said with his 'come slither' eyes,
oh no oh no she resisted with her oncoming cries
'feel the power of my black mamba length, feel
it's muscle and vertebrae'd strength, feel the
pe'staltic rhythm and flow, the muscled glory, the
blackness of crow, the poison I spit in word and
in deed will service your crevice and every need..
Come hither my child, come to your fate you seem
resistant? Is it something you ate? Come hither
sweet young one, look in my eye tarry a moment
and soon you will cry as I feed my length between your
foot and your thigh....look little lady of the sweet
shores of Congo, you know this right and my name's
Ophicko...."
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 5:57 AM UTC
Sid's Valentine Goodbye.
Valentine's Day - Sid woke up as
he had done for odd eighty years.
Hidden in a closet were her roses
and cheap card.
His thin ex-tuberculous wife was
already up, she had made tea,
laid the paper and opened the
windows for the stuffiness to exit.
Joe Loss was playing Moonlight on the
new thingy C.D and outside one
of the warders was moving about.
Sid kissed her on the cheek, lightly
but with feeling, presented his roses,
felicitations handed her the card,
she loved it.This was their sixty fourth
Valentine,
As usual Joan shed a little symbolic tear,
nothing too un-British and came to underline
her love for big Sid with another little kiss.
Speed cyclist, dispatch rider, Radar Sid
was on lazy boy with The Mail and char.
Paper open, tea untouched she gave him.
her usual restrained peck and realized.
He was still warm.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
Names
There are some names
I should avoid - names like
Circe, Achilles and Helen.
But when you've lived with them
cheek by backside they become
more than just first cousins.
One was a washer woman
with crazed varicose veins.
who never failed to turn me
into her pig.
Another was a matchmaker
who ruined a whole series
of futures and who would ruin
mine had I given him the chance.
The last was the woman
who floated all my little boats
then sank them so I renamed
her, spayed her, infibulated
her history, sewed her name
so tight to her thighs that it
became a single letter on my
dry tongue.
She is now a single capital.
A bridge between her legs.
I sailed between those thighs once
then never spoke of it again but
our war of silence went on for a
decade till eventually she moved on.
To Paris.
So I let those names die, their myths fade
because their realities, their histories, were
too nauseous to be a part me anymore instead
I dog tied myself to other less exotic names.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
He would have been an artist
but that being was now lost
hidden beneath the folds of fleshy strata
hanging like a neurosis, soft as adipose
lost under his belly.
He may have been a father
but that too was lost under
the pendulous judgement of
his blunted dreaming state.
He could have been a sculptor
an artist as they would have said,
instead he now whittles archaic
spoons with which to sup from
his sad bucolic dreams.
In between aspirations, as a hobby,
he runs his fat fingers through women's
hair, a round eyed
would be Taoist, wending prayers
through lost valleys.
And for a living he pins tails
on donkeys calls himself an eastern
practitioner. A Zen mystic .
An acupuncturist.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC