1990

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I searched for him (well, one of them) on social media. I wanted to see him happy – despite 1990.

I wanted to see that he’d done well…Improved…

…Corrected…atoned for 1990.

Perhaps I’d find that the girls I’d wished upon him in 1990 had daughtered themselves into existence.

Perhaps a wife – a woman who’d taken him on, along with his past…a woman who’d forgiven him for me, for 1990.

But no: I found a wifeless, kidless, toad-bellied rapey gobshite wearing the same rapey expression he’d worn in rapey 1990. The same rapey face. The same rapey attitude conveyed through the same rapey eyes. He probably sends rapey dick pics now, too, with the same rapey dick.

I looked into RapeFace and saw that this was not the outcome I’d wanted; neither in 1990, nor today.

SPROUT

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As Brussel-bombs went off
I dyed my stupid hair
Then fidgeted and made some tea
Relieved myself and had a wee
Relieved I wasn’t there

I dyed my stupid hair
As many people died
I browsed and googled trivia
And thought of Paris, Syria
And thought: I’ll walk outside

As many people died
I ambled round the shops
I couldn’t help or offer aid
Or tell folks not to be afraid
Or tell the war to stop.

I ambled round the shops
Just thinking of one thing
I landed in a nail salon
They clipped until my nails were gone;
They clipped a Belgian wing.

Just thinking of one thing
“We’re all the same,” I cried
I looked upon my stupid hair
As airport-goers went nowhere;
As airport-goers died.

“We’re all the same,” I cried
“When will we ever learn?”
I wept across the continents
And questioned human cognizance
And questioned Britain’s turn.

When will we ever learn?

INDIAGONY

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imageFrom a tree swung two daughters, venomously hanged – a displayed masquerade of an enemygang. This was messaged to whom? And for what, and for why? From the womb to a tree, where they’d swung as they died. What a very strange fruit tree: she-blood at the roots; and where death exchanged beauty, two buds made a deuce.

Then fast-forward a while to a girl on a roof; a bit-part in the mix of an Indian soup, where it happens again by a boy to a girl where she screams as she’s raped and she’ll die once she’s burned.

In that country where cunts try to keep women down, where hypocrisy speaks and where murder’s allowed – it’s a broken, choked corner of our modern world where the worst things to be are these: women or girls.

But your daughters they sleep now; hear Mom’s lullaby: here’s my patter to keep while boys live as girls died. Before more girls’ besmirched, boys take heed of my note – learn and swallow the poison I’ll bleed down your throats; for I thought about what if it happened to mine – then I dreamed up death’s plan from a murdersome pine.

I will kill one by one and move on when I’m done – to the next man in line I will turn once he’s gone. I will first slice his face with a shattered wine glass, and the next thing he tastes will be blades up his ass. I shall twist them and cut him and stab him to life as he’ll wish; HOW he’ll wish I’d just finish by knife. He’ll then stay with me weeks – maybe months or a year as I promise each day to not eke out his fear.

For I swear to him each time I’ll kill him so fast but each day takes its time, so much longer than last. So then when will I put him right out of his pain? I know that I promised but shan’t be today…

…For I am the Red Mom of his wildest frightmares, who’ll replace his dark wires with scared Lily white hairs; I will keep him and torture his terrified skin to reflect and protect all our feminine kin. Here he’ll stay and be tortured by my finest ire; wrath of mothers the oxygen needed for fire.

Back in time I go now to have words ere he grows; to erase all the hatred and murder he knows. But what if I fail and I stumble and miss him? I won’t torture or kill for I’m fine just to listen. To learn is to teach and to teach is to learn; take a moment to study, while vengeance still burns.

I go right back in time to a childish young lad – where I witness the beatings by hand of his Dad, and I see how his past has his future sketched out – and remove from my mind any vengeance about.

Here he is at eleven, with scars for a face – and his father gives nothing but apathy’s gaze. And here now he is twenty; a fella with nothing – disrespecting himself with a fantasy rotten.

More than two children swung on that day from their ropes. If we climb on that roof…can we hear signs of hope?

