Daily Archives: November 21, 2015

Who do you sponge off? by Jane Burn

I am not a silent poet

Do you work in a strip club?
You’re not wearing mink knickers, are you?
Do you have any knickers in that material?
Just take the fucking picture. I know nothing.
Are you running away from something? Kill a cat
and save a bird. You look like you’re ready for bed!
Ghastly. He looks as if he is on drugs. Do you still
throw spears? No wonder you are deaf. Cowboys.
All I get is fancy stuff. It looks like a tart’s bedroom.
Vast waste of space. They’re complaining
they’re unemployed. Every time someone sets off
a gun. Provided you don’t travel in something
called economy class. Aren’t most of you descended
from pirates? You are a woman, aren’t you?
It took a lot of killing. I might catch some ghastly disease.
Just get me a beer! The Cantonese will eat it.
I don’t know where they are going to integrate

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I Wish I Had Married a Prince by Jane Burn

I am not a silent poet

I would crown my blow-dry with saucer hats,
be photogenic
in skirts, have the legs of an Ascot colt. I will toss
bouncing locks
to show you How Relaxed We Are, me and my Prince.
How we are Just
A Regular Couple. We shall laugh from the decks
of Monaco yachts,
shop adorably with a basket in supermarkets.
See? This makes us
Normal People, just like you. I shall marry a man
with braid at his shoulders.
My grin will split my face, perfect teeth to camera.
Look at me,
touching the hands of the unwashed poor, tilting
his dead mother’s ring
at the light, looking up from under my lashes,
same as she did.
Let them draw comparisons. Thou Shalt Not Gain Weight
my baby bump is neat
as a smuggled melon. I am More Important than any woman
on Earth because
my baby will…

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spoiled by religion and war by Bengt O Björklund

I am not a silent poet

spoiled by religion and war
little man clings to the book
straps all his cold coin sorrow
to the chest of a last day

he who will not wallow in bitter I
abolishing all claims and holds
will be the one to bleed no more
in better days perhaps or not

dark fruit rotting in the sinister
murderous madness with no water
there are no safe havens eyes
there is only I you see a fire fly

smoldering sobbing with swords
there can be no two of eye
only the throbbing masses of no
in greed malice and no love reptile

belonging is not a psychotic
shooting amphetamine or blame
the first frost flew
there were chores and hands

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Je n’ais pas les mots by Rose Drew

I am not a silent poet

I do not have the words of comfort
for raped and massacred Yazidi
who merely lived. They were in the way.

I do not have the words to capture anger
whatever deprivation that goads one to kill….. everyone

I do not have the words to sooth
the anguished dad, the grieving mom
who let their child go out for music

I do not have the words to thank
the chef for that last meal,
the one enjoyed…. almost….until ultimate
last course

Thing is, the rage and impotence
articulated by bombs and bullets
are genuine:
but so are loved ones
who simply lived their lives
and went to dinner, to a game, to hear some BlueGrass

Neither poverty nor a night out
deserve a death sentence

I do not have the words to pray
to a bronze age skygod
who lets us get on with it

Perhaps the time for words…

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