Roz Kaveney's Blog, page 5

Second poem of the night

LAST THINGS

Braid blend her kiss and someone else's breast
you don't remember you were drunk that year
hair snagged on stud your finger twists that ear
another night. The small hairs on his chest
soft silk folds lemon sweat of his kind dick
the scratch of that rich bastard's well-ironed sheet
quick ache contraction that time that you meet
her you were with for years. The smell of sick
you stroked out poison finger in her throat.
Salt char and blood and mustard tanging steak
with fuck under the table that same night
she scratched blood jagged neck during that fight
that one last time was really a mistake.
I love these words. I do. I hope to try
for shrieks and moans remembered as I die.

iT'S ALL PRETTY APOCALYPTIC ISN'T IT?

DOOMDAY

Summers of vintage sweat damp down pale skin
picnic ham artichoke salt on the tongue
licks kisses hand. Even the old are young
In memory. Their sepia photo grin

code for the last good fuck before things fell
tunetinny halfremembered whatsitsname
fourteen or sixteen it will be the same
friends die one day and then you die as well

in mud and gangrene blotches on your face
no food in gut you emptied all your shit
scraped it with rat bits in an open pit
you never get to walk from this last place

gold set your death escape was not a chance
smile fear and love. And then you turn and dance.

First poem for a while.

ENCHANTING

Not to seduce. But look straight in her eyes
mostly relieve her boredom as you leave
she's on the door. With words you try to weave
a little spell. Maybe you will surprise
her with a feeling she's not felt before
for moments though you're old and rather fat
nice skin and piercing eyes might outweigh that
recite a poem. Saints might well deplore
this moment's conversation. There is lust
there somewhere in the mix, at least a thought
of how she'd moan. But even if you've caught
her webbed for just a second. Do not trust
your own behaviour, what remains of charm
Smile a goodbye. Don't even touch her arm.

Yet again.

ON A CRISIS

There is another dance. Knives fully drawn
They stand in line and click their booted feet
Swap compliments and wives. 'Her lips are sweet
But mine fucks like a ferret'. As the dawn

Breaks bloody. They all turn and take a bow
To us who watch. One carves another's spleen
Elegant bloodlessly. This all has been
Prelude to fast fierce murder. Starting now

Pattern dance ritual and politesse
Laws somehow though we do not see their sense
Payment for slights that no one sane resents
The dance floor sodden soiled shit guts blood mess

Dead all the dancers following those rules
Dead all who watch those bloody minded fools.

AGAIN

FOR JO COX

How did we get to here? We know full well
Each step along the way? Each curse each blow
Each shame unblushed for. This is how we go
Step stumble down the broad clear path to Hell.

Intending badly. Wanting others' death
Or just not caring that we save their life.
He shouted killed her with a gun or knife
So many drowned. We could have saved their breath.

She tried to. Never frightened to offend
The selfish hating put one country first
Above who starve bleed sweat and die of thirst.
Who pleased appeased still never sated. Friend

Remember her. She did much. Just enough
To die for decent kind and basic stuff.

Again

ORLANDO 2

Hole star crack shatter in the mirrored glass
lights dimmed but not as mourning music still
plays as it played when he came into kill
not dance but reap with gun the living grass

young men and women mixed black brown and white
who breathed and danced and suddenly they bled
who lived and laughed until he left them dead
their pride love lasting more than that last night.

And when men came to wash the blood away
friends loves and parents love wailed like a choir
a hundred ringing phones. Killed for desire
concern past death. They will not fade to gray

in memory but speak. ' It was not fair
that I should die in pain for being there.'

TODAY

PREACHERS

Who look into the glass and see His Face
Bad angry father with a whip or gun
worship stroke beard where most would scream and run
think of their hatred as a sign of grace

limit unknowable to simple rules
know tiny fraction of what built the stars
bask favoured in large red and sharp-lined cars
grab wages from poor people they think fools

cast out the stranger, do not mourn the dead,
blame sickness and on prisons turn the key.
Wish worst misfortunes upon you and me
and have no loving thought within their head

Leave holy books unread on a high shelf
And hate their neighbour as they should themself

Today

ORLANDO

How can I speak or sing when not one word
Nor note can fill the silence that is left
When shots and screams are ended? We, bereft
Mourn do not even moan. Stunned. If a bird

Should chirrup, we would hush. Perhaps we dance
As they were dancing. Tango or pavane,
Solemn and sexual. Forget the man
Who shot. Forever. And those who preach prance

Before him after him. And do not hear
Their words malodorous and empty wind.
They have no place. Remember to be kind
For all the dead. And also bleed a tear.

My words are little more than adequate.
A scream of love confronting so much hate.

Modest clearing of throat

Amd while I was in NY, I won the Lambda for Transgender Fiction, for TINY PIECES OF SKULL.

I'm not a believer, but I once was...

... and I know what belief feels like and still have those feelings, just not attached to belief.

STAR OF THE SEA
for Aoife Assumpta Hart

We kindle at old sights as we come home.
The street sign, street lamp. Smell of rainfreshed grass
Of well-remembered lawns. And as we pass
On childhood paths, life now is foam

And evanescent. Lost in Her embrace.
Ocean is vast. We stretch and yawn and drown
Warm as our blood. She does not need a crown
Essential Queen. We always know her face

Welcome in dreams and giant as a cloud
Floats unconditional and healing balm
Held firm soft triangle of pillow arm
Accepted vast in glory never proud

We wake we leave and know we will return
Grace warmth praise love we never have to earn.