"sterilised" poems
We just can't make them
like this anymore.
The skill and craftsmanship
have been sacrificed
on the altar of accuracy
and machines and computers
have sterilised
the smell of hard work and love.
To make such a map
with no satellites, no certainty
meant wallowing in the mystery of the world.
In the space between knowing and supposing
there was a beauty
we may now miss, or deem unimportant.
However,
if I want to get from my house
to your grave, to pay my respects -
through the shopping malls
and bypasses,
the glass and steel towers
you could never have imagined,
I will use my sat-nav
and be grateful for it.
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 7:24 AM UTC
Tumbler in hand,
Without a stem,
Wine slowly warmed in your palm
The carboxyl-laden liquid gold
Daily medicine,
You prescribe yourself
And send your loving wife to pick up
From a clanking pharmacy
Returns
In lilac paper
A present you unwrap
For yourself.
A beauty,
More so than her
Or the daughter you both raised
You cradled your glass instead of her,
Sick, balding, bloated.
In the bathroom
Crying against the locked door
As you shout
To control, stop now
Her unregulated rate of mitosis
That was done in spite against you.
It’s her fault
That you cant fix it.
Unlike a mitral,
You cannot sow, stitch, or glue her in place,
She won’t stay where you put her,
But like this valve -
A pig.
She remembers nights you don’t,
Her memories your hangover
That you’ve grown resistant to
Like a bacteria.
The MRSA of our family,
Washing our hands of you,
Sterilised with alcohol.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 9:56 AM UTC
*it only took the gherkin to take modern into modern via pickle, but the cabbage pickled dome of the albert hall opera was lost to foe foe foo dub step pluck the plucker of twang of drop d uncool; ah wait, gherkin acne pimples roughage missing on the cabbage suckled, with the flush into oyster moisture past the sexed up morbid cupping of the five fingers telling pistons from pistons? i said as much about my ******** as i did about her mouth, just now, and i wash it off and wash it down shaking hands rather than kissing my children goodnight excusing the **** talking sweet chock choke goodnights; well, it's hard to be credited with womanising when only "polygamy" with prostitutes suffices; but i'll just tell you... swan lake was too loud thanks to the ballerinas' stomps... hated ballet... god curse i will be cursed with sisyphus' labours... i rather roll that stone than hear ballerinas dance once more!*
let the male cat roam and lay rampage to the night, the she-cat sleeps in, then on the third call for ginger: quarus! quarus! nothing... quarus! it begins to rain... shamanism without the safety-net of psychiatry for post-colonial nations trying behaviourism without anger, with anger sterilised, and certain french thinking of fascination with death and suicide with suicidal thought censored for no reason other than not worked with... well, that better be wellington thick rubber on the phallus when i ask for my money back guarantee nine months later.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
The line of freedom was drawn,
fortunate passports found
amongst the rubble of Ground Zero.
The future was not a boot,
more, groping hands through
intimate pockets
and blue light that decimates
the privacy of dreams.
No concentration camps,
Bernays fuelled the fire
in a wolf's disguise
until the crowd would herd itself.
No Aryan prophecy-
hatred more efficient
when its hands are untied.
Small disparities linger
the stem of deception:
the bottom-feeders are sterilised,
benefits withdrawn, foundations exposed
as ******* palms gather the loot
they lifted through the ceiling.
Sensory comfort provides
the leisure of a clouded mind,
a blood sugar spike,
the Soma of our time.
Under halogen lights
they make love in the high-rise
then labour in sleep
for what love cannot afford.
Continents divide.
Africa: the cold shoulder.
Asia: the factory line.
Oceans swell in neoprene heat
as sling-shots are drawn
beneath a dying star.
Old skull of Palestine,
cross-hairs on the White House
and a contusion in Pakistan.
Doors of perception only open to addiction.
Separate from G-d ,
draw more blood from the ground
like a smoker in the inexhaustible
process of quitting.
A belief in infinity
that will last until the world's end.
The line of freedom was drawn.
