Bosnian Wings

Ashes gather,

Ashes as the feathers, the flurries,

Ashes as these falling furies settling

The dust of rubble’s softness,

Rubble’s grey chunks…

Here, out pokes an arm &

Over there, a leg, in anti-

Birth, the dismemberment connecting

What was flung & what living still

Sweeps in the span of some pigeon’s

Hop, some hawk resurrecting the memory

Of flight…

Oh, it is all a snowbound concentrate:

This throng of desolate vigilance,

Of sniper-hungry streets

In a winter of trees, bare & disparate,

Finding the sky a factory’s output,

The chuffing trains of camps…

Wings as cinders, wings as tarnish

Bring this in, polishing survival keen,

Polishing sustenance lean as the arc’s tip

Where shadows spread from breast &

The heart goes beating on…

So the breadth of days pass

Through narrow light to narrower

While faith squeaks its way in,

A chink which will blast maps back

In dreams, at some point, weary, but,

At last true to reunion from the dark

Voyage, the exile of rights

Migrating again

                                                                           Oh Homophobe

I've had to kill you again

like Sylvia Plath's Daddy

you kept reappearing-----

Hydra-headed, jellyfish stinger

without the luminous grace,

more a thug's truncheon:

Your voice, your planetary

terrorist's moves

of slander, then violence

minions do the dirty work of

while you lie on your back,

dictator-babe, rolling the globe

with the bald balls of your feet.

Bully for you,

heel, I say, stay, bad doggie,

to peel all the hate off you

requires lye and quick lime,

but you diet on the acid,

resurface bilious,

with intestinal sheen

theocratic-gaudy,

while lacking the guts

to pick off those jeweled maggots

and smell your real stench,

Mistress lethal live-slime death ray,

Monsieur village-pillager,

scumbag lord of the flies.

            Joe, Checking Out

Is it a lot like the last time, coming,

a balloon man, freshly pumped & re-blown

straight from the V.A.?

Back then, those days were saloon-slung,

the stools' greased wooden gyrations

all a boozy romance rerunning, inside

your head, images clipped out of

Wild Wild West.  You were

some card playing cowboy, the kind

who wore black, more a joker

than a villain, an outlaw

to be rooted for 'cause you had

chutzpa, humor & a gold mine soul.

Come on wildcatter, time to cash

your chips in, bolt the last shot &

snap your artificial leg back

above the knee cap.  How's

the phantom memory, the ache

for your real one lost

to war trails, diseased streets &

one drug-humped motorcycle

trying to outride all those old demons?

0,K.  Here's your crutch.  Here's your

trumpet, plus the tattooed dreams man,

which take jazz & jettison the insulting

world with an intimacy of tongue-traced

thighs, lip-kissed backs, all the genuine

sweet secret skin sessions.

Joe, this time as you go, valium shaving

the pain's edge, remember you took

the fooling around seriously, took

a desperado's razor & cut away, cut

away till there was nothing but

your tender self:

that man with the star,

that strong human laughter

& brave eyes on the horizon.

 

                                                       The Black Dress
                                                                     (For Mofina's Samara)

Those ashes came back
in these muslin sleeves
& that collar of lace.
Robed women attend to buttons,
murmuring now
from what was ululation before.
How sore the beaten breasts are still
as if each fist
attempts memory's' restoration
beyond the smoldering desert city.

Was my husband's face
those scattering plumes
& not the tortured horror
those soldiers brought on
with their battering ram cocks
after they tied him to a chair
& forced him to watch?

After awhile numbness was struggle
turned inside until their bullets shattered
his agonized skull & my scream
took his flesh, swallowing his bleeding.

Don't shoot my son!,
a toddler only, but the plea was too late
as their grenades took our home
& they escaped in the chaos
of different Outsider's bombs blazing.

Dragged to the street
neighbors hooded heads, one large,
one small, for my loved one's bodies
laid on scorched earth.

This dress knows such stained
dish towels which covered what was left
in that smoking grit, its broken asphalt,
& that raw grief hands cradled, lifting
to carry as much as possible.

Our Procession was a howling
right down to the Tigris, its shift
these pleats now
as if my dress walks on without me,
inhabiting my bones while clouds
are my eyes, a terrorist's vengeance

foreigner's made.

When Did It Start?

