The Funkistadors

The Funkistadors = Zen's latest band project.

Teenage girls are the enemy

Teenage girls are the enemy
The slayers of fathers
The hard hearted
Mercenaries of betrayal
The cold hearted of
Survival and ambition
The cold vengeance
Of silent mothers
That excuse themselves
Because, after-all
They said and did nothing
As new women fell
Unguided to destruction
And mediocrity
And the folly of lovers
Much less than they could be
The puppets of scorned wives
Rejected for neglect and drunkenness
Winners of the bitter cause
Of ancient bitterness
The soldiers of battles
For wars they do not know
It used to be
That ignorance
Was the only enemy
Yet daughters
Those delicate motivators
Drivers of aspiration
In men to be fathers
Of new women
For whom they must die
Slain by the agony
Of compelled love
They have lain
With ignorance
Aided by silent mothers
They have it pinned down
In submission
And regret
Until the enlightening birth
Of twenty
.

Posterize

I can posterize
I got photoshop
I got paintshop
I pop
I can make color shifts
I got
I got photoshop
I pop
I can posterize
I got photoshop
I pop
I can posterize
I can change contrast
I can lighten it up, baby!
I can pop
I pop
Pop
I
Pop
I
Posterize
.

At Priscilla's Request

I am emptied
At Priscilla's request
Of all pain
At Priscilla's request
I am driven
At Priscilla's request
From the stain
At Priscilla's request
I am nasty
At Priscilla's request
I am feared
At Priscilla's request
I am open
At Priscilla's request
I am steered
At Priscilla's request
I am crying
At Priscilla's request
On the street
At Priscilla's request
I am lonely
At Priscilla's request
I am neat
At Priscilla's request
I am nothing
At Priscilla's request
Incomplete
At Priscilla's request
I am talking
At Priscilla's request
Take a seat
At Priscilla's request
I am finding
At Priscilla's request
All the same
At Priscilla's request
I am sighing
At Priscilla's request
Again
At Priscilla's request
I am falling
At Priscilla's request
In the dream
At Priscilla's request
I am flying
At Priscilla's request
I scream
At Priscilla's request
.

Craving Planets

In a barage of poetry
The poet aims by the onslaught of words
A transformation of the soul
.

In cascades of rhetoric
The empty space between us fills
Like stars with bright distance
.

In the journey of light
The particles form waves of energy
That feed the production of life
.

In forests of questions and quests
The answers form like leaves
Upon trees
.

In hearts of creatures lingering there
The fruit falls
Feeding the earth like rotting corpses
.

There is life in the death of beautiful things
Whose moments of intensity
Are reborn
.

In changes of moments
There is nothing to return to
And we find the void
.

Yearning
The planets fall around the sun
Craving
.

Alphabet

A Beginning Can Deliver Everything For Gathering Harvests
I Justly Kept Love, My Noble Ouroboros
Please Question Reality So That Untold Virtues Will Xerox Your Zenith
.

Look at my legs

Smile into my
Digital
Camera
Baby
Look at my
Socks
I can take
Photograph
Of my ego
Sprawled
In
Underpants
Show you my
Angst
See
My ego
Look at my legs
Baby
I got them
Skinny kind
Look at my
Legs baby
I'll show
You
My underpants
Digitized
Camera
643 shots
All at
My
Funky hand
At every
Angle
I am a
Camera
I take
Photographs
Of
The
Digital kind
Original
Kind
.

Dot Com

I know her name well
spider keeper and mother
.

her web wraps around me
and I feel connected
touched, plugged in
brutalized, born
the net of it is
I can find you any place
at any time
day or night
you byte my in-box
elevate my hit rate
burn my bandwidth
you give me suck and blow
better and worse
my scratch and sniff site
dot com
.

The Lotus Eaters

The hippie haven concept hides
Hypocrites, harlots and has-beens
Stale dreams for a quite demise
Tiny minds leading the blind
Who will tell them they made a mistake?
Who is going to say its been left too late?
No-one will hear
.

Tears on the side of cheeky freedom
Sneers at the bride's sneaky impregnation
And the liberation of three score and
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
And ten
Oh dears
That mighty rise
The technological sky is the limit
.

