Glass eye mounted high,
winged beauty frozen in time,
varnished beaks can't cry
*Author's notes*
A simple haiku about taxidermy.
My fifth in my collection of environmental poetry.
1. Extinct.
2. Harpoon
3. Crocodile Tears
4. The Pack
Tuesday 27 December 2016
Tuesday 13 December 2016
Oh Fuck it
OH FUCK IT!
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Saturday 3 December 2016
The True Meaning of Christmas
It's not about that pesky snow,
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
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