Cross the surf, broken white
In tiny splash, sprinkling bow and pulpit
The small prow, driving forward to the main
Catches the quick wind.

The Amitie sits anchored twice,
Its hull by sand, shoved round its keel,
The high tide line stretched
Slack across barren beach to hooked cast iron.

The fisherman mourns today, life is gone
From Amitie, small daughter lost.
The paint of her namesake fades
While gunnels dry in early summers sun.

Tomorrow she will be out again
Loosed with tide, beyond the surf
Families still need fed, fish need caught
The money to trade for the living.

Black rain descending,
silver skies so blue,
little red angel,
my lies surround you,
lilith beware,
a storms on the horizon,
the fig tree so bare,
sitting outside the silver gate,
avocadoes in the sky,
chickens on your plate,
who controls your destiny,
angels or demons,
resting wearily inside
a dead mans dreams,
I tell you my dear,
believe me baby,
its ohhhhhhhhhhhh so true,
all beware,
lazarus is rising,
his soul by his side,
tears stop falling,
for love is denied,
mother mary,
cry no more,
your ship awaits,
he stands at the helm,
the pulpit is crushed,
as transparency descends,
lillith,lillith,
what have you done,
waiting for eternity
in the heart of the sun,
little red angel,
I beg of you,
begone,
for I see it my darling,
in the heart of the
sun.

Nine lives for a cat,
But no sight for a bat,
It is clear that God has his favourites.
So why in our case,
Did he think to place,
Mankind as a King in ‘his’ pulpit?
To us he gave thumbs
And we armed them with guns;
And we burnt round the world in a conquest!
Yet to dogs he gave claws;
To apes he gave rocks
And said, ‘fight for your life and your homestead’.
So we shot them all down
And took over their ground
And upon it built car parks and churches,
So we could rejoice,
And raise up our voice
To show just how ‘great’ our vain lord is.

I'm not brave, never was and never will be
any scars I have are hidden in deep dungeons
somewhere in the vast open spaces of my mind
They are too deep to dig out and analyse. Even try.
There are no medals blistering my breast pocket

No  name shouted from pulpit or podium
No one cheering  academic prowess
scars of poverty or pain or orphan splendour
at tender twelve Christmases
all those scars buried under the skin, and swept out of sight
on the watching life. There were many watchers.

Not brave pushing boundaries
I learnt my  visual language off
graffitied walls and bart simpson.

No I was not brave, when I arrived here
with a shirt on my back and a two dollar back pocket
bus ticket. Come on you got to be joking,
for switching countries, continents and communities
to earn a square meal.

See what I mean? I'm not brave, riding morning evening traffic
with ten thousand automissiles coming at me daily
I'm not brave when I scoff a whole chocolate
cake without counting the calories or checking that waistline
or watching Dr Oz rave on about nuts fruits ***** and berries.
Its on the rare occasion I get brave and take notes!

No Im not brave at all. I'm a coward that hides behind brave people
who have 9-5 jobs, wear white skins to work, white collars
and smile behind white sparkling teeth with red ties
dripping in  ****** racist jibes of inequality.
No I'm not brave being 65 and hiding 65 thousand racist comments
under scars covered by moisturisers
white shirts and dark glasses
in the searing heat of society.

I am brave when it comes to using
words that hide behind lace-like feathery
curtains of verses and rhythms
that sing along to everything I write.

Author Notes

A critical look at society and how it functions between the layers of immigrants. Look under the skin to understand why we write poems, like we do. The harsher the social climate the more rugged are the desert rats it produces. History is full of such examples. This hierarchy will never change.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Woke up out a cold sweat
Thinkin' will i survive the subliminal threats
Cant get a job cuz im black
Thats a  brutal honest fact
So brothers switch to a jack
Dont get mad when we rollin' craps
Hood mentality
To be nba or nfl livin' fantasies
Chasin' broken dreams
Thinkin' you can get the cream
No education cuz they medias want segregation
**** the pulpit preachers talk ****
Tellin' about them ******* parables
I know im a rebel
Born saint roll me up some dank
Hit the burb park my ds on the curb
Hitt the switches for the *******
******* for them snitches
If ya know me ya might be a homie
And if you a groupie
You nothing but a phony
Check my licks we steady got ya heads bobbin"
***** SHOULD HAVE KNOWN
IM STEADY MOBBIN''


I jumps in the shower
Clean as a muthafucka throw
On some baby powder
Dressed fresh to death
Makin' these girls loose they breath
***** i aint no lover
Go after them other brothers
Cuz ya cant catch me in a gank
Gas up the 64 put 30 in the tank
Gave the good lord a thank
Hit the liquor store and pour up some drank
My homie Tim riding shotgun
Im public enemy number one
Dont got a license for a gun
So thats means im illegally packin
Extra clips
Just incase for bodystackin' fools be actin'
Out but i got the clout
Rubbers on deck to keep a ** in check
Watch ya mouth before i slit ya neck
Still feelin' my music
Got ya ****** head bobbin'
***** im steady mobbin'

When I think back now to when I was little (to when I was young)
The words "I love you" I don't think were ever spoken, not in our house anyway (now I could be wrong)
It would have been something silly to say
That was something you'd only hear in a Hollywood movie
Between glamorous movie stars, glamorous people
It wasn't part of our reality
If you were feeling anxious about something and needed comforting
You'd be told not to worry, that you were being silly
You'd be given a hug maybe or 'a treat' something nice
Usually something sweet, a biscuit and a hot cup of sugary tea or cocoa
A chocolate sweet if there were any
You'd be allowed to stay up late and watch the late shows on TV
Me! I was always a terrible worrier just like my Mom
Food most often was the comforter, the soother, the remedy to all
(Some say our relationship with food is the closest relationship we ever have in Life).

