MY TROUBLED MIND

confessions are self-serving

Tag: world

Old Poems Die Hard #1: RACIST

As the years drain away from all of us, poems too pass into the past. Sometimes you just have to grab them by the scruff of the neck and drag them back into the limelight. Welcome to my new weekly bit, ‘Old Poems Die Hard’ – reblogging a forgotten poem. Enjoy.


RACIST

I hear it start, feed off itself and tumble
into something gross- I seen it coming
miles off and God
I’m tired,
straining with my silence,
moulding it like potter’ clay-
take me,
I need a hand to hold in all this hate-

memory of rain,
thoughts of my stroller-

no, this is the world:
heat, crack, ice-
ink, blood, war-
pig iron, tanks, japs-
a finger in my face
like a spear-tip and
IT IS POLITE TO RESPOND-
I was brought up right
but reason washed away last winter,
and I’m old enough
to stare right into the eyes of the beast
and say nothing,
nothing at all.

I’m more concerned with

whether or not I’m a good lover.
I’m more concerned
with whether or not I’m a good friend.
I’m more concerned
with whether or not I’m a good brother.
I’m more concerned
with whether or not I’m a good son.
I’m more concerned
with trying to keep my shoulders back.
I’m more concerned
with going bald.
I’m more concerned
with not drinking too much.
I’m more concerned
with not taking too many drugs.
I’m more concerned
with not having a ‘proper job’.
I’m more concerned
with not having any job.
I’m more concerned
with making my parents believe I feel alright.
I’m more concerned
with how the boundaries of the universe expand.
I’m more concerned
with how multi-verses might exist.
I’m more concerned
with how, if multi-verses might exist, then multiple multi-verses might exist.
I’m more concerned
with what to make of all that dark.
I’m more concerned
with how God died quietly two centuries ago and business has continued as usual.
I’m more concerned
with whether the other side of a motorbike exists when I can’t see it.
I’m more concerned
with many perplexing things.
I’m more concerned
with producing any work of merit during my stay on earth.
I’m more concerned
with the knowledge that this poem holds no merit.
I’m more concerned
with the letter from the student loan company asking if I’m making any money yet.
I’m more concerned
with not succumbing to junk food.
I’m more concerned
with sticking to the speed limit.
I’m more concerned
with learning how to imitate the ease I read in the face of every other species.
I’m more concerned
with learning how to listen to other people’s views, whether I agree with them or not.
I’m more concerned
with coming to an understanding.
I’m more concerned
with not being a bad loser.
I’m more concerned
with listening to Stephen Fry’s voice.
I’m more concerned
with listening to Leonard Cohen’s voice.
I’m more concerned
with listening to Neil deGrasse Tyson’s voice.
I’m more concerned
with listening to beautiful voices everywhere.
I’m more concerned
with looking at beautiful faces everywhere.
I’m more concerned
with knowing that ugly faces are beautiful everywhere.
I’m more concerned
with knowing one man’s waste is another man’s soap.
I’m more concerned
with crediting that line to MF DOOM
I’m more concerned
with the need to sum it up.

I’m more concerned
with any and every neuron firing
in an infinity of combinations of memory and experience
in the incredible underrated untapped untouched sleep-quiet might
of the human brain

than I am concerned
about

the colour of your skin.

AIRSTRIKES

I watched the last of yesterday
bleed off the river
to the tones of trumpet
and cymbal;
the reeds were still,
and my hand hung to my side,
sifting soil and stone
through forefinger and thumb
silently
as the sky dripped away
like pale yolk off china.

A moment passed,
then a car alarm erupted,
shattering the mystery of the night
and the magic of the moment
with a grinding wail
that turned my tongue tender,
as if my cheeks
were packed with ice,
and my thoughts swam
towards crumbling shores,
and air-strikes,
and sun baked brick
and bone and blood.

I hoped
that soon
the sounds would stop,
and my hope
was so desperate, so instinctive,
it was the type of hope only an infant knows
when his nose is cold
and wet and blowing bubbles
into pitch black tarmac.

CHRISTMAS EVE 1996

Years ago I heard him-
I swear I heard him
I swear I heard the brass bells
dull and grey with cold
clank about their necks
up there

and I had proof-
years of half digested carrots,
cold quarter pints of milk,
soot about the grate
and crumbs from finished pies-

and listening with my eyes screwed tight
I’m sure
that beneath the bells
there was a world that raged-
that howled at shutters
and barked with glee
whenever blood split stone

and all adults knew the tune,
above all else my parents-
rising dead tired
with slightly anxious smiles
together on Christmas morn.