what do we do with all the blood we’ve lost?


and the shattered saucers

leave them

                  fallen

                 purpling, proud

in case you question me again

with the strawberry smarting from your lips



when will we speak of the unborns in your pocket?

and the bruises in my head



our sandals cradled evidence

your water raked away

I'm always intrigued by the chemical ingredients of interracial attraction. This extract from a novel I've been reading fervently was particularly interesting:

"I didn't realise it at first, but I also felt threatened by black women: this was jealousy. A sex-love existed  between white men and black women. This was an old love, as old as the hills around me. For centuries, white men had spread their seed as they pleased, had taken as many of their slave concubines to their beds as they could: blacks, mulattos, women with skin the colour of coffee, cinnamon, muscovado sugar; women the colour of mahogany, so black they were purple. This habit hadn't ceased. The white man still strutted, still behaved as father, oversser: the white man, I suspected, carried a deep carnal longing for the black woman. I saw it, smelled it, felt it, even understood it. But I couldn't compete. And what, just what did black women think of the white man's attentions? What did they say behind his back? I dreaded to think."

Monique Roffey, The White Woman on the Green Bicycle

Encopresis


from the Greek κοπρος [kopros, dung]), also known as paradoxical diarrhoea. this is involuntary fecal soiling in adults and children who have usually already been toilet trained. persons with encopresis often leak stool into their undergarments, sometimes as a result of the perceived pleasure of holding one’s stool in



The music room is emptying

I am beyond noses

in a maroon-banded tie

And busying Miss Something or other with novelty

Self-hypnosis

pallid unties cheek beetroot charms

giddy

keeping cover behind ginger brick

shaping a middle destiny

of an elfin shame



Then my daughter wrings her face for grip

and I erect teacherly

for our first words about its stains

as if all shitty things smell better in time

The Shakespeare



Silence and sips

and seldom swinging doors

the ritual of pint glasses

their pull and their pour



A silver dense carbon with frozen eyes

at its shore,

and lifers - flat or lifeless.

Three unsettling straws



Like fish finger fishing

‘tis morbid, ‘tis blunt

‘tis thoughts for the thoughtless

‘tis true Anne found a lump



The temple. The Vedas

crown of froth of a christ

a coiling of piss rivers

neuro-cells sacrificed



Sacrament dainty

is here, everyfink

bunches of coarse hands

little to drink

Afaf was one hundred and twenty days old when arrested

Damascene Ba’ath enamel extracted her soul stiff

to mine information from a mother and disabled father – rebel minds

fortnight tipped away

parents missing, presumed dead

Afaf’s corpse arrived at her uncle’s Homs house bearing dark torture marks

that smote the imagination to wail hard into the night

When it is the children that turn pavements molten with sacrifice

having chipped their foreheads at the presidential altar

soldiers pounded violet grapes into your silken back

using dogs they found in their hearts, berserk

raucous snarls bit,

inevitable pleas,

as they held you aloft and pitted,

bullet fingertips,

the bastards put in you everything they had

and if they live to witness their own daughters’ gullets hung from iron hooks

then the God of fire is good

God is infinitely beauteous

and we will pelt their bodies with daddy’s shell casings

and survive as jigsaws in this until the grief exhales

when the blowing of prayers is almost enough

and wind ships no pollen

and children have expunged crying at wounds, for us,

or semen is staunchly infanticidal

love the wetting of enemy skulls

and the welded black nipples

kissing men goodnight

from afar



with puckered eyelids

brave flower, you look like you’re sleeping again

Kept envelopes

it was your idea

- to write letters

you saw it somewhere

somewhere someone gave some other a pot of words

and unless you had it too it was unfair

we were fresh as a new page in an age of scared

I was Charlie Bucket

opening with a tear

that first message won me

like a posted pair of undies

smothered me dumb deep inside the unseen

with my tongue creased

and my mind drunk at the beach

or in a ring fumbling for my feet

between each round being sponged down by the priest

at sundown I would reach

into your breath where I’d eat

or take early to slumber

for those nurseries of opium

I tucked hope in them, woke in them

walked every week they came in the slope of them

and at the podium of my pen I pressed

stood undressed

waved at my mess

and declared that every four seconds I think of you…

every four seconds I think of you…

every four seconds I think of you…

each stint with you on the end of my stamp

emptied the bank

scooped the pennies off the floor of my heart

and ended with thanks

you left me just blanks

and I’m firing them at all that followed you out the door

who knows what I’m crouching here for

maybe the ground can shroud me from yours

and you can ask around for your round of applause

find someone as compelled, as astounded by law

to be housed in his core

but I was a coward

I had one last letter to write

but by then I had climbed to the crest of your light

and my confessions that I’d sketch you turned trite

while I rested a second shadow had crept into sight

so I left you that night…

you loved me through little lines that caged that whispered time

when I touched your hand and you gave me your ribs to climb

I’d never discovered a belly I needed more

Mi amor, I drew you pornographic pictures

and it was sweet

and I coloured in your feet

O Lauren, I cannot sleep

it was your idea

- to write letters

to bruise, to blind, to make your memory relentless

to lipstick stain, to stick, to construct an empress,

to bottle, to reign, to paralyse senses

to magnify, to terrify, to adjectivize endless

‘To Lori, I hope you’re smiling J’