Yea! I don't think the words "I love you" were spoken where we grew up
Our parents they loved us as best they could
But they didn't have the words, the words to say it
It was strange...it was almost like they were forbidden to.
Of course, you could love your neighbor alright and your neighbor's neighbor
And your neighbor's neighbors neighbor's neighbor
And all the feckin' neighbors in the whole feckin' world
But the one thing you couldn't, you mustn't do
Was love yourself, this was the Big No No, the Big taboo, the Great Evil
It was the one thing you must never do,
And every Sunday at church, the priest way up on his pulpit
He'd never tire of telling us
How evil and selfish and bad the Self was
And all the bad things it got up to
Yea, your neighbor was always better than you were
Put your neighbor above yourself always
Love your neighbor and you'd be alright
That was the message loud and clear.

                               2

So, so we got treats instead of words of love when we were little
On Friday nights when Dad would come home from work and the pub
He'd always have with him lovely Apple Turnover buns
And a bag of crisps for each of us
And so, we'd all sit there together in the evening in front of the telly
After the maelstrom of the school week with  its lessons and scary teacher
Trying so hard to understand and get your homework done,
And despite all we'd laugh and enjoy the TV shows
And this... this was Love, us all just sitting there with our buns and munching our crisps just watching the TV together
Knowing we belonged and that we were loved kind of...as best they could
And that we had a couple of days off, days of freedom
Before we'd have to go back to school again,
It didn't get any better than this.

And when we'd be going down the country to see our Uncle John
My Dad would always stop off to visit a pub
And he'd get us a Club orange and a packet of crisps
It couldn't get any better than this... this was Love
The lovely sweet taste of that fizzy Club orange juice
And those wonderful salty cheese and onion flavoured (potato) crisps or maybe salt and vinegar flavour
Or later on, lovely smokey bacon flavour,
As we'd sit there Dad would be talking to the barman or some of the locals
But we didn't care what was being said, it didn't matter to us
It didn't get any better than this
This was heaven... this was Bliss.

Sometimes during the summer months before we could get summer jobs
Maybe it'd be raining outside and we'd be stuck indoors and bored
But then Mum would up and say "I know I'll make some chips"
Now Mum's chips were really something special, they'd be lovely big chunky potato chips, hand cut
And maybe she'd have beans in tomato sauce with them,
And maybe there'd be a good film on in the afternoon
Well, this was it, nothing could top that, a good film and a plate of Mum's big chunky chips and beans
Sometimes she'd even make these lovely mince beef pies
With minced beef and flour and onions, salt and pepper on them
And they were really something else
It couldn't get any better than this... and this... this was Love
(I can still remember the kind of meals we ate
And my Mum in the kitchen, and my Dad).

                            3

It's how people grow up in the end I suppose
They find someone inspiring, some teacher or book that makes a strong impression on them (if their lucky)
Or a partner who broadens their horizons, makes them question things and expands their vision of life and all its wondrous possibilities
But what if you don't find those good books, those inspiring teachers
Those voices that'd offer you a better vision of tomorrow and what this life could be
What if you only found bad books, bad books purporting to be good
That'd rob you and leave you lost and desolate, fearful and confused
What if some of your teachers turned out to be alcoholics
That some even done away with themselves
What if the people you met were even more lost than you were yourself...

And you'd go to a job interview and the man, he'd look at you and say
"So, what are your aspirations in Life, what are your values, your goals, where do you see yourself a few years from now ?"
And you'd look back at him blankly, Aspirations! Values! Goals!
What are these words, what's he talking about...
What am I looking for in Life ?
To have some fun I suppose...maybe (if having fun was still legal now as an adult)
Fun!!! Whatever that was now ?
Or to get drunk and stay drunk, escape this grim world I'm in somehow
What am I looking for ?
You tell me...I don't know, what is there
For all I knew I may as well have said
"A Club orange and a packet of crisps".

                              4

Now the faces they have all faded away, the voices too, have all gone
There's only me here alone in this room
It's Friday evening and I've got a readymade dinner from the supermarket
Just need to pop it in the oven for a few minutes
And I got a Dvd from the Dvd store,
So I sit there and eat my dinner, I savour every bite
But still it doesn't last very long
And I can lick my plate but it doesn't make any difference
I can lick it all I like
But I can't make it last, and I can't bring them back again
Those people that are gone;
And the food, it doesn't taste the same, doesn't taste as good as it tasted back then
And the movies too, their not like the ones we used to watch...

When I die it'll probably be like that movie Citizen Kane, at the end his last words "Rosebud"
The name of his beloved childhood sleigh
He used slide on in the snow,
I'll say on my death bed "I too have a memory of Love and Joy, Yea!
A Club orange and a packet of crisps".

Within stirs a persistent bane

birthed while on her mother’s knee,
endorsed with fiery warnings
loudly proclaimed from weekly pulpit.

Now her bones grate
against the cushion
while the rhythmic cadence
of rocking chair
runners on hardwood
breaks the dim silence


as past misdoings reverberate

on the back walls of her mind.

Disquietude prompts obsessions
she endeavors to prove invalid.
Her desire to flee

from reminders of falsehoods

and fake passions

nags her endlessly

like unforgivable sins

haunt a cloistered sister.
Neither pleas nor prayers

quell her remorseful ruminations.