Later

I was seven I think

taking a pill

or eight.  I don't

or drink

remember except

trying not

Dad it was

to flashback

scary, your

for the bombardment

voice, touch

an illiterate's shame

it, that's

victim's wrath

nice lamb chop you

would question my

deserve this

innocence & there

the rope then & I

would always be

pretended my body

an interrogation

was another kid's

as if it

while trying

was Salem

like my Aunt said

and I was

not to dwell on

a witch

the word elephant

 Stephen Mead

At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day

Before dawn, people

who work on Thanksgiving Day  

wait in the wind for a bus 

to arrive or maybe not.

It's too cold to talk  

so the people stand 

like minutemen and plan 

a revolution that would shock  

nice families who drive by later, 

children tucked in scarves 

and mittens, laughing 

all the way to Nana's house  

for turkey, gravy, stuffing 

and later in the day 

a ballerina of whipped cream 

twirling on pumpkin pie.

Thanksgiving is the day 

America asks for seconds

and sorts its servers 

from the served.

Donal Mahoney

First Waitress

 

Outside, the still

of crickets.

Inside, petals

of a cold sore

foliate,

a boutonniere

for full lips.

Looking up, I tell her

two eggs, basted,

hash browns,

coffee now.

Later on,

she says

the birthmark

I found

south of her navel

she’s had

all her life.

 

 

Donal Mahoney

Concert at Bernie’s

When Bernie wakes at 6 a.m.

there's a piano on his chest

and Erroll Garner's playing "Misty."

Sinatra's on the headboard 

improvising lyrics

and Krupa's in the corner 

painting on the drums.

The music is magnificent.

Once the song is over 

Bernie chants his morning prayers,

shaves and showers and limps to work

for another day at the gherkin factory. 

The foreman, Mr. Simpkins, is an ogre 

nonpareil, a sumbitch unsurpassed, 

who stalks the catwalk all day long

with megaphone and stopwatch.

At 5 p.m. the factory spits Bernie 

and his cohorts out the door 

so Bernie limps to the Hot Wok Shack

and buys a carton of Egg Fu Yung 

and heads back home to wait for dawn 

so he can hear Erroll play "Night and Day"  

while Sinatra does the vocal and

Krupa punctuates the piece

softly on the drums.

Bernie spends each day in hell but dawn 

is always a concert from heaven.

Donal Mahoney

Epilogue for an Election

After the TV mavens had their say

the gnomes crept out of their caves

spoke and returned to their caves. 

Thunder struck, hell broke loose

and the mavens came back on TV

predicting Armageddon.

In cities all over the nation

pimples popped and broke.

Pus flows in the streets.

Donal Mahoney

Making Certain It’s Wally

Wally made the long drive home 

from vacation on Election Day

because he wanted to vote. 

He went for a jog and then to the polls

and cast his vote for his candidate. 

Then he jogged to the Post Office

to pick up the mail held for him 

while he was away on vacation.  

But they wouldn’t give him his mail.

He had no I.D. in his sweat pants.

Not to worry, Wally told the clerk.

He'd come back with his I.D. later.

Donal Mahoney

A Comma Is a Pipe Dream

The amount in every paycheck

has a period in it. Those who 

get a paycheck every week

dream about seeing a comma 

three spaces in front of the period. 

Those who have a comma

dream about seeing a 2

in front of the comma 

instead of a 1.  

Those who have a 2 

in front of the comma

dream about a 3.   

That’s how it works for those 

with good jobs and benefits 

but not for those on

minimum wage.

Many of them see only 

three numbers in front 

of the period every week. 

The first number is always a 3 

after taxes and deductions.  

If a 4 or 5 would replace the 3 

they might celebrate a tad 

and give a little shout.

But they will never see a comma 

three spaces ahead of the period.

That’s a pipe dream not theirs to see.

Donal Mahoney

A MAN DESPERATE TO ESCAPE HIS LIFE

Walking home last night and I caught the eye

The sad tortured look of a man beaten by life

Desperate to escape, sell up and get out of town

The man who runs the place I used to go in order to forget

Now it looks like all he wants is to just forget everything himself

The women, the patrons and their massive bar tabs including mine

That will remain unpaid until he has gone because then, and only then,

Can I return to the place I used to love

Because now, well, I just can’t return; it’s just been too long

And the fact I have developed a thing for his ex doesn’t bode too well

The ex who left him and caused his mind to unravel

Followed very soon by his sorry excuse for a boozer

When will he go?  I just don’t know but I hope it’s soon as then, I hope

Everything will return to normal and her mood will better and

Maybe I can grow up and tell her those words desperate to be spoken.

