POETRY
THE WHITE TOWER
Seeing
a specific memory haze. Knowing
it is not a mirage-
an illusion on a well-trodden
right of way
melting in the noon fright
of a too hot August day,
she waits, anticipating the arrival of
a sharper focus.
Reward is
the total recall of her appalling rape.
Each week still
she apes it with the written word
in failed attempts at poetry as therapy:
'Dub-Step in my ears not deafening the traffic
I could not hear my own breathing
or
the nearness of my happy content leaving;
the thunder even; their encroachment.
My wonder at the sudden rain
stolen from me as they carried me away
to
the dry heart of a vast shrubbery of evergreens.
Five Muslim cocks.
Six loads of what they call money-shots. Sick
shadows of men who then let darkness
cloak the bespoke joke of them.
This was tailored snatch grabbing. Grubby.
I sat on the wet kerb
waiting for a cabbie who had heard
my body language screaming. It was a free fare
to the A and E
to where a life-time of repair was loitering
with a lottery ticket with my name on it.
Winning is everything.'
From her terrace bedroom window she can see
the local Mosque,
its incongruity a deliberate arrogance.
That white tower from where
they call sentient beings to prayer
appears to be a phallic trick of alien light
that always fucks the quiet of every Welsh dawn
as if serenity had never existed there.
It mocks her
with the constant idea that her celebrity cunt is legend,
that her miscarriage had been prayed for
by a growing flock of women padlocked into grim cloth.
Chris Madoch Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved.
THE WAY WE MAKE THE PLANET TREMBLE
Let me be [for however long it takes] between moments
neither here nor there [what passes for a soul bared]
the air still and uncluttered
by beastly whirlwinds
locked in sexual congress
with noise and stuff obsessives. All ache gone.
Drugs help. Prescription pharmaceuticals. Alcohol.
Chem-trails and subliminal suggestions. Numb.
Dumb down. Trepanning with no respect for our crown.
Yes. Stop the cancerous clocks, the cell division.
Here I'll dock, dry eyed
and not be haunted by poisonous news
or tumerous sentiments that you all
give such pious vent to. Squalls of squalid puss
the media keep applying to the open wounds of us.
Switch off the TV and the PC. Put gin-filled dummies
in the mouths of screaming wannabee babies-
the ones we have no cure for, our unmentionable rabies.
No wonder civilisation's become so septic-
every limb dead-legged, necrosis set in,
each in dire need of amputation. Surgical saw.
Bits of vivid, what a mess, raw flesh hitting
like petals on the theatre's metal floor.
The star-gate to the womb of the goddess
is a mess of malignancies- growths
no miner in a dress had ever seen in all
his pre-Christian midwiferies. Gross. Pungent.
Our cervical swabs are supported by thin cross-sections.
What awaits is being eaten slowly from within.
Laugh. We are likely contents in our own fast food.
We've always picked scabs against the best advice-
trusted in gods and self-healed with voodoo.
Real death with its happenstance dancing
on the trappings of that great delusion- Gaga Goo.
You moo. We will moo too, follow through,
farmed out of harms way on artificially green
grass, best not to pass up on. How cow-pat is that.
So what if, this brief virtual death of mine is
just a way to take a sneaky holiday from frying
in the oiled pan of the ever present-
to have your keel made more pond worthy
so that you may sail forth elegant and faux divine?
It's not Botox, no other cosmetic proceedure.
In it I see no carnivale of futile celebrations
wrecking the bliss it is for me to be a recluse.
All our ying and yang potential is held in a suspension
of my disbelief- it yet remains possible to be good
besides which all the evil boxes have been ticked.
Yes. We never miss a trick to gain pre-eminence,
to rise, blinding the eyes of those behind and beneath us.
High heels fresh from dog-pooh doing each pupil in.
Huge intake of breath. Back, I feel seriously sick.
Time has cottoned on- tock, tick. Sniff. Immediate stench
of human beings torturing new-wave shit from all the old,
turning mountains of medical offence into ore rich in gold.
More raw pain again. Quick- pass the real co-codamol.
The acidic heiffer rush and reach of 5 billion hands makes
the planet tremble. In a few steps we'll become new insects.
Bleeding rapture! Raptors feeding at will on the great apes.
As if popping human skulls like boils is such a fun sport.
Saint Patrick's evicted snakes transported themselves where?
Come all you legless and cavort, quick-step on man's corpse.
And why don't you picnic on our liver, sweetbreads and lights-
Jesus, 'disbelieve us', the giver of appalling heavenly frights.
Chris Madoch Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved
CASE CLOSED
[This is all about you, but not directly so
so
that is why my world of words can hear
your clean and tidy
cream Venetian blinds twitching in
what passes for a light sensitive mind.
Why read further
if you are what they call sorted-
bought hook line and sinker into thinking
there will always be someone else
to do what you care not to do yourself.
That's civilised that is. Not giving much of a fuck
because passing the buck is what we do.]
As bats as rats
all off their squirmy tails on Kummel
she let detritus pile
on piles of dirt and shit until they fit
the paradigm of homes
made devoid of smiles. It is crime
crossed with an affliction-
addiction sickness. Missed
by many whose myopia is selfish-
a salary, applause, a good place
on the two-faced game-boards
where caring too much equals weakness.