Involuntary Suicide

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His brain was sick – his body on the floor;
Contents thereof around, bile by his side;
A dose, a kick, a score as pain endured;
Infected with slow viral suicide.
A hot grim spoon of stuff worked its way in;
As painful life and love worked their way out;
Another death paused waiting to begin;
To moisten eyes who’d suffered deathly drought.
Involuntary suffering -life’s loss;
He’d tried and failed – and failed and tried – to quit;
He’d begged himself to fix, but cures he’d tossed;
And though time’s paused, in real: Tempus fugit.

His life of death was drawn on needled skin;
When drugs took life, t’was cruel narcotic’s win.

NO FLIES ON ME

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Since making the veggie-to-vegan leap a few weeks back, me ol’ grub’s been limited. By default, all my fave C’s are out: no cheese, chocolate, or (gasp!) cake.

Vegan hot dogs are floppy as the floppiest of fucks, and cheese-ish slices are essentially oily sheets of sappy, sopping cardboard.

Meatless sausages are ok, I suppose, and vegetable pâté isn’t half bad…but these are all things you need to eat with OTHER things so it’s been Bread With Everything. EVERYTHING.

From pâté on toast…crisp butties (to make sure I stay proppa Northern, like), it’s been carb-central all the way. Sunflower spread isn’t worthy of licking butter’s boots, of course – but if ya sprinkle a l’il salt on there, it’s quite possible to con yerself.

Lunch today? Baked beans and sausages on toast. Which – after plopping the lot onto my plate – looked and smelled a little dodgy, it has to be said. I was going to bin the lot, and go foraging in the fridge for summit else.

And then…BZZZZZ.

A dirty fly-bastard put me even FURTHER off, right before Bite One was even thought of.

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I’d left the window open last night (I was staying at me Mam’s with the kids – and what with her being ancient and thin of skin, the house was hotter than the sun), so the bewinged one had found his way in. And the little bugger didn’t bother bothering me until I was about to eat.

Forkful of carbs ready to be munched…until FLY. Batted it away, and back he came. Third time fucky: after a futile swat, he landed on my hand.

I didn’t splat the twat (vegan, remember?) but his landing gave me pause to think. He’d been deliberately and universally painted onto my hand, it seemed. I gawped at his little black body.

For here was mine was so white.

Clarity was on the menu then: a menu I make myself read every now and again with my peepers firmly closed and my mind wide open. Behind my eyes: flies. In my head: flies on faces.

Black flies on black faces. Faces that see SO MANY flies that they no longer twitch, ignorant to the silence…so silent that a fly’s footfall can be distinctly heard.

Apathetic hands no longer inclined to bat-away. Flies that stay wherever they squat. On face, on food, in mouth, in hell.

Black children. Black flies. Children so malnutritioned that the bigness of their distended stomachs is only balanced out by their enormous heads. Lolling heads too big for their raving scrawny bodies.

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And none of this is new to me; it’s just that sometimes, I forget to remember it. This is the same shit. The same old shit. The same old shit I first learned about in the eighties, with the advent of Live Aid (yeah yeah – I’m old as fuck). This is the bollocks that’s perpetuated by the likes of enormous corporations unnecessarily peddling their unnecessary shite when African women have perfectly good breasts.

What the actual crap was I doing moaning about shite food and one bastard fly? How fucking DARE I? How dare I complain about the state of my food when I HAVE food?

So I slapped myself in the face – and not for the purposes of insect-removal.

Then I ate a meal of beans on toast, with meat-free, dairy-free, flavour-free sausages.

From the wall, somebody was watching me.

I Saw Myself

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I saw myself and found him there Where poetry’d eluded me.
That’s what was missing –
And that’s what he is.
He is verse and rhyme and as he Phrases, so he punctuates my life with beats.
My heart’s pattern punches out the sound for me…because he made it beat differently.
He made it beat better.
What once…Beat…Erratically…
-and irregularly…with long paused yawning and an early yearning rhythm…
Now beats
Like this
Because
My heart
Now works:
Babbam.
Babbam.
I saw
Myself
And found
Him there.