Holidays

i can’t be on the phone long

you’ll see They twist every breath and every piano key

so just listen to the last of my voice, stranded

i sleep outside now

in this starry room.

the gunners with us swoon

at the wicked lemon of my thoratic bloom

which are embers of the Infinite

spelling soon

do not ingest what they tell you when they tell you about me

it was never hate

they were never civilians

and the smiles on our dead would have given you too over to the green birds

Goodbye

“They said that there’s nothing more they can do. He’ll be conscious for an hour or two and then that’s it. You’re gonna have to hurry.”

“Mmm. Is he comfortable?”

“They’ve given him morphine and he’s calm.” he's not crying anymore

“Well, let us know what happens then.”

“You’re coming though?”

“Probably not. We’ve got a lot to do.” hammersmith

“A lot to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Your son is about to die.”

“Well, he doesn’t need us there. We saw him just the other day.”

“Last month actually. And he does, he’s asked for you.”

“It’ll take us too long.”

“The drive’s a maximum of forty minutes, even with traffic.”

“The car won’t make it.” she can’t drive, she has no idea

“Well, if you suddenly break down for the first time ever then I’ll reimburse you for the travelcard. Alright?”

“Nah, it’s a busy day today. We’ve got to do the shopping, we’re going to Nan’s, then there’s the evening. It’s gonna be too hectic.”

“Your son is going to die. Do you not want to see him?”

“Of course. Today is sudden.” if it were tomorrow, is there any possibility he’ll

“There are no other days.”

“Well.”

“I can’t believe this. You’re sick.”

“Tell him we love him.”

“I can’t tell him that in truth, can I? Will anybody come?”

“I dunno, you’ll have to call them, but I think they’ve all got things to do too.” listen, I need to go now

The hospital called, I returned to sleep

The algorithm for love

is too easy

and the cancer moves in too late

that’s why tragedy is never really that tragic

If only people cried for this

there would be so much less crying

the mist

when the winter buried a bewitching summer's day

the island would not blink for night

above us a gas of emerald

or purple rallied with white

and that were when you picked me

third

behind rage and gluttony, again

snow-blind

crouching in the trench

then biting off the pen

ZK.

Pepper Street

we (the sky and I)
barely blinked
as she cut butter
with her sprint
and our screen turned purple
for the sphinx

the air would not stop kissing her
that Friday
some virile blend of Abyssini
I think

ZK

#4

My prose is a factory of fantasies
every time you question me
we hire new staff
Quietly, I would like to be alone

The Dictator and the Dreamer

The dictator and the dreamer
cannot get along
For while she screams that rules were broken
he gently pens a song

When their sleeping patterns battle
lone eyelids jam the brakes
detergent tires of crimson
kiddies hide the sharpened stakes

He marvels at her power
or she envies for his muse
thesauruses go missing
His words imagine him a coup

Dictator fiddles with the taxes
Dreamer sups the chai of laze
the route back to equality
is solely for the brave

The poetry she plants him
is st*rred and ripe, concise
He has a private cave where
gay porn is what he writes

Stained sheeting is not silken
Jellyfish will hunt for legs
Coughs and yawns compile a language
Black hole of middle bed

he scrubs his heart on pages
she stores hers in the fridge
To comprehend one poem
she'd suffer all his fibs

The dictator and the dreamer
cannot get along
by June, he’d found her strung from
noose of lovers songs

Bjórr litr

I found a Viking in my beard
bright Norse irises, a spear
hair of Highland, age-old reindeer
sacrifice in peat with human tears
first farmers chance druidic sneers
peculiar tongues try licking ears
the channel splits thus freezing fear
some holy henge, a lunar year
such pantheist pale that paints me queer
Tan of beech and Albion beer

Mmm...

in the crux of her bosom I whimpered that I would only die if she said it was okay,
my bevvy.
Her words were always brief and breathy
That grin left me tinny and thin

her eyes were the bluest of blue
her skin was the creamiest of creme
her lips were the rosiest of rose
and her teeth were the yellowest of yellow