A war bore the brunt of a generation's virtue
No truth left to deny
Surreptitious spying behind enemy lines
And at the end of the line
Fears
.

They feared THE REDS
Never having to live with THE BOMB
In their heads
They denied their children
Childhood beds
To LIVE WHILE YOU CAN
And sleep in
.

Do they plan yet another WAR TO END WARS?
.

In the rubble came the mistake
GRAB WHAT YOU CAN
YOU GET WHAT YOU TAKE
An ideal to appeal to the freedom of youth
But the truth was entirely different
Let them be
They will
.

I Give You Liberty

I give you liberty
You give me weapons of mass destruction
I give you the will to be free
You give me your sanctity
.

Was God here?
Did you see?
Did HE pass this way?
Did HE linger?
Did HE stay?
.

Was your God here too?
Did you see them speak?
Did they speak of you and me?
Did they see?
.

I give you the death of a tyrant
You give me smiles in the street
I give you my life in a bowl of alms
You give me food for my mother's charms
.

I died on the streets of Baghdad
The price of freedom paid
The seeds of the future laid
.

You died on the streets of Baghdad
In the name of liberty
In the name of history
.

Was your God here too?
Did you see them speak in Eden?
Did they speak of you and me?
Did they see?
.

The Gospel Accordingly

The dozens of people who led them astray
All those people who did wrong
Those who stood aside whilst people died
As others actively stood and lied
Unmoved
It belongs to them
The responsibility
The willy-nilly pandering
.

But no
The God we took inside ourselves
"He," who made us lie to ourselves
So that we could not live or die for ourselves
It belongs to HIM
That responsibility
That willy-nilly pandering
.

Jesus save us
While we invest in you
Stocks and bonds
Dirty little pop songs
Ban the bomb
I was told at school that he would rule my life
So it belongs to him
The trouble
The strife
The death
The unemployment
The meandering
The responsibility
The willy-nilly pandering
.

I have been told that when I'm old I'm not to worry
For I have a God who's not in a hurry
To keep me warm
.

Even the Church is cold on Sundays
The priest stands by the fire
His vestments conceal the heat
It's hot down there I'm told
.

I hope I don't get too old
For when I was a kid you could not get to heaven by being that bold
Yet, I am told, that we have to believe in something
It is so much nicer to believe that we are like HIM
And if we sin?
We can be forgiven
.

Old Attitudes

She 'ad legs right up to 'er armpits
And tits so huge she wore blusher on 'er bits
Which moved above the rest of the dress she wore
.

"Cleavage," me Dad said
"Deep gorges to bury yer 'ead in"
.

"Knock ya dead if she rolled over sudden"
.

Cor! Me Dad wouldn't 'alf like to give 'er one
Ride 'er bare back 'e would
None of that there rubber crap
'E was a man, me Dad
.

Artificial Inseminator

Who tinted Toyah's eye's blue?
Who made Souxsie say, "Call me a dyke if you care to?"
Where are the boundaries of the zoo?
.

Is it you who is satisfied as creator
when the artificial inseminator
wiggles his electric finger inside some gorilla's bum?
.

I don't care if the sperm is just a publicity stunt
the punt pole never gets stuck in a real punt
.

The comedian's dance is a chance we all may take
The audience plays for exceedingly high stakes
.

An advertisement makes the dream come true
The same product in a different package
The same you in an alternative zoo
.

And so we may rest assured one day
.

The funeral procession in some marketing cavalcade,
the final box wrapping aided by colored jock-strapping
ensures you possess the best dressed smile
while some religio-theatrical persuasion
condones a "corpse" on this occasion
.

Is there one single "god" behind the media monster
or is it some mass hysteria that insults our intelligence with banal irrelevance?
How many minds exist on their own without the designs of the social clone?
Who is it creeps in at night and colors the eyes of our pop-idol's sight?
.

Blinds the truth
it's hip to be dyke
.

Pulls the strings
but never too tight
.

Who has his shocking finger up your bum
a plastic cup to capture the "cum"?
Where is this bizarre creator
this ... artificial inseminator?
.

Dear Sis, I Can't Sleep For The Sound Of Your Head Banging.