It was whisky sours
that stole the sweetest hours
from both
her children's small lives
made the more diminutive by
dustbin bags of lemon wedges-
bare shelves
light with empty Tuppa-ware
one wedding present that survived
two divorces. Shares
of nothing amount to nothing.
Church mice hope, hopelessly arrived,
courtesy of Disney, the American dream-
whose nightmare is
the commonality of grass being green;
kids still hedging their bets. Mum knows best.
This is all there is.
This is as good as good as it gets. Of course.
Truth is, only a few are ever let
within a tongue's reach of the fat cat's cream.
Let the unfit suffer scurvy
in the nights of the unworthy. Death suits them.
What do we know, if they are seen and never heard,
if in plain sight their plight is just another box ticked
not worth the right word in the right ear, if fear stays
the hands of the gargantuan sector we have labelled 'Care'
such that they choose immobilty, claim no culpability;
where wicked are the ways
of best intentions dressed in Scotch mist greys-
not much, not enough.
Tom's mum, pissed most days,
someone who needed her back and front arse wiped,
her vomit
mopped by him, struggling with her
flopped unconscious body needing to be undressed
put to bed.
His seven year old sister
watching
from the hall, confused, appalled,
dress stained with urine.
The family pets dying from malnutrition.
A loved dog the last to go.
We were 'working class'.
My Da a beer maybe just twice a year-
Mamgu teetotal.
When I was eleven I was raising red bantams,
putting grasshoppers into jars
just to get a closer gander. I was clean and fed,
a butterball at large
in fields of pure unadulterated sensation.
My dog Sam prospered.
I notice, now I'm old,
well it's impossible to miss,
how there always is a very spirited defence
of alcohol as the drug of choice; the preference
of politicians who twist every which way the statistics-
race them like whittled smooth pooh sticks
and villify all the lesser evils to keep the status quo
oiling the insidious tax flow.
They've never fooled me. The unfair. The hypocrits.
Second class women and kids- the secret's barely hid.
Now, as forever and in all ways in the not so pretty past
they've never been a prime priority of patriarchal faithists-
all eager to lambast the sin whilst tasting the sinning.
Inhumane 'sobriety' has made that one priviledge of winning
What did scruff Tom do? He stole food. That is true.
Did he sell his body too- to keep life ticking in his sister,
turning tricks, sucking dicks, arse alight with white pain.
His Social Worker's file is tellingly thin. Prejudices juxtaposed.
These suffering children have a living mother- case closed.
[Yes. Proper guessed. You're what they call sorted-
bought hook line and sinker into thinking
there will always be someone else
to do what you care not to do yourself.
That's civilised that is, not giving much of a fuck
because passing the buck is what we do-
the good tax paying, often on our knees and praying,
desperately lying to ourselves, low-life that we are.]
Chris Madoch Copyright 2013. All Rights Reserved.
WHITE NIGGER SHIT
Within the world-wide wind we breathe
it sits, feigning kindness,
some form of primal nourishment;
the jots and tittles of our faecal histories-
would you believe this faithists. Yes.
Our collective disowned shit
is ordure commonly devoured.
You will not find
any minute fragment of any hour
devoid of this most secret intimacy.
Eaters of just seeds, fruits, nuts,
roots and leaves turned carnivorous;
cannibals at heart-
we've never ceased to gnaw upon ourselves,
to tear the flesh of friendships violently apart,
to boot brains into pulp for sport,
to break the comic rules and pray not to be
caught,
told we are foolish, out of line, the black sheep,
the whacko who keeps bordering on divine.
Lets not dwell on that buried truth ever
or our proximity,
in biological terms, to fat earth worms-
lately burrowed
through a Potter's Field
where even a slight digging would reveal
forensic details,
many skulls and bones;
facts we have evolved no further taste for.
Freemasons own no tombstones there. It
is where deaths reveal their secret/sacred evidence,
then point broken fingers to the crooked trials.
Some still
slide the slippery way we live
beneath the cold eye of a microscope
and get the chills as they observe, without the wrapping,
all our ominous sickness happening.
I want us to be deserving more
than the sum of what we have become-
crap dressed in prosthetics hidden by cosmetics.
Lately
the veiled men have finally been seen to be-
vaguely unshrouded;
no accident, no act of bravery, pure arrogance.
They watch us devolve and smirk,
gods of a refined kind, admiring their greedy work.
Nothing washes anymore or comes clean.
Trolls. Proles. Dumb-downed fol-de-rols.
They miss all the signs.
This stuff river you covet is raw piss
and the fond sea sore a slurry-
why your hive hurry to reach
this rotten beach of hid annihilating circumstance,
to picnic on dominion meat,
to dance the pelvic dance of beasts and go for a swim
in tidal excretions.
Will no words lift the lid.
White nigger, that is not a tan. Just smell yourself.
Noxious skin. Grim.
You would make more sense being
taken to a topsy-turvy place
where they turn rank bodies wholly inside out.
Hell. Terra Firma.
Ain't nowhere to hide lies in that twisted overt shit.
No buts
when your bloody arms struggle to rock your guts
like a hurt baby.
Chris Madoch Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved.