Spoken Word & Poetry

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I have thoughts. I try and put them into words, then into rhythms that are digestible to the ears. Suppose I mainly try and make the abstract edible. Than’s me and mine, how about you? Looking to create a little community of the creative…

Anamnesis

I have held the memory of you

so often

in the palm of my thoughts

that the image is weather-beat

as creased

as the crows-feet

that stand at the corner of each eye

every time I smile

when I look at it

 

or grimace at it

as I try to forget

that I’ve edited it

omitted everything that could possibly subvert its beauty

 

Truthfully I’ve idealised you into nostalgia

 

Buttered toast and tea in bed

we melted into each other

then lay content

covered in sweat and crumbs

breathlessly admitting

that it was love

 

Though this anamnesis is composed

five or so separate occasions

collaged into something more picturesque

that I can post on to myself

as proof

of whatever I need it to be presently

and presently what I need it to mean

is that it was as good as it seemed

 

objectively

I dissolve into air

your hair falling completely around me

leaving only lips and tongues

hat had waited so long to meet each other

longing has a flavour

and its taste was each other’s skin

I need this to mean the same to you as it does to me

so the whole thing doesn’t seem solipsistic

 

But what use is that now?

as I’ve already played witness in a trail

that has passed its verdict

 

And how imperfect is memory anyway?

A cherry-picker that picks only the most palatable fruits

that imbues the past with present feeling

then presents it as a timeless truth

that clasps hope as closely

as a refugee his only possession

in the belief that it will somehow keep him afloat in unknown waters

it won’t

 

So if I can let go of you now

perhaps

I have a chance at swimming to shore

I Ignored it and won’t anymore

Do you thinks it’s just

Blokes

Fucked up on Stella

That beat their birds up all black and yellow

That violence is somehow only inherent

In hard labour and low income?

 

A doctor would never prescribe

A slow drip of pernicious words

To his wife

The third bottle of Bordeaux

No – a different kind of drunk

He’d never spill blood

 

‘Don’t worry, it’s just a wine stain’

The same pathology as

‘She just fell’

The same silent cry for help

Met by underfunded shelters

And a culture which ignores that

1 in 4 women are victims

 

Why not 1 in 4 men are villains?

 

Now –

What’s your excuse?

 

Did you take refuge between centrefolds

Which reinforce the notion that all women are whores

As it was easier than listening

To the beatings

Believing him

When he said that the reason she was leaving him

Is because she’s a

Cheating slut

 

Don’t be a weakly

Boy

Man the fuck up!

Smack that bitch up

When she says no

And know that the violence in this language

Can keep her

 

Don’t worry though

Even if it gets to trail

You’ll be fine

As 95% of women

Are liars

 

If this is a man’s world

 

Then men will have to change it

Eulogy

We will probably die before my parents

 

A high fall

haplessly losing our footing

distracted by something wonderful

 

We’ll smile back kind

but apologetic

through over-filtered photographs

defragmenting

bit

by bit

by bit

into dementia

 

Relatives too difficult to visit

skin like old paper with

fading letters

to all of you

hesitating hearts

too tentative to confront

these patients

as they speak in the wrong tense

 

Living fragments

of what happened

caught and captured

and woven into a tapestry of

 

Dancing calamities

casualties of the evening

collapsing happily on

grass

roots

moss and

mountains

knotted flesh fucks

with a passion that splits rock

sun-soft and snow-topped

we drop in to

and float

down the unknown

 

As we are only moments now

not a person

Somewhere
benjohnwilson@hotmail.co.uk
+447902691253

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