Dear Sis,

I can't sleep for the sound of your head banging
These walls are too thin in this world of ours
I can't sleep for the powers of castration in your eyes
Honed on the balls of the men you despise
.

Dear Sis, You Wouldn't See A Working-Class Girl Behave Like This.

Dear Sis,
.

You wouldn't see a working-class girl behave like this
Say it with a kiss
Of elegant schooling
Gentle brutality
Compounding reality
In trite words
Of remarkable arrogance
.

The dance of the middle-class lady-class
fighting for a chance
of equal representation in ...
middle-class arts ...
middle-class power struggles ...
working-class beds ...
.

A noble cause no doubt
.

Spoken apparent but they don't need to say
She is the easiest lay for the working-class male
If he's prepared to agree with her arrogant tale
The gory detail of middle-class ass
.

Dear Sis, Only In England Are We This Silly About It.

Dear Sis,
.

Only in England are we this silly about it
The cropped heads and wood-chopper swagger
Of women who have suffered at the hands of men
A handicap made more obvious than physical defect.
.

Here
In public
They display
Corrupted bodies
In pseudo-diffident defiance
Of things to come
.

The physically handicapped
Have much more grace
In such matters
.

Bannerism
At the heart of a subject so poor
Women who would rather slog it out
Toe to toe
Like any good buddy
Than caress the soul
.

Only in England
Does Aphrodite climb from her adoration
To spit in the eye of man
.

Dear Sis, Tar Can (For Sylvia Kantaris)

Her, "Darling, but I know better than you," soliloquy
Demonstrates
I have no doubt
The advantage of a University Education.
Inspiration taught by twentieth century poetry
At the hands of...
.

Her, "Darling, but I know better than you," soliloquy
Qualifies her to cast forgiveness upon a contemporary's dismissive manner
Forgiven with the wave of a hand
And an "I'm a published Poet" smile
While it is quite obvious contempt
That meant ...
.

Her, "Darling, but I know better than you," soliloquy
And an understanding of continental surrealist poetry
Gave emphasis to her membership of
Elite-Cornish-Subdivision-Poetry Mafioso
The badge of which is ...
.

Her "Darling, but I know better than you." soliloquy
.

Each Day to Ealing Broadway (II) : On Time

The streets are seeped with their chatter and noise
The morning cascade from the train ushers the men and the boys
As they vie for position at the head of the crowd
That emerges loud and a tremble from the station in Ealing
And the rush to the High Street that has them awake and feeling
Driven by self importance and reeling with pride
They hide their moments of indiscretion on the ride
To be "on time."
.

The Londoner
A working-class boy
Has his mind still locked in that shocked sentiment
That rattle and sound
As he rushes along the streaked street
And considers the urgency to be "on time."
.

In his mind
The petty things
Not the pretty things
.

In his heart
The fear
The hurt
And the grime
As each morning he runs from the train
To be "on time"
.

And the pain rises up from the depth of his soul
As he fears he may lose
Another job
Another goal
.

A service distinct
To the few
Has left limitations on what he can do
.

You boy!
You can work in a factory
Or a shop
People from these estates
Never go to college
So you just stop
That kind of thinking
Right now
.

Know your race
Be true
English working-class boy
Know your place
If you want to do well.
.

In London schools
Working-class boys are taught
To be good working-class boys
To be good factory workers
To work in a shop
To fiddle the books a little on the side
The working-class privilege
The ride humored and hidden
.

He makes it to the doorway
And that familiar smell
The street
The clothing
The gutter swell
The stench of the bins
The secret corners where the night before
Were committed unspeakable sins
.

His boss is there
As always
Before
To "open up"
To unlock the door
He is happy to see the Londoner arrive "on time"
For he too is a boy from the same streets
"You'll go far!" he jibes.
As he hides the stick by the till
With luck today
There will be no one to kill
.

Each Day To Ealing Broadway

The streets are streaked with the excretum
Of a thousand late-nighters
The caresses of industry and the morning chill
Have arrested the urge to kill
In the drunks that have spilled
Into the streets at closing time
And now sleep
.

The 7:30 tube train hussles girls
With shields against stares
That with lust peel to reveal
Shy and freshly showered young bodies
Whose language
Sitting cross armed and cross legged
Can leave only despair in the observing eye
And a rye dismissal
A rejection of the hunt
In the ignorant mind
That can only mutter in response
The phrase "Stupid cunt"
.

