The
Punk God Rowing Toward Prayer
6th floor
Mordovia, I’m being moved, don’t know where.
All I see is hospital lights. The glare above.
Blood trickling down my left leg.
This isn’t what happens.
Somewhere between me and the lights are two guards,
one smoking, dropping ash that I cannot feel as it burns away my clothes.
All I see is hospital lights. The glare above.
Blood trickling down my left leg.
This isn’t what happens.
Somewhere between me and the lights are two guards,
one smoking, dropping ash that I cannot feel as it burns away my clothes.
“Dad? Dad?”
My grandmother appears with an icebox.
“This is God’s, love, he might need it back.”
I try to reach up for it. What would He need it for? I don’t ask. She’s always right.
Rasping, writhing, reaching up for the divine icebox.
“Fool.”
“Not good for PR this”
Fool.
My grandmother appears with an icebox.
“This is God’s, love, he might need it back.”
I try to reach up for it. What would He need it for? I don’t ask. She’s always right.
Rasping, writhing, reaching up for the divine icebox.
“Fool.”
“Not good for PR this”
Fool.
I’m being moved, and I
don’t know where.
I don’t know where and I don’t know who knows.
My legs are stained – blood - more is coming.
The hospital lights have intensified and Grandma’s gone.
The baby’s dissolving, they say; whatever you took worked.
I didn’t take anything.
It wasn’t there yesterday.
I don’t know where and I don’t know who knows.
My legs are stained – blood - more is coming.
The hospital lights have intensified and Grandma’s gone.
The baby’s dissolving, they say; whatever you took worked.
I didn’t take anything.
It wasn’t there yesterday.
The
dog gave us fire. Some of us feed our
families by the flame and others feed
our
families to God.
6th floor
Mordovia, the screaming one has gone.
Lying on a hospital bed, drip leads,
icebox at the end of the bed.
I’m being moved and I don’t know where.
Lying on a hospital bed, drip leads,
icebox at the end of the bed.
I’m being moved and I don’t know where.
Lists
of the persecuted, found all over the world. Monuments built.
But
we keep on burning.
The prison hygiene room
is overflowing with the flood water.
All have been moved to the sixth floor.
No feet to get wet!
They can’t cope with the disease.
Tight budgets.
A woman with her fingers sewn together and buttons for eyes
smiles down at me. Her over-locked fingers playing a tune, it’s hard to catch every note she strikes when there is no piano.
All have been moved to the sixth floor.
No feet to get wet!
They can’t cope with the disease.
Tight budgets.
A woman with her fingers sewn together and buttons for eyes
smiles down at me. Her over-locked fingers playing a tune, it’s hard to catch every note she strikes when there is no piano.
“Prometheus’s hygiene isn’t up for question,
when he’s free, he’ll light the cod fish that
jump in his face with his teeth, spilling angry red blood.”
when he’s free, he’ll light the cod fish that
jump in his face with his teeth, spilling angry red blood.”
My
love, my love, my love.
Song
singing somewhere.
The hygiene room is
closed, so none of us are hygienic.
We all stand in the 6th floor corridor waiting to be fed.
If the floods keep rising we’ll have to move to the 8th. There is no 7th.
It got washed away.
We all stand in the 6th floor corridor waiting to be fed.
If the floods keep rising we’ll have to move to the 8th. There is no 7th.
It got washed away.
My legs are
blood-stained in the hospital.
No one bothers to clean them.
Nausea strains against this swaddling coyote skin.
Why won’t they wash me?
No one bothers to clean them.
Nausea strains against this swaddling coyote skin.
Why won’t they wash me?
Give
the fire back dog! Or I’ll tell God what you’ve done.
They don’t know what I
mean.
They’ve hidden it.
The guard says, “There never was no baby!”
He’s dissolved. They took my freedom and now they’ve taken the baby!
“You just take that Icebox, lovey, and we’ll see what happens”
They’ve hidden it.
The guard says, “There never was no baby!”
He’s dissolved. They took my freedom and now they’ve taken the baby!
“You just take that Icebox, lovey, and we’ll see what happens”
Grandma
wearing her
Youth cap. “It’s the Fire-god month.” She sings, words drizzling from her bloated mouth.
Youth cap. “It’s the Fire-god month.” She sings, words drizzling from her bloated mouth.
The screaming one has
gone again.
I’m in the trenches with the soldiers. The freezing soldiers,
wrapped in thinning issue blankets. They’re waiting for the Germans.
I can see how their livers are puckered with alcohol and frostbite.
I can see their burned-out boiled egg hearts, melting with the fire-snow.
One of them shouts at me, snow in his moustache.
“No women, no women!”
I’m in the trenches with the soldiers. The freezing soldiers,
wrapped in thinning issue blankets. They’re waiting for the Germans.
I can see how their livers are puckered with alcohol and frostbite.
I can see their burned-out boiled egg hearts, melting with the fire-snow.
One of them shouts at me, snow in his moustache.
“No women, no women!”
You
can’t hide in the memorials, they can still see you from every which-way angle.
The prisoners are
dancing in the corridors, their sewn-through fingers moving lithely,
intertwined
with the hidden music. They’re wearing rabbit masks
and they’re happy. Happy, like when we picked through all the
mouldy potatoes and had to scratch the starch out from under our skin. Our rabbit faces
bleeding into our gruel.
The rabbit didn’t catch the fire, it set
its tail on fire.
That’s why its tip is frazzled.
. That’s what Grandma said anyway, through a mouth full of pins.
with the hidden music. They’re wearing rabbit masks
and they’re happy. Happy, like when we picked through all the
mouldy potatoes and had to scratch the starch out from under our skin. Our rabbit faces
bleeding into our gruel.
The rabbit didn’t catch the fire, it set
its tail on fire.
That’s why its tip is frazzled.
. That’s what Grandma said anyway, through a mouth full of pins.
“Here, have this,” says
the pin-mouthed demon, “It’s your baby.”
I cradle my leg and weep for joy.
The rabbit faces all gathering around and cooing.
“It’s your baby, it’s your baby.” They moon chant.
Little longing; my leg swathed in the amputee’s bloodied cloth.
I cradle my leg and weep for joy.
The rabbit faces all gathering around and cooing.
“It’s your baby, it’s your baby.” They moon chant.
Little longing; my leg swathed in the amputee’s bloodied cloth.
The Guards push through
the rabbit faces who complain in quiet whispers and disappear holding their
noses, frightened, shamed, off to their flooded burrows.
Dad died with a rabbit
face too.
His body all crinkled with fear and pain, all the life in him swollen and still.
Limp whiskers. God for God. Boiling labour.
They stripped him naked and threw him in the burrow.
Is that the way the baby died too?
His body all crinkled with fear and pain, all the life in him swollen and still.
Limp whiskers. God for God. Boiling labour.
They stripped him naked and threw him in the burrow.
Is that the way the baby died too?
The first three stanzas appeared in With 21, edited by Rupert Loydell
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