--------------------------------------------------------- 

A WONDERFUL THING

When she ain’t here I just sit and write

Missing her lovely body, her beautiful mind

All the fun we’ve had so far and hopefully

All the time we’ve got ahead as this feels

Like something I thought was dead

Because when we talk I just can’t believe

That from such disparate positions

How our lives have crossed similar paths

The mad years of the drug fuelled craziness

Have mainly come and gone because now

Well it’s just a bit of weed and a bottle of decent red

And we’re chatting about stuff I can’t with

Anyone else and the thought returns that

Maybe, after all these years, this could be real

This could be the one I’ve been waiting for...

--------------------------------------- 

BLINK OF AN EYE

I sit here stoned on a Friday night

And as usual no one has called but for once

I’m just grateful to be left in peace

As this week has been testing and hard

In all the wrong ways as flat adventures went awry

And the possibility of living in Hove

Came and went in the blink of an eye

-------------------------------- 

GRATEFUL TO THE SHOP ASSISTANT WHO TOLD ME NO

It was just another night deep in the heart of addiction and I was out of my mind

Drunk, stoned but out on the town

Almost all my money had gone to the bar but unfortunately I still wanted more

So I stood up and staggered out, sad that my time in the house of fun had ended before I’d obliterated all my brain cells

On the way home I decided to stop off and get a couple of bottles from the nearby convenience

And I stumbled in and told the man behind the desk what I wanted

The cheapest, the strongest beer I could afford but this time, shocked I was when he said NO

I was aghast as this place is open all night long and often sells to people who drink out on the street

And I’d never heard any tales of them refusing to serve anyone

But eventually I made it home and fell into my bed

The next morning exploded in a blaze of a raging hangover as I ran to my sink to get the night out of my system

I went back to bed as my head really ached and my stomach threw shapes that made me feel queasy

Later that day I managed to claw my way out and back out on the street

And the first thing I did was go back to that shop, the place of my embarrassment, and thank the guy for refusing to sell me any more

As the hangover finally began to subside and life slowly returned to its stoned-out normal state

--------------- 

IT’S ALL FUCKED UP!

I never thought this day would come around again

The day when I began writing imaginary letters of resignations

Because the job I have I can no longer handle

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it

Do you get my point or do you need me to say it again?

I hate it pure and simple

The other week, you know the one when I almost died

And then dragged my half-dead arse back to my check-out

Not sure what would happen because, put simply, I was a mess

Cleaning up my act after all these years and glad

Only to discover that come payday, that most joyous of days

We no longer get sick pay for the first three days

I had barely left my house during those days, lying in bed

Feeling closer to death than I ever have

And now, with rent going up and the short-fall in my pay

Well, my boss tells me, there ain’t nothing we can do

So what you’re saying is basically I’m screwed and not in a good way

If I had splurged like I did in the old days I’d be homeless right now

And then what would they have done?

Let me sleep in the locker room after I get evicted for non-payment of my rent

Which those three days pay could have prevented but hey they would say

You are easily replaced as there are thousands in this town desperate to work

With no safety net and no benefits and barely enough money to pay for anything except rent

Which this month ain’t even going to be covered because, put simply, this country is totally and utterly fucked!

-------------------------------

THE DESIRE FOR A QUIET LIFE

There are some people who crave the suburban life and with age I think I see their point

But for me it’d be about the privacy and a place to think rather than a white-picket fence utopian dream

Just enough space to spread out all my stuff that’s been clogging up my flat and my mind for so long now

Right now though I’d take one I could simply afford but on my job the pay ain’t great

And the suburban landlords don’t really like those of us who have to claim help in order to pay them

So what should I do? Well it looks like I got to stay here or get a new job or just fuck off back to London

The poorest areas there are even worse than living here and what’s more they cost so much, way more than here

Suburban living costs a lot and that ain’t something I really got much of

To save a deposit and find a good one in time are a virtual impossibility

So life right now is all about staying in and trying to keep my account climbing up

Or is it just a reflection of my boredom of this town, having nothing to do with saving?

I simply don’t know; if this town bores me what would life be like in suburbia, could it be even worse?

At least out there I’d get some peace away from the kids on a party weekend.

Bradford Middleton