Everyone believed that they were on the right side.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
You can die from their tears
I check the board to find out
who has passed away the previous night
and then don my personal protective equipment
Everything has been rigorously sterilised
I have forty five minutes to treat and care
as we sometimes collapse from heat exhaustion
I care for the weakest
first those who cannot move from their blood
**** and *****
They look at me with such pleading sorrowful eyes
babies, children, adults, , some have the courage to smile
I smile back with my eyes
Care is compressing and feeding
to keep up their strength
They must fight this devastating disease alone
I disrobe and painfully flick my elastic band
every time I touch my face
We sterilise and sterilise but you can never be sure
Rarely there is a ray of sunshine
I have been singing and dancing with little Kaita for days
behind the yellow fence
and now she is free to go home
We celebrate any little victories to carry on
Dear God, I beg you, please make terrifying Ebola gone
This poem is a tribute to those with Ebola and the thousands of workers who help them. In January cases are set to rise to a staggeringly sad 1.4 million.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
_'Now, make sure you've sterilised those instruments well. I want no complications with this one,' I say to my rookie assistant.
I carefully lay out the gleaming stainless-steel blades and check that all is in order. We're waiting on a last minute ***** donation to complete the procedure and although the timing is unorthodox, I'm confident of success. The pleural resection should be reasonably straightforward. If anything, it's the closure that bothers me...and the possibility of problems further down the line.
From outside comes the sound of a vehicle screeching to a halt. Then the kitchen door bursts open. 'Mommy, Mommy, we got it! The last one.' My six-year old holds the bag of chicken giblets up triumphantly. I smile at my father as he appears with the rest of the Thanksgiving groceries and passes them to my son. 'Right, so who's going to help me stuff this bird?'_
Nov 28, 2019
Nov 28, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
I want to dig a hole
and bury
the emotions
that rise inside me
for you
I feel sorry when
I see them swell
and rise only to
be met by a silent
stone like shore
of your heart
so I want to dig a hole
and bury the emotions
even before they swell
rise up and come
crashing down
the hole I dig would need
to be quite wide and deep
to contain the range and
depth of emotions that
arise inside me for you
the emotions which you
ignore and don't want to know
the emotions which you
feel but have learnt to un-feel
the emotions which you
browse and carefully skip
once I bury them
in the big hole that I dig
you will never be able
to see them and
will never need to ignore
or feel or skip
then it will be all clean
calm, clear and free
once I have sterilised
my conversations from
all trace of emotions
when I would have
buried them in the
biggest and widest
hole that I can dig
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 7:11 AM UTC
epitaph
eulogy
i write
your life
for all to see
in four short lines
what could have been
sterilised existence
bones picked clean
Oct 19, 2009
Oct 19, 2009 at 3:33 AM UTC
The untrained eye cannot detect the lies,
is that the fault of the deceivers ?
The untamed liars cannot likewise deny or defy,
the thoughts in the vaults of the everyday dreamers.
The religion of conformity,
a non - choice that some must take.
Heaped upon many a shoulder,
the sullen, they fake, the weak just pay.
The discovery of independent thought,
of being brave and at last feeling strong.
Frowned upon by the would be controllers,
who need you to believe you are wrong.
Carry on, carrying on,
in that same sterilised traditional way.
Applecarts are the place to put your faith,
so everything stays comfortably the same.
The status quo of uniformity,
perfect guidelines, our God to follow.
Taught from a blackboard of empty prophecies,
and shells full of hollow.
Glorify yourself in bygone years,
with testaments of lies filled with tears.
Appeasement is a word that stands quite tall,
designed to grind the smallest even further behind the wall.
Suspicious bonds, rigid lines,
they're never properly identified.
A zigzag mess of a map,
its called being alive,
from birth to death,
oh what a grand design.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 7:23 PM UTC
Little boy of urges hid, birthed in his mothers
Blood of stagnant death, behold the urges bathed
Him now in. Little one grew with morality taught
Only the Bad must bleed the good must be saved
With the cutting of a sterilised blade.
Blood became his urge as he worked with that
Loved, cherished so much. Oozing off objects
Trajectory of A-, From the exiting wound.
A sawn off shoot gun mouth fed then words
Became thought on everything but his mind.
Night earned my respect for deeds done, in
Silence, like a wasp did it sting then awoken
Upon pictures displayed, and then I spoke.
"Do you recognise those now never to utter words,
"I used to let them talk, but they mostly screamed,
*"Swore, told me they'd **** me, really??*
"Did they contemplate that they were about be silenced.
