The Shoah of us all
Chucked up quick, cheap
My first home
My dad he’d shipped West Africans
From the Gold Coast to Burma to fight
The Japs. Sunk, he was, three times,
No one thought to teach him to swim.
Dispensible he was, like all the other working class lads
Determined to do their bit
No bugger taught them anyfuckingthing.
We played all around where we lived
Belting down the double hill to see me aunty (well her Alsatian, Prince)
On a three-wheeler
Flying arse-over-tit into the flooded foundations
Of yet more homes-for-heroes. Men, who'd fought in the
Western desert or liberated Concentration camps dug the foundations.
They tried so fucking hard to get back to something like normal.
Wives, bored with their sweating bed-wetting, dreamed
Of the black GIs who'd lit up their imaginations with their fucking eyes.
These sadnesses I did not see.
Such desperate longings lingered all around me.
Underneath the West way blasted the Pink Faeries
Changing the perspective, altering everything. Life on Mars
Wandered up Portobello; eating exotic fruit and veg amounted to
Revolutionary acts when everyone was still eating spam.
In the apple market in Kingston I listened to Bowie
Where there were lemons on sale again, India Pale Ale,
In the little London boozers that still remained
From the Betjeman days.
With their church-glass windows and their sweet-sweet smell
Of marijuana all around the beer gardens.
And all the time the distance widening between the rulers and the unruly..
Now the prevalence of age and fear
Wreck all this pointlessly pointed serendipity
That made life worthwhile.
Can you hear me Major Tom?
And this was how the war began,
And it will end in the holy city
Many will burn their eyes,
Before she is done, or dies.
Eats, drinks sweet wine,
Listens to troubadours.
Such untimely resurrections,
She cannot abide,
She hides her eyes as she glances
At the grave
Empty air fills the space.
Clothed with the sun,
Sometimes called the Whores of Babylon,
Echo, the many voices of God,
Such and such aspects of the Apocalypse.
First appeared one sultry summer night on Kinvara Road, Co. Dublin
After the convent it was good to be back
The new estate. The new morning.
Finding clothes for Anna
Dressing her kindly
Gentle and wicked she wakes.
The wide empty pavement
The bus half-filled
This August afternoon with women.
Why aren’t the leaves falling?
In October colours these squares spurt earth.
Now only summer traffic greys my mind.
In Cavan for rings.
In Clones, a poet parades the diamond.
The one tree remains.
They’re filming at Redhills – another Border Story –
The unmarked road’s been blown.
Tawûsê Melek is the way of grief, of sorrow, of suffering so sharp
So deep began on 3rd August 2014: on Mount Sinjar, in Iraq,
Hyacinths in August grew mists, along the way
On the Via Dolorosa where the ghost flowers play
A symphony played that day,
Harpists in the heat-floating fields of people
Scattered, walked, retreated from the.
Bloodless, black, drained penumbras that threatened our fate..
Daesh immune to the Nivêja rojavabûnê ,
They did not listen to the Sunset Prayer,
They think we worship Shatan, the shoah of us all,
For we sacrifice with fire and we see the holocaust of the fall.
We began upon Mount Sinjar
And the seven angels will see us home.
Listen to these beautiful children of Adam
These fallen sons and daughters of men.
Our sun appears in stormy weather
In death we are together.
So, when the complacent rich count their money
And bloated bodies are found in ditches.
When public men hide their private foibles
Lawyers advise against defending libels.
When friends desert you and you’re all alone
You can take it from me, your bird has flown.
Pikey has no fear
Dancing away from everything
Dancing into the arms of the woman
Who loves me
Me gamau dut
The old Romany
Language of sex
Dying on the breeze
Drunk and bereft
Falling into the river
And never getting out.
If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold
I’d roll them up into the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes
I’d pat him and I'd stroke him and tell him unashamedly how
His friendship made God notice us,
.As in the Paiut Wovoka ghost dance,
In this age of the machine there is no worth in the unseen,.
Nor in the perspicacity and prescience
Of the most illiterate, boorish Saxon
That's ever been:
Listen to a Fugue for Human Voices
Remember the striking Saris –
Diminutive Punjabi women
Battling their Thatcherite employer,
George Ward, for fair wages:
Wages that never came.
In our endless, numbered days
In this Disunited Kingdom....
The gentle do not survive.
All of the day and all of the night
Poor people are hungry,
Children go to sleep hungry,
They wake up hungry
The blue-eyed Ezedi woman
Will take nothing from
The knife she forces into her womb.
For her, now, the sun has gone
Tause Melek is defamed, lost forever, gone.
Carrying a Jihadi rapist's baby
There is no need to survive.
We are only half-alive.
Ezedi women sold in Raqqa
$ 500 for a virgin
- $ 300 if she’s still alive.
- Some are for free
In Manchester, my city of canals and dreams,
The cavalry raised their sabres
Into the screaming air. Then forced them down through
The muscle, flesh, bone of women, children, men.
I heard them scream. Again. Again. Again.
.Now the morning rain soaks my clothes, my hair, my skin,
I do not care.
I look at the mortar in the crumbling
Wall built by the calloused hands of men who’d survived
The Somme. "Scabs", they were called
As they’d hung their heads
But they’d had mouths to feed.
They’d taken any work they could.
Carved their initials, date 1929, on the granite bridge
That took them over to Quaker fields where kicking a soggy football
Helped them forget their empty bellies, if only for a while.
Now kids smoke skunk here, the sweet smell
Hanging heavy as the air,
Their great grandfathers had used laudanum:
There is always resistance, everywhere.