JOSEPHINE AT THE PANTHEON

JOSEPHINE AT THE PANTHEON

she danced funny
               went bananas

sang so sweetly
every
   trill a thrill
(full
     chanson)

danced across
Europe and North Africa
all
    around the Gestapo

and so
   when they needed someone
to put the PAN
back into pantheon
rub
  shoulders with
  dirty old Voltaire

this daughter of
Africa
     queen of diaspora
maiden
of humanity
   was a natural choice

DEMOLITION JOB

DEMOLITION JOB

My Mother’s voice
am overhearing

telling someone eager
to listen
    they knew what
this place was like
they knew what they
were coming to
            did they not know
what to expect

front page
      back page

centrefold spread

Greek chorus
            gossip horror
the shock
the shame
              character assassination

and they
       or rather he the husband
having Army training
explosives, sabotage
blowing up
                things behind Nazi lines

now
out there consorting
with the men of shadow, figures
in the night
feared
    shape – shifters

blowing up pylons
disrupted the sacred electricity supply

and me
    that night all night
hearing the Indian Ocean waves roaring in to
crash on the shores of False Bay

so much Sun here, Sun
Sun

Sun for everybody

this man and his
accomplices
    attempting to take
this Sun
away

****

sixty years
and we have crossed them
in a heartbeat

so much of that time
faintly remembered
not even
taught in schools
(sad that
somehow we
have so relegated history)

but now
a different narrative,
               a whole different narrative
a whole different way

of thinking of ourselves, this place

and how
we came here
      stifled, imprisoned,
imposed our colonial mindsets

stuck our future in tiny cells
on an island in Table Bay

for long
bitter decades fearing
no hope of solution, no path
to a liberation
that migh
   
allow redemption

a moment of memory
viewed
            with
a self-
forgiveness 

graced by the acceptance
of the perspective of great change

****

and here we are
my dear, absurdly conversing
in the light of all those years

democracy waiting
     in the wings, or rather
on an inhospitable island

time
   become its true essence
as pure
duration

imprisoned consciouness

until
   it was not

you born
in the year of its ending
of the release
salvation

far
  from its memory, vague
on its history

of the swirling eddies and currents that
despite every counter-
possibility produced

a dawn, a new
day

and now
        history has done
a demolition, removed
those back-then voices
that spoke with such
blind conviction,
presumed authority

as
   it slowly, inexorably
whittled me away

but across
       land and ocean

the old monster
has
    found lease of life, more
hideous incarnation

the drive to inflict the worst
of which we are possible
on fellows
of our species

as they, we
did back then

    would have done to you

(and now this voice
those voices

        who do
they belong to, what
                  are they saying?)

FORECAST

FORECAST

scry
me a river

the forecaast
was fairy tale
and real sunny

but barely
an hour after
the holocaust
the debt
collectors
were up
and about

rat-cockroach hybrids
still actively mutating

they used all their
rapidly evolving
extra
   sensory perceptions
to scurry across
every size and shape
of radioactive
landscape

tracking down each
debt defaulting  flash or firestorm
strike survivor

remind them
of their every financial
transgression
reinstating every
legal redline

ON YOUR BIRTHDAY

ON YOUR BIRTHDAY

come to me
on your birthday
Gemini girl

I shall make you
my eternal celebrity

teach you the meaning
of the word “celebration”

make sure you
feel every vowel
every consonant
in your heart
and
  every other part

doing your native sign
of the twin me Castor
you Pollux

from dawn on the day
to dawn the next morning

CORDOBA

CORDOBA

I was in medieval Cordoba
at the height of its power
and its prestige,

when I found myself, perhaps
having blinked too hard,
in Paris May ’68 and
then in
Times Square New York
sometime yesterday
or maybe tomorrow

watching an Empire slowly
grind itself down to powder

whilst somewhere in these
crowds a Holy prophet and
Christ incarnation
is quietly, deliberately,
avoiding the vanity that
feasts upon
supreme spectacle
       (Naomi’s false idol)

searching for what was
lost, destroyed,
that it be found, healed,
restored,
      re-established in
single searing moment
of absolute connection

meanwhile
   in a playhouse in the centre
of Philadelphia, an outraged
Dionysus plots
King Pentheus’s demise

his worshippers find themselves
swept up by a force
beyond the power
of resistance
awake to the reality
of a primal, divine
revenge
    soaked in the blood of
their rapture,

egged on by the god to cross
the presumed defining linit
of humanity itself m.

Signs and wonders:
we so desperate that they
submit
to our systems
     not rupture the fabric
of meaning itself

DEAR

DEAR

Ah, my demented dear,
the spot where your
venom entered me
feels like it has
been struck by
a burning coal
of white phosphorus

our pain is our own ultimately
our pleasure too

but the force that created you
whether it is my channeling of it
or it has burrowed,
somehow
   connived its way
into my system

is one with the spirit of all
that this fimds itself expressed as
every manufacture
it now does open itself to

our bodies shape-shifting
at points
     together
in some kind of deeply odd
resonance rather

than harmony

no, not harmony

my dear, my demon, my
demented dear

LESSON TO US ALL

LESSON TO US ALL

my parents
stuck me
in  box
to protecr me
from the world

also
one of their core principles
children should be
neither seen
nor heard
and loved sparingly,
as seldom
    and as
      little as possible
ezpecially if
sweeter and smarter
than they could
ever hope to be

stayed in the box God
knows how long
until Myers Briggs came along
told me
    I was no ways such
an introvert, but a rampant
ENFP king cobra
extrovert

waiting for my moment
to burst through the lid
proclaim
     my truth, announce
myself to the world

unbundle myself of all
the reams and reams of
relentless (if much
misguided) insistent creativity
emulating
   my good friend, sometime
Muse, and fellow
box resident, Ms Sagittarius
Emily

whose cut-throat poetry, razor
images, a
        divine lesson to us all

WHY?

WHY?

why beat the shit
out of them?

surely
with your massive
military industrial complex

your have
more refined, tech-
savvy solutions

or because
since universities began
in medieval Arabia
and Europe must
you go dark
ages on them
besiege these encampments
like you are Temujin’s
horde

ransacking for forage
throwing defenders
down the battlements
all to
    show and
tell lesson them
how Plato’s children
and great grandchildren
should scholastically behave

SUSQUEHANNA 2

SUSQUEHANNA 2

there are ghosts
in your country
I saw them dancing
in the mist all
along the Susquehanna
one cold January morning
just after 9/11
a couple of miles upstream
from Three Mile Island

and we were talking Civil War mlilitary,
myself and this kindly
African American
Professor of Sociology from
Harrisburg Penn State

him detailing how the Federals and Confederates
were criss-
crossing this territory
playing this cat and
mouse game
only to crash headlong into
each other at a
place called Gettysburg

of course neither of us
back in 2002 could have imagined
twenty so years on this
land would
find itself of the brink of
such a division
where the spectre of such
horror looming again

and those precious
twenty or so days
my sole experience
of America

of breathing the air of
its liberty, if
such is your belief

something the ghosts
trying to tell me, their
cold touch
    alerting  me

a new world and
forever graveyard

tension
in the spirit world
it seems far-fetched to bridge

the river
      with its
       Native American name

flowing with the forever
waters of such secrets

leaving
    the old lies, the old lies
to spread, make
good trade,
do good business

what ripples outward here I fear
ultimately chain
       in its reaction