This is a poem. It is not my opinion.
i am a little nervous posting it, because of its subject matter, i have however decided to post it, because i have thought a lot about why i should post it & that it is not unreasonable to do so. The ugly side of this poem is something i have heard said in similar contexts somewhere, but i can’t (much to my embarrassment) recall the source; it was a long time ago.
i don’t write poems wholly expressing my opinions on matters. My poems showcase society, environment, ideas, politics, ideology & more in their multifaceted subtleties & proclivities, from the ugly & improper to the morally correct & upstanding & as much as i can process in between & outside.
The world is a mess. This must be clear to anyone of sound judgement.
i do not aim to pull the wool over the ugly with the unquestionable beauty that manifests itself in such variety. That is not a poet’s task; it may be, but it is not how i see it. It is only by seeing the ugliness that beatitude is strengthened. Perfectibility is implausible to me, at this moment in time. i believe in constant change & the force of expression to be a vehicle of catharsis.
So if you are offended by this, you may be, i cannot staunch that emotion in you, in fact you should be, but it is society, ultimately, that you should be angry with, not me. i won’t take all that responsibility, only part of it, because i accept that we all allow ugliness to persist in some way or other, collectively.
This is a bleak admission. i do believe people are inherently good, but that we are pushed into our apathy & sometime cruelty. You only have to see the results of the Milgram or Zimbardo experiments to come to this conclusion. They haunt me in a way. We have a herd mentality. i am not extracting myself from this charge. Nor would i want to, for what would i be without my humanity?
“It’s been sometime since last I rubbed a banknote in my palm |
I quite forgot they smell of blood.”
Grave plots look tidier this time of year | nobody
can be arsed to clear the summer knot
grown wild with too much moisture in the roots.
You’d think | if God (“fictionally”) gave 2 figs
about us | he’d open up a hotline | an 0800 No | or
get himself some fibre optic Broadband | we’re
carbon-pylons our veins the cabling | brains the modem
—“utter guff! his silence has gone on long enough…
if he ain’t got a Twitter & Facebook page
this time next year i’m sending out a search party.”
& so the sexual predators think their unbiased
subscriptions to numerous porn sites |
is a sort of digital seraglio or seed-bank | they query
: “what will become of these women?
It would be like releasing farm animals back into the wild |
the eco-system would be over-burdened
with domesticated smut.” They are instantly struck
by heavy objects flung out the wind’s hand
with force enough to split their bone.
The collective sigh of demographics lowered
the oxygen content in the atmosphere…
“Asthma attacks were rampant | my boy…”
One woman refused to lift a finger
: to do so was to give the nonsense force.
“i should not have to babysit the mouths of men!”
Another woman became trapped in a feedback
loop of Ctrl + Alt + Del— Ctrl + Alt + Del
—Ctrl + Alt + Del— Ctrl + Alt + Del—Ctrl + Alt
+ Del … “eat!”…