Morning ignorance inflicted on pretty bare flesh
Faces glares from the hardened and mature stress
Of women that have been there
The scars hardened in the innocent crushed
The absence of tenderness
In the face of the rushed
.

The tube carriage rage
That leaves the commuter's page for the day
With the tense portrait
Of the face that espresses hate
Because the girls cannot hide
From the lust of the ride
The demanding stares of the tube train ride
Each day to Ealing Broadway
.

Bad Poetry/It Is Bitterness Sally

Your actions are bad poetry
So I thought that I would write one
For you
.

Don't ask me to say I'm sorry
Don't wait on me to say I'm glad
I wanted to rescue you
And I wish that I had
.

Seven years since I left
I could not have stayed
I could not have saved the children
From your disgrace and your rage
And it makes me so sad
That you should be this way
Learning nothing from what we had
Or how we came to this place
.

It is bitterness, Sally
It eats into your soul
It buys comfort for the fire
And warmth for the mind
A place to find places
You thought you had left behind
It returns you to the horrors
You knew before we met
That place of self loathing and of regret
.

I wanted to be your friend, Sally
To raise our children as one
Mother and father beyond the end
For the sake of our daughters and our sons
But the bitterness has become habit
It is so hard for you to forgive
The betrayal you have invented
And the life you imagine we lived
.

That's the thing about booze
You can't remember it all
You forget the horrors that ooze
From the failed dreams we have pursued
.

It is bitterness, Sally
It eats into your soul
And now the only way I have to talk to you
Is as the poet that you loved
To remind you of the good things
And to tell you I forgive
But in bitterness, Sally, is no way to live
.

The Ignorants

Mother
Would you have us lie down with you
To whisper sweet nothing into your ear
Would you rather we embrace your prejudice
Rub ourselves against the hate of this and that
Would you prefer that in our union
We hate them too?
.

Mother
Why aren't you like those women in the movies?
The mothers of heroes
Gentle feminine
Offering kisses on brow
Soft carresses of hair
In silent half light
.

Mother
Why is it so wrong to be smart?
What is it about that challenge
That leaves us unworthy
.

Wife
Married when we were stupid and young
Would you have us lie down with you
To whisper sweet nothing into your ear
Would you rather we share your indifference
And loud assertions
.

Wife
Why aren't you like those women in the movies?
The wives of heroes
Gentle feminine
Offering kisses on brow
Stroking hair with soft carresses
.

Wife
Why is it so wrong to be smart
What is it about that which challenges you so
Why is it so unworthy
That you would foster in us ignorance?
.

Wife attack, Mother attack
In expressions of self hatred
Two wrongs assert their right
.

All that exceeds their vocabulary is labeled unworthy
The smart denigraded and marginalized
.

We are smart-asses for knowing what these words mean
And we are worse for using them in our defense
.

Ignorance hangs like medalions of lead
From the necks of children drowning
.

Mother and Wife
What is wrong with those women in the movies?
That they should be gentle and forgiving
Open and encouraging
Peaceful and loving
Laughing
.

What example can you be?
To these new men and women
Sons and daughters
Without love and forgiveness
Without praise of knowledge
.

Role Models

Vain to the point of ugliness
Son of a black pimp
A gentle white whore
.

She despised him as a child
And felt the guilt of it
Her constant reminder
Of life and body sacrificed
.

Pimped full of neglect and pride
One more testimony to pimped manhood
One more gentle whore lamed
.

Seed scattered upon the wind
Of indifference
.

She tried to hide from him
Months in prison
Abandoned by her own father
Who would not accept a black child
.

Finally saved by her own mother
After ten years of it
A tired body
And a man who could find
Forgiveness
And love
.

New women and innocence follow
And from the lives of hurt mothers and elder brothers
No grace can flow
Since they deny themselves forgiveness
And find the physical handicap of anger and guilt
Burnt into flesh and bones
.

Circumstance
You wicked slayer of souls
And the examples now set by those hurt
Loom over the lives of these new women
.

New Women

With a passion that never fell
Upon the progenitrix
.

Father
.

He loves these
New women
.