All was surrounded, sealed upon plastic and duck
Tape to keep that which spilled, kept in. As the blade
Fell, breath, life drained away. My urge fulfilled and
The bad gone permanently away but death is a clock
And tomorrows a brand new day.
My little playmates in their playground of death
At the bottom of the sea, now others have joined
Living breathing taken them away from me. I keep
Them in essence a blood droplet of final breath, in
My walls how Norman Bates of me.
"Come on son just do the right thing,
"Not now dad were having a meeting,
""He pops up at the most annoying times,
I have killed family, friends, lovers have even
Crossed the path that meets the edge of a blade
That makes lies still and fulfils my urges, they
were good I thought but paths were crossed so
They were ended another droplet spilled.
I love my hobby, who can say they love to ****
Its only the bad that need to worry for when my
Fever peaks, and so many bad people to ****
"I look at you, and see a part of me,
"But when you turn silent, I'm nothing like you,
I get a call, close up shop. All neat and tidy, like
No one had been here before. Slowly under the
Seat sealed delivered to my playmates new
Hidey hole. Now back to work and see what splatter
Awaits that I didn't cause.
"Mmm yep I'd say their dead, as I don't think?
"Don't worry I found their head behind the sofa,
God I love my job, cant get any better than this.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
pigeon coo’s echo outside the window
relentless repetition please stop,
grey skies, lacklustre rain
drip drop drips from the sky
like a tap not turned tight
enough
the kettle is screaming at me
fogs up the window
desperate, don’t look out there,
the forbidden fruit, sacred outdoors
sterilised sanitised inside, free me,
I long to ***** my feet
how can the world keep on turning
when we are all so still
does the passing of time matter
during this vast nothingness?
a cup of tea to calm my nerves
hot liquid chases down the fear
bubbling up in my throat but
it just crawls back, and settles
so quiet becomes the house
eternally occupied, no respite
heavier now, thankful for the sound
drowning out the silence, rain
like the white noise, grateful
the sound of breath has become
too much, all of us in mute,
in sound, in colour, in all
Aug 3, 2020
Aug 3, 2020 at 3:24 AM UTC
it's the day before my driving exam and i still don't know how to parallel park. i'm sitting in the passenger seat as my mother drives to our old church. this space no longer holds me. i stare blankly at the bug smeared across the windshield and hope my silence will be mistaken for submission.
we sit in the right wing of the chapel, half way up the staircase. i make eye contact with the girl i made out with last summer in the youth pastor's office. she is all sour cherries, collarbone tan lines, and the taste of salt water on my tongue. she abruptly turns and whispers something to her friend. the friend gasps, clasps her hands together, and starts to stammer, "Dear Lord.."
love the sinner, hate the sin. this love is choking me.
i know they pray for me over melancholic sermons, stale pizza, and gospel songs. then they write slurs on my locker, ***** me, and try to turn me straight all for the glory of God. i wonder if anyone ever thinks to pray for them.
the pastor starts to list things he considers abominations: bruised avocados, atheists, wokeness, his ex wife. my eyes glaze over.
as a child i learned "lesbian" was a bad word before i learned it was a part of my identity. i was taught that my love is inappropriate, immoral, nothing more than a **** category most commonly searched by the same boys that tell me to rot in hell.
thats when it starts, the same speech i've heard my whole life.
i am a sinner.
my sin is love. my sin is loving so deeply that i was able to reframe my thoughts, overcome the preconceived ideas planted in my mind as a child that preached hatred and shame and passing judgement onto strangers.
for once, i do not stay. i do not endure it. i stand up, fix my skirt, and climb over my mother, her eyes fixed on the pastor, nodding along. i walk out of the chapel and 2.1 miles down the highway. my mother does not come after me.
there are parts of me that she does not know how to love and has no desire to learn how.
my family always jokes that the dog is my mother's favorite child. i watch the way she meticulously brushes her fur, holds her when she cries during storms, and loves her regardless of the mud dragged down the sterilised corridor of the house.
i take comfort in knowing she cares about something, i just wish it were me.
Oct 18, 2024
Oct 18, 2024 at 10:02 AM UTC