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Tuesday, January 03, 2012

East and West

I see no collection of pot-bellied erections
down migraine way
Salt hits the wounds and the money birds zoom
to free those entombed in decay.
They wonder in fear as the bank notes appear
from pockets by squirting lead
While water-filled tubes fill up on the move
hang down from some Whitechapel bed.

The mothering poor who head for the door
hit the pauper's grave.
With sustained pain and a limp in the brain
they make for the streets half crazed.
With X-Rays which fade with the light of the day
the Mormon men move on
While back down in the dark, while surgery starts
some folks treat themselves to a song.

Jack the Ripper holds memories close
In both parts of the town.
Shop soiled uniforms march in front
with guests from a hidden asylum
But heated needles hit the skin, in the North
its what people say
Won't find a cotton cloth round there
and angels keep away.

With Frankenstein on the end of a knife
working his way with love
Compared with what their getting, maybe a message from above?
And you know the bill which comes in pink
is crushed into your palm
While the hasty Harley Street merchants
are wrestling with your arm.

The rich man shoots the crazy red juice
straight into your arm
And one man bites into the jaws of the night
But they make sure he comes to no harm
Red roses grow in window boxes
The surgeon hides his guns
Free from the care of expenditure worries
The criminal who never runs.

Sunday, January 01, 2012

I met a teenage girl recently...

I met a teenage girl recently. She had rather a deep voice. Yet upon an initial meeting, she seemed happy enough. At least within the outdoor circumstances under which we were introduced. However, here was desperation for all the world to see. Here was expressed grief, and one could witness it particularly around her young eyes and fallen mouth. For she knew that not only was she was not what she wanted to be, but knew that she could never be that which she desired above all else. Despite all the advances of science.
Her movements were occasionally undisguisedly male, which caused me the most atrocious amount of pity. For she was the girl who ought to have been. She imitated and aped the female well enough. But not enough to convince all. She was the equivalent of the transgendered Uncanny Valley. Neither one gender or the other, yet desperately trying for the latter. Only dogs and blind old ladies did not question her appearance. Despite her apparent happiness, she was one of the saddest people I had met for a long time.
She reminded me of a time when there was an urgency to do something. A clock ticked away her life. A disfigured bird sang a merry tune as dusk approached, and the alcohol she drank glazed her eyes. Then she sat alone - despite being with me.
I'm sure each day rolls unthankfully into another for her. Her ankles and wrists look cold and thin. Her neck, warm and thick. There is a decreased radiance from her personality. She speaks to me, but I can immediately recognise that her thought's are mostly of the past, and perhaps regret for what she knows she will not achieve in the future. Almost like exclusive and foretold knowledge. She has little confidence which occurs naturally in the genetic female. I think perhaps she finds a measure of comfort by talking, and I do little else but listen. The chair that supports her is agreeable, safe...and forgiving. Which is more than most passer's-by offer her. The corner of the little pavement café where we take wine in the evening is where she conceals herself, her talents and her accomplishments from the thrust of the world. Here she avoids criticism and punishment. Yes, I met a teenage girl recently. In spite of her gloom, suspicion, trouble, worrying eyes and mouth, she had rather a sweet voice.