Chapters (148)

You may accuse me of being a racist

And that we can continue ‘this discussion’

On a more equal basis!

The Repossession: Lot 67

A girl clasped by the sinews of vicious storms

Of saliva spat through sanctimonious scorn.

Gossip gathered in teacups and tapping tea spoons.

‘How dare a woman bear such waste in her womb?’

They locked her in the watchtower for husbandless women

And counted her debt in the cells that were splitting.

Forced her to bathe by night in tin tubs of guilt,

Or be damned to the sewer’s side with the skeleton silt.

They pressured her each day to study Mary Immaculate in pastel pictures,

Made her eat the dead and dry daily bread of water and scriptures.

And no sooner had the secrets of birth found her

Than the hospital curtains crept around her.

No sooner had air swilled in virgin lungs and seeped through the critical mesh

Than they thumped their fists into her and gripped their pound of flesh.

Bathed in blood. Without pressure the womb weak and depressed.

Miss, the bailiff growled, your child has been repossessed.

Baptism in Mire

As the pastor dragged the ‘forgiven’

From that watery grave

They’d say ‘Jesus Christ’

And he’d shout ‘You are saved’.

My F. parents ‘chastised’ me

For the way that I frowned.

They thought me possessed by the devil;

I thought they were being drowned.

Controlled Explosions

Picked up in anticipation and dropped in greater disappointment

By distressed couples searching for their own intimate luggage.

The suitcase has been tampered with and rummaged through,

Doesn’t know where it’s come from nor where it’s going to.

Its dog-eared flight-tags lost in streams of weaving conveyor belts,

Its broken zips’ open lips too tired to beg the desperate duets.

Ham-fisted and impatient, they fumble inside the hammered leather,

Finding in someone else’s belongings an unforgiving unfamiliarity.

They wash their hands clinically, forget about mending it, and disappear.

As time passes the suitcase becomes battered and bruised,

Stubbornly jamming the conveyor belts at the airport,

Reminding families to grip their suitcases and step politely over

Before guilt or fear sets in. Someone reports the problem,

Tannoys whisper, security arrives. Order and authority descends,

Causing disorder and panic amongst the passing.

This case is the lost cargo of international departures.

With broken zips and hidden padlocked dust-collecting pockets,

It may explode, for all we know, at any time.

Carefully, cordons are placed around the area.

To make sure everyone is covered.

All the conveyor belts grind to a mournful halt.

The airport gathers quietness and a sweeping hush blows.

Outside a professional looks confidently to camera. It’s news!

I’ve been reliably informed the controlled explosion shall begin shortly.

Children’s Home

The children nearby came to our secret garden,

Gazed at our mansion in disbelief,

Either said they wished they lived here