Nobody's perfect
except me, sometimes

Haiku 3 (it wasn’t us)

You sold your brother
We financed the deal and then...
gave them red passports

Empty Pews

Enough with that gaunt gaze ‘cos we know I’m late
Dump your diatribe for I see empty pews
Grieving gracelessly for Grandad’s sake

Convinced that weeping is to wash awake
Forgive me father for this slight miscue
Linger in some pity ‘cos we know I’m late

Tangerines and tipple lighten licks of hate
Like I never ventured in explicit views
Mourning minus me for Grandad’s sake

Met him in a hospital where angels wait
Kissing through his silk hair and noone knew
That was hours earlier now I roll in late

My eyes, they burn so please vacate
Let me don him in his claret an’ blues
Stay away, this is for my sweet sake

I still fear to fix a gaze on Nana’s face
She can’t lie to me; I am empty pews
Time to make a move now, it is getting late
Grieving gracelessly for Grandad’s sake

ZK.

Turkish gameshow attempts to convert atheists

A new gameshow on Turkish television will pit rabbis, imams, monks and priests against each other in an attempt to convert sworn aetheists to their respective religions.

In Penitents Compete (Tovbekarlar Yarisiyor in Turkish), religious leaders will seek to convert at least one of the 10 atheists in each episode to their faith. Those that crack will win a pilgrimage to the spiritual home of their newly chosen faith, Muslims will go to Mecca, Jews and Christians will go to Jerusalem and Buddhists will go to Tibet, the Guardian reports.

According to the show's slogans, contestants will also win "serenity" and "the biggest prize ever... the belief in God". The producers behind the programme hope it will promote religious beliefs and educate the country's majority Muslim population about other faiths.
"The project aims to turn disbelievers on to God," Ahmet Ozdemir, the station's deputy director, told the Hürriyet Daily News and Economic Review.

The competition is strictly limited to non-believers and contestants will be vetted by an eight-strong commission of theologians before they are allowed to take part.
Converts will then be monitored to ensure their religious transformation is genuine and not simply contrived to gain a free holiday. "They can't see this trip as a getaway, but as a religious experience," Mr Ozdemir said.

However, the programme, which is scheduled to air in September, has been criticised by commentators and religious figures for trivialising God and faith.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/turkey/5729452/Turkish-gameshow-attempts-to-convert-atheists.html

Multiculturalism's Scriptural References

I just sat on a Piccadilly line train and spotted the Qur'an, some Hebrew orthodox literature and gossip-heavy The London Lite all being read in the same carriage by different ethnicities!!!

Million's Poets - Spoken word brings social change

It is the Middle East's answer to Pop Idol. Now in its third season, the weekly, live, three-hour programme makes celebrities out of its contestants and reaches an audience of some 17 million across the Arab world. The show features text message voting and a glitzy presentation, and people queue up outside the 2,000 seat Al Raha Beach Theatre in Abu Dhabi to be part of the audience.

The show may have all the hallmarks of a shiny, western talent show but it is very much of the Middle East. Entitled Millions' Poets, contestants recite their own poetry, composed in a traditional Bedouin style called Nabati which dates back to the fourth century. The live audience in the theatre is segregated, with men and women seated in different sections, yet women poets compete alongside men on stage.

"When we designed this show we had in mind the grandness of Who Wants to be a Millionaire and the suspense of Pop Idol, " says Nashwa Al Ruwaini, Millions' Poets producer and head of the show's production company, Pyramedia. "The idea was to create a new format that would appeal to this part of the world without offending this part of the world."

The Abu Dhabi Authority for Culture and Heritage (Adach) commissioned and pays for the show as part of a bigger initiative by the biggest Emirate to raise the cultural bar in the Gulf. Millions' Poets costs 70m dihrams (£14m) to produce per season, including the 27m dihrams in prize money.

"It started here in Abu Dhabi but even I was surprised to learn that there are Nabati poets in many countries like Libya, Nigeria, Morocco, Egypt and Algeria as well as the Gulf. We found out Bedouins are everywhere!" says Ruwaini.

The Millions' Poets phenomenon has spurred the launch of a dedicated satellite channel for re-runs, a website that gets millions of hits, a magazine and, soon, a specially-designed iPod preloaded with Millions' Poets' poetry.

But perhaps the most surprising result of the show is the fact that in the current season a Saudi poetess called Ayda al-Jahani, who is completely veiled, is in contention for the top prize. "We have had poetesses before but not as strong as this woman," says Ruwani. "Saudi is quite conservative but people are sending their votes. It was unheard of to mention a woman's name, much less have her on stage, getting votes! This show has helped create social change."

by Kate Bulkley, The Guardian