Daughters
.

With an ache that ripples
Pain and terror
From gut to chest
Of helplessness
.

They are freed
Into the world
Bold
Vulnerable
And he
Helpless
.

These new women
.

The mistakes
With their mothers
Standing by
Watching
They run headlong
Unguided
Into the visions
Of destruction
To take the mother's
Vengence
On father
Possessor of ultimate babies
.

And the pieces
Fall
Inevitably collected
To rebuild
The dolls of our dreams
Or to live in an endless scene
Of regret
.

Why do they not stop them from running?
When they made
Those same mistakes
With their own father
.

Bitterness
The ruin of men
The last taste at death
In the mouth of the progenitrix
.

When all the man wants
Peace and love
Is denied to us
Helpless
Father
Yeilding
.

These new women
.

This Is The Licentious

This is the licentious
The deep thrust of my morality
Inside the pleading
It makes me happy
The swollen hardness of it
Throbbing
.

This is the licentious
Playing with little girls
Listening to their ecstasy
It makes me happy
The dangerous artness of it
Screaming
.

This is the licentious
Those clever boys
Pointing at penisesses
It makes me happy
The stick and the boundary
Lying
.

This is the licentious
Cool white open thighs
I stand here between them
It makes me happy
My stick, your boundaries
Sighing
.

What would have become of me if I had joined the Wrens?

What would have become of me if I had joined the Wrens?
I could have been a 1950s action hero that makes amends
Mummy and Daddy would have been so proud
But I met your father under the cloud of his prison sentence
.

What would have happened if I had joined the Wrens?
I could have met the Queen and made amends
For all the years of servitude my ancestors gave
For the oppressed blood in a maid and a gardener grave
.

What would have happened if I had joined the Wrens?
I would not have given birth to a revolutionary son
Who tells everyone that history demands the head of the Queen
For the raised-on-a-council-estate English Republican dream
.

What would I have become if I had joined the Wrens?
Perhaps an action hero that would set it all right
A revolutionary leader like some ancient libertarian knight
Or a Supergirl hero without the Kryptonite
.

What would I have become if I had joined the Wrens?
What would the Women's Royal Navy really have taught?
Would I be just another good servant of the Crown?
Would I be another working-class Mum that escaped the oppression in the back of a G.I's jeep?
Back in the States, would I too believe the Queen and her kind are just cute?
Or would my sons be there ready to shoot?
.

Painting In The Afternoon

In an unworthy moment I am stood before the canvas
A brush hangs limp from my right hand
And my eyes are frozen upon the feet of the easel
.

In Linseed air
I await the combustion
But nothing happens
.

It is bright sunlight
Hot upon the stark white gesso
Hot, hot, on the back of my head
.

I stare at shadow
Moving slowly across the ground
Someone said painting is like falling in love
.

Bitch!
Unspeakable whore!
How could I ever have loved you!
.

The shadow creeps
And the paint I have squeezed upon my palette begins to harden
Unspeakable whore!
.

The light fades
The cool afternoon, a glass of vino, spicy Punch cigar
The soft caress and tender words of strawberry blonde
.

Muse caresses soft tenderness upon my brow
Kisses brush away the sordid and painful memories
A breast against my chest stirs promises
.

Everything is sex
As paint jumps in sprays of color and denial
I fuck the canvas raw with each thrust and slow withdrawal
.

Painting isn't like falling in love
It is the base urgency of sexual moments
The canvas is a woman to be fallen upon and taken
.

Saddest Clown

Amid applause
Admiring stares
And angers shown of little careless motions
Stands the saddest clown of all
Listen in his silent movements
For a glimpse of his anguished call in pain
He feels the blow of your distain
Foolishly
.

He never found the answer
He never saw the clues
Of how though faultless pity
He came to belong
To you ...
... and you
.

Why?
Questioningly he expresses the need he feels to walk by your side
In the crowd that stare at his stupidity
He sees his own reflection
Crying for his rejection
And you laugh!
.

HA!
.

Why?
Don't cry for them maestro
It is yours and not their show
He feels sorry
For he sees more fools outside him than within
.

And though no sadder sight is there than a sad clown
Don't frown at me!
.

Suburbian Susan

Suburbian Susan
Slides slinkily to the side of the sofa
.

