Big Bren gets Shaved, 8th July 2017


We watched the Big Man being shaved

My pocket containing ten pounds

And Michelle

With her illusory beard

But I bought 2 drinks, anyway

“It’s a beautiful thing,” I thought

“Sacrificing your hair for charity”

And the lamb remained in stillness

Like a 21st century Buddha

Whilst anxiety gripped me

Like a gynaecologist’s fist

From the bottom of my empty pocket

To the nicotine tips of my conscience

My Mother and I had argued, you see

Before I left home

So I fooled myself that I wasn’t all bad-

Pneuma in a cage of beer and cigarette smoke

But smiled, like Satan’s symbiotic sister

Until Patrick walked me to the bus

And my smiles became tears, I didn’t shed

For a Man


Women make better friends, they said

Nails bite like incisors into soft, warm flesh

Women are fluid

 

Then I took

A man with big hands and enormous feet

Whose hair tickles parts of me

About which my Mother didn’t tell

Fingers that sing tricky tunes of love

The bee’s sting of desire

 

I know women

But I love a man

 

I am not a traitor to my sisters’ cause

Punching my fist in the face of ideological rejection

I am the projection of

Purity

Love

Truth

Merely human

 

Louise M. Hart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m not Paranoid, I just don’t Trust anyone


By Louise M. Hart

Don’t look at me

Don’t-look-at-me

Does my face threaten your subjectivity

Or put you off your cup of tea?

I took my tablets today

So now I’m symptom free

What do you see…

When you meet my glare?

I pull out my hair

And worry that you can see my scaly skin

Through the tear

In my jeans or smell my underwear

I pretend not to care

But I am crucified inside

Like Jesus Christ mounted on a cross of mind

After forty days and forty nights in the wilderness

Of my turbulent mental flight

Like squabbling lovers my thoughts scream and shout

I try to quieten them

In case you can hear

But you laugh in fear

Don’t look at me

Don’t-look-at-me

I look at you

And suddenly remember that you are only three

There is a Light that will never come on


By

Louise M. Hart

 

The lights are on

But there’s no one home

He stares into deep mid air

And nobody would guess

That his mind contains

More colour and depth

Than the pint of beer

His tight lips slowly sip

In honour of the woman

He did not know

 

He cannot even remember

When he was diagnosed

Or how many times

He has been hospitalised

His eyes conceal the vibrancy

Of his near death urgency

And are blank with certainty

That life on earth

Is bloody hell

 

Emotional emptiness

Is his real disease

Not paranoid schizophrenia

He is the shadow

Of the former selves

He wishes that he had never been

 

If you should see him

Buried in the darkness

Of a Glasgow bar

Please say, “Hello”

He needs a friend

For he let this one go

 

To all the Girls I have never Loved before


I dedicate this poem

To the loves

I have not known

The nights I have spent

Alone

Chastising myself

With my belt of desires

On a bed

Of moist memory foam

And sheets

That drip with sweat

And dread of exposure

 

I dedicate this poem

To the hearts

I have not broken

With my roaming eye

And my tongue tingling

Love tokens of longing

For the tasty pink delight

Of womanly wonders

 

Beneath the swooning

Fist of night

My heart thrives

On its passionate cries

But my body celebrates

Celibacy

With cross-legged frigidity

 

Though my mind is insecure

In the grasp

Of its moral duplicity

I secretly acknowledge

The tenuous tightrope

I tread

Of illusory hetero

Homogeneity

 

I am as anonymous

As I was not made to be

And spread my legs

Only for the wondrous words

I create

Never under cover

Of the beds

Adorned by those

To whom I dedicate

This poem

In my head

 

Except Yourself


Except Yourself

I travelled north to learn how to be free

But the shrieking gulls delivered my spirit

To Nemo’s tomb

Buried beneath 20,000 leagues of despair

Under a doom sated sea

A fisher of souls, swept to her watery demise

By waves that tempted my mind

And stung my weary eyes

Lapping the frail shore of my bored

Consciousness

I roared from the depths

Of my soul’s new found distress

And swallowed the sea water’s acrid foam

Like a fleet of melting acid ice cream cones

My thoughts nourished by the taste of its cool duplicity

Being caught between the to and fro

Of my unique soul’s existence and human homogeneity

I had become invisible, both on land and sea

Like a single splash of water on a pier-less shore

Depositing no residue of my life or piteous form

One day, I stepped into troubled waters

Where I witnessed rising from his/her liquid bed

Like Poseidon’s changeling son/daughter

The angel of the north

Who spoke to me, “It’s not so bad, up here, with the haggis

And the local beer

Better rain upon a sunny head

Than sun shining beyond a mind

That is dull as lead”

“Like mine,” I screamed

“It is not your home location,” S/he equivocated

“Inducing your mental rot

Your soul is sick

For existence has failed to offer you a role

In this season’s production

Of the dominant model

Of the anti-social whole

This is not how life should be…

This is not how life should be”

Angel of truth

Lancelot, inhabiting a nautical incarnation

Of Avalon, for the kilted generation

Riding against the tide, with limbs of lace and leather

Your presence warmed my heart

Like rays of sun in wintry weather

Words slid from your tongue

Like a gentle elixir

I drank them slowly

And let them fix me

In 2008 I moved from the West Midlands to Scotland. In 2014 I returned home, where the air is more polluted but I learned to breathe, again.

*Except Yourself was originally posted on ArtiPeeps.com.Thank you, Nicky Mortlock for permitting me to republish it, here.

Silence Speak Please


Every time I open my mouth

You rip out my womb a little further

I become as barren

As a November Sunday afternoon

My words severed

By your blade of silence

Your gaze reduces woman

To form of a symbol

Like a child bride

Groomed to perform

Acts against her nature

Or a virgin suicide

Wrought

By the penetrating power

Of men’s inequitable ideology

Tied to our conjugal bed

Your fist of masculinity

P

L

U

N

G

E

S

Into the clenched behind

Of my heart unbound

But, no one hears my cries

For my mouth is gagged

And my tears are invisible

To all other empirical, “I’s”

Thus, I bleed for womankind

For Magdalene, Christ’s castigated lover

For Malala

Awarded a prize

For surviving

Her own attempted homicide

-A trophy voice

Which, of course

She possessed, anyway

I bleed and plead

But no one sees or hears me

For like a maiden aunt

I have been castrated by mankind

Left to rot on the shelf

With the other unconsumed

Unconsummated perishables

Past my sell by date

Putrefying with middle-age

And disconnected femininity