Monthly Archives: August 2017

American Noir by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

After Heather Heyer

If I were killed by white power
do not fold a flag for me this black hour
hang it upside down like Jeremiah from Elm
human darkness shall erode the whitest realm.

If you were to mourn the way of my death
you are not rejoicing in the way I drew my breath,
I stood for something, to fall like water into the deep
I fell for something purer, it was more than America fast asleep.

If I was to grow through earth a flower
I’d grow through white weeds and not cower,
an American eagle would swoop down past my shoots
and the blood from its mouth would make strong my roots.

If I was an Eagle I’d fly with displaced birds to roost in the wall
and when we’d soar a mowed down woman would fall.
She stood for something and fell like sunset water,

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Three minutes before when we built Barcelona by Antony Owen

I am not a silent poet

“The creation continues incessantly through the media of man”
Antoni Gaudi

in the architected shade she once had her breath stolen by Gaudi,
in those yesterday monuments they talked of making an offer on twelve leaf road,
later they shared a crema catalana with two spoons and all was good as spires cut night open.

Girl in floral dress ran down las ramblas like palates against a half-finished painting.
Three nights ago she left her tooth and a fairy in her Father left five euros,
she is running to buy a windmill that will be claimed by the grabbing tide

There is a an old saying that a city comes alive in the darkness and never falls asleep.
In our beautiful wisdoms we are leant to the warm soil and god takes us back,
she reveals herself as a human with colourless skin and her heart is a lamp.


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Scum by Jodie Rose McLoughlin

I am not a silent poet

This is what the so called majority asked for
Demonisation of the poor
Our national assets spunked up the wall
Scapegoating Muslim’s and the unproductive disabled
Calling us traitors, takers and scum

They won’t be happy until we’re all oppressed, at the bottom of the barrel drowning in racially pure, neo-Nazi cum

You mock us and shock us with the vitriol you read
Your silence is compliance in a world of black and white
Absolute morality
Cognitive dissonant closed off little minds
Only when they make you suffer too,
will you ever see the light

Where are you when they starve us?
Your ‘friendship’ was lacking when the medical professional assessor hissed,
in my ear and on paper that I’m unworthy of any money to live on
That my disabilities do not exist –

and that by extension neither should I
It’s a natural conclusion
Work or die

The state…

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I am a Nazi by Terrence Sykes

I am not a silent poet

I am a Nazi
I rise with white power
To surpass those
Different from me
I am a true American
I don’t like like Jews for  sure
My sister married a Yankee one
Live in a big house on Long Island
He has some big corporate job
She goes to temple &  raising them like Jews !
That guy I was friends with in high school
Found out he was gay
He helped me pass many a test
I dropped him like a hot potato
Guess he was trying to make a pass on me!
Didn’t have time to got to community college
Or even take time to try out trade school
Too busy obsessing over how oppressed I am
By the world outside that I don’t want to understand
And all the other white males like me
I sure don’t like Muslims either
They are…

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Ahead of the Game by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

We are too slow at escaping, too good at sitting still and enjoying the lives we have made. We need to be ahead of the game, selling up, moving on, making new friends.
We have become bogged down with what we own and worrying about where to go and what to do there. Other places we know all have their charms, and there are worse things than sitting alone in the sun with wine and a book for company.
We should not fear silence or the language of others. We could learn, would get by. We should stop chasing the past, stop expecting success and go and live where we want. Survive there, be there. Make a new home and a new life.
We must stop acting scared and compromising. We can never be rich, financially or culturally, where we are; it would be nice to be…

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Admit One by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

Things we want go sour, what
we aspire to is not attainable.
We get old before our inner youth
expires, dreams disperse as our knees
give out and we have to buy a new car.
The urban metaphor of heaven is no use
to us in the village of confusion,
the city of God seems a long way off
although we’re nearer now than ever;
but it’s hard to read the signs,
harder still to stay on track.
Admit One. I clutch the ticket to a
well-ordained, human paradise,
we think of as a new England,
Albion, or a tidier version of
where we live now. A tsunami
of vision literature arrives in the post:
someone has seen angels and ghosts,
been told what to write. These visitors
do not cure my arthritis or let me sleep,
cannot tell me what I should do.
I am still having to…

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Desert Island Discs by Rupert M Loydell

I am not a silent poet

The doctor on the radio
spoke about operating
during war and made me cry.
Down-to-earth, matter-of-fact,
way out of my experience,
he’d operated and stitched,
dismembered and mopped up
worldwide, often in the dark.
Machine-gun toting militia
looked on, nurses ran
for cover as lights dimmed
and unseen bombs exploded.
He answered the questions
and introduced his next
piece of music, different
worlds colliding in song.

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