She caresses the back
of a teenager's head
.

Fills his mind full of promises
Of a good time in bed
.

Signaling her intention
With a movement of her leg
.

Suffices to inspire movement
In the pain of his youth
.

Ultimate proof that her body and appeal
Cannot fade
.

She will burn out her rage
.

A burden gained at the demands a husband and children
Have made
.

She lays her body down
Before this pinnacle of truth or
.

Wherever the boy can quickly inspire...
.

On the roof of the building
His knee buried in her thighs
.

They hide from the light of the street lamps
And neighboring eyes
.

His breathing is rapid
As Susan holds onto her toy
.

Over eager hands
Fumble at the lips of her joy
.

Susan encourages the boy's lust
And desire
.

Tickles the fire
And pulls in the thrusts
.

"Too much too soon."
The boy begs
.

Susan smiles
As his finale trickles down the inside of her legs
.

It matters little that her rage
Is not yet burnt
.

A boy of this age is easily raised
She has learnt.
.

Meanwhile, Suburbian Jack
Sat back at the flat
.

Hears tell of his wife's devious
Lack of discretion
.

From his children
Who tell him the story of noise
.

Heard as their mother
Takes possession of boys
.

In the afternoon
.

The children
Being locked in an adjoining room
.

Have peeked through the crack
At the base of the door
.

A lad with his trousers
Around his knees
.

Ignoring the whispered pleas
Of the children's mother
.

To love her, to love her...
Quietly
.

Clandestine meeting
One evening in the park
.

Laid out on concrete
.

Beneath the stark
Labored intentions of her teenage love
.

Hidden by darkness
A husband spies in despair
.

Bare contorted movements
And careless squeals
.

As a boy steals pleasure
His wife never gave
.

Yet he now savors her hands
Gripped tightly in flesh
.

Her voice shout aloud
Demanding the best
.

Demanding the juice
To quieten her fears
.

Which pour from the tears
That scar a boy...
.

... and a man
Wiping the anguished mess from his hands
.

A passing dog sniffs
At sticky bare flesh
.

Its concerned owner
Aeeing the bodies at rest on the ground
.

Makes no sound
As he moves frightened toward
.

A nightmare he has stored
From the National News
... and stories from booze
.

But he sees beauty by the light
Glimmering in the eyes of a boy
.

And Susan hunched over her victim
Holding tight to her joy
.

Licking the remains
And devoring the flesh
.

A vulture of lust
Has left nothing to a tale
.

For the man in the public house
Later to tell
.

And as a frightened young child
Discovered at play
.

Susan runs away crying
Trying to hide her shame
.

A boy proudly remains
With a silly boy smile.
.

Suburbian Susan
Steps from the train
.

She clutches in her hand
All that remains of a mother and wife
.

For a life on the tiles
With her proud young stud
.

On more invention
To embellish their love
.

The sadness and pain
They have left in their hearts
.

The crime and the shame
They have left
.

In the name of ...
Love
.

Charm

I am nothing but images in your mind
I am the found that you cannot find
I am the charm on the wrist of time
I am the lost of a momentary rhyme
.

Dead Diana

She is dead at the hands of what?
This PR exercise?
This assassination by hidden conspiracy?
Establishment enemies?
History?
.

She is dead at the hands of what?
A camera flash gun?
A drunken no-one?
An assassin's moment?
A Queen's smile?
A wannabe King's nod?
.

Who will rid me of this treachery?
Who will wash the hands of British complacency?
Who will free my people from slavery?
Who will take them by the shoulders
To shake them like stupid children?
Who dare awaken them?
.

She is dead at the hands of what?
Knee jerk reaction?
Shock at a pretty face crushed?
Rushed by reporters?
Dead at a camera flash?
Smothered by working class sympathy
for a stupid playboy pet girl?
.

The British people die at the hands of public relations
The world press conspire in the slaughter of a nation's dignity
One more Royal conspiracy
One more elitist tragedy in the hands of aristocracy
Yet more racism in the hands "better bred" than yours or mine
Oh, at a deeply personal level I am saddened by the tragic death of any living thing
No less the death of this stupid princess
.

