First, a catch up. The lack of posts on Great Bloody Wave is due to me ‘polishing’ a number of poems that’ve appeared in draft forms on the site for… for elsewhere. GBW isn’t a place for so-called finish work, it’s (like I always say) a playground. I will let you know what occurs with the shined poems.
But for now, here’s a newbie. It’s drawn from the other excuse for not posting, full-time employment. And that.
All the bodies on this train, in this carriage,
Are dead. What a fucking slaughterhouse.
Cadavers, everyone of them slashed and spouting,
Slumped on the durable upholstery of their meagre seats.
Stinking. Chunk blowflies of this stink humming.
Hey, people, don’t you know you have been killed?
So why not shut the fuck up?
But all the dead want is to evacuate their bowels.
And go on and on and on and on shitting.
The glorious freshness of blood (its gloss, its electric fragrance,
Its oomph) is being wasted here. These spigot wounds.
These wounds blaring with all the grunt of an outside tap.
These custard-over-suet-pudding wounds.
Those wounds as stupefying as a fist entering deep and slow
Up into an arsehole. So many wounds wasted. Hey, people,
Blood is the glamour of being murdered, so why not vogue.
Sam Peckinpah, he’d come in his pants over this torrential massacre.
Géricault would piss on The Raft of the Medusa to paint this horror
(of humanity) instead of that anaemia. Quentin Tarantino,
He would cut off his cock & balls to capture an iota of this on film.
And, yeah, Goya, he would want a tasty piece of it.
It’s such a gushing, over-saturated magnificence that’s why.
It’s Profondo Rosso. Giallo. It’s dead people. Dead.
People. Machine-gunned, pitchforked, machete’d.
Quartered. Spatchcocked. Scored like pork rind for crackling.
Thumbs into eyeballs, pop. Flayed, square inch by square inch.
This is the glory of an occupation, this spread,
This buffet of a working day’s leftovers laid on.
Tuck in, you earned it. But they shit on it.
A diarrhoea of News International, of Farrage and kneejerks
And bubblegum thinking, of highly-polished fear
And flag-waving ignorance, of nodding,
Of looking away at the crucial moment,
Of needing and wanting and sacrifice
And of being done, of being at a loss.
All the bodies on this train, in this carriage, including me,
Are dead. Fuck, surely nobody wants to be dead?