Saturday, February 03, 2018

Roots




Do we belong to our birthdays / planets grooving to choreograph fate

To the women who baked us / diligently discriminating between amino codes

Were we born in a big bang accident / free to jostle and yearn towards superhuman form

Or did we just land lucky/ first on a spot to draw swords to defend our home?

Sunday, January 07, 2018

You Can't Kill The Spirit. by Majikle




From under muddy plastic sheeting
tenting over a sapling tree
Jo Freemantle can see
anxious bailiffs and
their nuclear stiff ballistics’
cynical stare

Like a mountain
she will lay limp to stop them
still they will drag her bodily
shred the women’s peace camp
every single rain or shine day
for the twelve years she is there

‘Greenham common women’ cursed on telly
for leaving their babies at home
disgracing themselves tied to fences
fingers entwined being crazy
choiring antidotes to war
like vital thrushes

With silty firepit sisterkin
even now at 73
Jo changes everything
Indigo-Line Mudgoddess
a rainbow name to refuse
to be her father’s daughter

She says that houses don’t need wives
but the world needs women
to reveal Emperor nudity
old and strong like a mountain
she goes on and on
and on

Sunday, June 25, 2017

REWILD


Reignite regeneration
Repopulate resistance
Restoring resilience
Replete real recovery

Reduce
Reuse
Recycle
Reinvigorate
Reintegrate
Repair
                        Repeat

Saturday, April 01, 2017

We Gave Birth to a Minotaur


So who will be our judge in hell?
When the wealth of Syrian women are
Over millennia, brutally forced into the sea
By insignificant men who pray for balls as big as bulls
And sell Europa’s cunt fruit for freedoms
They never could learn how to enjoy.

Even the honeyed growth that comes from rape
Can never still my rage
How can it be enough to carry a thread?
Through this labyrinthine
Descending slippery
Shell?



Saturday, February 25, 2017

Fool


I was bullied as a child
Taunted with names as so many are
But I learned to bully back
Learned the sweet thrill
Of pinching soft nipples too hard

I grew with the power to wound
Attractive to the weak and the teary
I loved myself powerful and
It seemed I was loved in return
But some people still spurned me

Why those others attracted me
More than those who liked me
I could not fathom
A perverse wanting of what you’ve not got
Or perhaps in your heart you just know

The self-assured ran from my company
They could see how I always talked about me
How I never admitted to any flaw
How I could never let my hair down
And just naked be me.

Finally I was forced to explore
That the discerning knew more than I did
Knew what I was up to, the tricks
Saw through the gifts and cajolery
Were too wise for spider lies

So I let it go and with it went
All the glorious swag my blag had bought
I had to learn to simply be nice
To be fussy in choosing friends
To be only easily hurt

Now when people try to bully me
I bare my teeth, but I understand
Why they chose this niche
That the journey home is hard and long and often cold
But every fighting dog, one day gets old.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Squared


Things have changed since
Van Limburgstirumplein last saw us
Cycling around her
I sit to sip overpriced coffee
Hoping I can still see
Your cheeks puff
Up front on a giant homemade bike
Me with my
Over stuffed rucksack
Dangling from the back
Two foreign girls
Escaping our governments
Looking for life lasting love
And finding it
In each other’s
Secret world faces
Ellyott, my lover is
Several inches shorter than even me
But three times as strong
Astute jockey always pushing through
What else can a dyke woman do?
Over tram tracks
Careful never to get stuck
The number ten
To Javaplein
Which too has been
Reclaimed from the squatters
Renovated and rebranded
Reblended into Amsterdam green
These days’ dykes are not so strange
Everybody is somewhere
On the queer spectrum range
Integration is the new normal
As everyone assimilates our fists
And to be fair our old enemy capitalism
Never needed homophobia as an excuse
To kick anyone where it hurts most
We, like the Moroccans have been priced out
Way beyond the railway tracks
Unless we have money
When we are welcome
To spend in the sunset lit square
Nice bikes sitting upright tidy in their racks
Adorn the advertising pumping station
As if it has always been
Like this there
Not filled with junkies their gums burned bare
The Kemperstraat stands far too quiet
Without her graffiti minded sluts
Near the Avondwinkel in
Need of more than
A lick of paint
The number of bridges getting smaller
As the city council carts
All homeless looking damaged bikes away
The cries of freedom from restraint
Have all grown faint
But the pigeons circle
The square indifferently
Just the same



Sunday, February 19, 2017

Pressed

The white rose
you gave me
the day I left you
in our gypsy wagon
is rusting at the petal tips.
Cells of mortal memories
Are always called to this.
You wanted our developing
To end when I pushed
You away
And now you want me
To return
Because I’ve got your back
But plucked it was
By your fair hand and
I’m not sure I understand
How our soft start
Accelerated already to this?