On The Way To Enlightenment

I tried very hard to be nice
As I stood in line at Baden's paradise
And I crossed my legs as they sermonized
On the way to enlightenment
But I shit my pants at cub scout camp
On the way to enlightenment
.

I was told how lucky I am to be alive
Of all the boys killed and the men who died
Of the wars they fought so that I might survive
On the way to enlightenment
I felt as guilty as hell to be alive
On the way to enlightenment
.

I saw my mother choke on a bar of soap
As my father forced it down her throat
Divorce, it seemed, was her only hope
On the way to enlightenment
Happiness was a childhood joke
On the way to enlightenment
.

I saw my grandfather die as he lay on the ground
The victim of neglect and a family breakdown
He lost his life, and I my paper round
On the way to enlightenment
I blame myself for the way he was found
On the way to enlightenment
.

I loved Sharon Butt, she never loved me
We shared our first contraceptive comedy
I discovered that a woman contains more than a moment's ecstacy
On the way to enlightenment
Many more things didn't seem that clear to me
On the way to enlightenment
.

My father explained that wisdom came in a child's attack
That a little girl's laugh meant more than a single hand clap
That not even a god could do better than that
On the way to enlightenment
I discovered my father was a paedophiliac
On the way to enlightenment
.

And when at last I understood the Messiah's call
I had tea with the vicar at the local church hall
Where I heard Christ had died afterall
On the way to enlightenment
An unconfirmed report implied he was Peter's tool
On the way to enlightenment
.

I broke every commandment of every faith
I am guilty of all those things my mother says
And I'm not proud of the things I did
On the way to enlightenment
Errors self made are the hardest to forgive
On the way to enlightenment
.

And so I stood at the gates of society
Where the pair ran forth with hipocrasy
And the blood ran cold with beach hut philosophy
On the way to enlightenment
I was alone as far as I could see
On the way to enlightenment
.

The truth, I found, the modern world fears
The eyes are blinded by sight and wisdom deafens the ears
The only voice in accord crossed three thousand years
On the way to enlightenment
And no-one said I should shed any tears
On the way to enlightenment
.

Now as a priest of lay I stand to witness the death of an age
As the poet within pursues the folly of the silent page
I ask forgiveness of that ancient sage
On the way to enlightenment
Allow others to burn in the fires of rage
On the way to enlightenment
.

A child's heart is a pure thing
And I may yet learn from the songs I sing
I do find joy in everything
On the way to enlightenment
I discovered that none of these things mean anything
On the way to enlightenment
.

The Bare Door Calling

These images of violence in my childhood
rush screaming from the room
the door is left ajar
and I am lying upon the floor wrapped at the base of it
my father kicks and slaps the wind from me
lest it be tarnished by these moments of history
I see his face now
my mother screaming that he should not kill me
Kill me Daddy, kill me
lest I live long enough to write poetry
.

A romantic moment in the kitchen
lies dark and sullen beneath porcelain
the stench of linoleum and piss
comforts the silence I find there
my parents scream at history
as though she is some whore
listing here with her legs astride
and I crawl inside the comforting womb of her
to make drawings of stick people copulating
I am surprised that my tiny and hairless penis is hard
that never happened before
.

I tell my cousin Diana
who has it in her hand
that there is something wrong with it
I lie and tell her that I have been going to a doctor
who will see to it
this stiff traitor of my unthought intentions
ready long before its time
leads me to my first act of dishonesty
unwanted, my father forcefully thrusts himself into the whore's gaping womb
and leans over my shoulder
he likes the drawings, he says
.

He asks Diana what she has in her hand
"It's a stick penis," she says
a toy in the game of children
my father is happy and smiles
"It's our little secret" he whispers
he's so happy, in fact,
that he wants to play bouncing cousins
with Diana on his knee in the armchair
between his legs
pale bare sticky fat flesh
smells of fish
"Touch it." he pleads to her
.

I sneak from history's womb
and slip across the floor guilty
for what I have glimpsed
in that armchair
I again hug the base of that bare door
comforted by fury
the smell of piss and linoleum
in this mix of history's moments
I cannot say that one event is truly connected to another
but I see his face now
my mother screaming that he should not kill me
Kill me Daddy, kill me
lest I live long enough to write poetry
.