Artists are often
using the fragments of themselves
to create something new
feels so complete
sometimes i want to be broken again
sometimes i want open wounds
so i can use the blood
to paint sunsets
so i can use the torn off pieces of skin as a canvas
so i can carve
masterpieces with the jagged bones left behind
but I can't bring myself to break my own heart in the name of Art
Laughing at the Union gates the lads
Are out in suit and tie to see the show -
To shove through to a vantage from to view
The writhed infernal forms of protestation.
Speech is placid now; speech has been tamed,
Rolls to be pet the belly of its meaning
And the few who're scared are weak
To weep to see the soft chimera.
But words have not been dead though they have slept.
They seep in speech, glutting saccharine and seeming truth.
They catch conscience as it sleeps,
Buoyed up by the belief that rationality is pure and possible.
Their ripostes are practiced and prepared,
And their faith is in bluff blue Reasonableness
To puncture fascism in its first flowering.
The upper lip stiffens and stays that way,
As playing with power, they put on the national front.
This poem concerns the visit of Marine Le Pen to the Oxford Union on the 5th February 2015. I attended a protest outside the venue, as convinced then as I am now of the necessity to stand up to far-right ideology and policy.
I’m addicted to the feel of cold metal sliding across bare flesh
Addicted to the instant
when nothing marks smooth skin
red rivers rapidly rise
painting a once white canvas
with a flood of emotion,
tears on my cheeks,
sobs caught in my throat,
numbness replaced by pain & sadness.
Addicted to the imperfection
of red welts and dotted scabs that follow,
fingers drawn like magnets
to the texture of healing skin,
tracing over and over and over now fading ridges
Amazed that I am strong enough
to heal myself over and over and over.
Convincing myself that I am strong enough.
I find strength in my weakness.
6 months self harm free! Writing about it helps fight the urge
windows open windows closed
water pours out of the sky from the window
cities are melting around me
I sit quietly all somewhere
windows closed windows open
today is a new year
tomorrow is already the first tomorrow
first time opening new curtains
— The End —