TEDxDouglas

On the 10th November, I will be performing poetry at the first TEDxDouglas event. I feel immensely honoured by this and wanted to pay tribute to the movement. For details about tickets and other speakers please go to

 www.tedxdouglas.im

Migranomancy

Here breaks that wave.
Awash
I'm tossed
from my mental enclave.
At the mercy of my tidal sense
current-lost inside my consciousness.
Desperately treading Aether.
Eventually all's still
I perceive
a light
so far away above.
Milky through the murk.
Try to reach it, it elongates and goes into reverse.
Manta-like I glide
drawn by my guide
it this saturated aura-verse.
All I perceive is brightness, lightness,
freedom and
detachment.
I realise in this flesh suit I'm free to travel round.
By thinking of my ankle, that's where my inner voice is found.
Limited by body without training to encourage
this latent talent/curse/condition. Without knowing how to mange
the handling. S'like Hyperoid; touchy, hit and miss.
It's an unusual type of voyancy, a questionable gift.
But there are others who have felt it, floating-free in inner space.
Migraneurs volante; they use their talent to create
worlds apart from solid air.
They find themselves,
their tales
there.



This poem was inspired by the magnificent Samantha Shannon and her book The Bone Season. This is the first book in a seven part series and I urge you to buy it, read it, love it, share it. She has created such a rich universe that I lost myself in completely. The end of The Bone Season left me breathless. I can't wait to read The Mime Order.
For this poem I recycled my migraine symptoms through the vocabulary and imagery of Samantha's universe and came up with this. I enjoy this particular symptom, so much so that I would never want a permanent migraine cure. I would be desolate if I were no longer able to interact with this sensation of utter fleshlessness.

Xxxx

Garnering Respect

Iconoclasts

have come, at last

to save us from this drudgery.

This too-easy, this clear to see

hegemony.

But icons as they are say what

They want and not

the truths we seek;

brutally bleak, more earnest than just

freakishly banal.

Their hype and zeitgeist distort the swarm

redefine the form of normality.

Crudely mis-marketing misogyny and misandry

as pride.

Another cardboard enemy

a Goldstein drawn among us to deride.

A different one allows themselves to be

unformed; unsure; walks clumsily.

This unvarnished personality

without polished paid publicity is kept

as curiosity, held up as sideline eccentric

to reject

at will.

And they will.

Using nebulous concepts like

Standards, or

Breeding, or

Culture

as excuses to slaughter to the screeching of vultures

or whatever altar serves best the purpose being pushed.

And the person being crushed by such faltering disservice

does not stop being a person when you’re hungry for their blush.

Objects made of people will ultimately fail.

“Neither use nor ornament”; it’s the old wives’ sliding scale.

Old wives, old knives, old scores to settle.

Metal measures mettle but the meter always morphs.

Intangible out-fluences – diluting stimulations

Reactionary conflation of the story you would tell

Intrinsic expectation of how disgracefully you fell

from the pedestal they put you on, the one you didn’t build.

It grew beneath your feet in the instant you stood still.

Starlet in the spotlights, frozen, blind, wide-eyed.

Demanding penance for your daring to have a private life.

Sordid little details now publicly discussed.

Using terms like “unladylike” and “ashamed” and “disgust”.

Hold your head up high, dear; fear is something they’ve not earned.

Their weak attempt to dampen your flame that brightly burns

Is just a pissing contest. You’re treading on their toes.

The days of rule by bully-force are coming to a close.

Sick Leave

Poverty struck me down with spore shot, seething
in the only air I could afford to breathe.
Setting up time bombs in my bronchioles.
Taxing my very breath.
Taking pictures and asking for help, moving furniture around,
open windows, light the stove - it didn't do the trick.
Beyond that we looked for a new home on slightly drier ground.
Who can afford lawyers when you're not paid when you're off sick?
It's a trap! It's a trap! This breadline game.
But if you accept the social all of society, you will blame
for dwindling public funding and cuts to the NHS
instead of looking to those with good health and their booming business.
Those who'll never have to live on coffee and dry Frosties.
Who can afford to pay for a dentist for the inevitable cavities.
Whose toilet has never frozen. Who can afford to socialise.
Who've never had to pin their hopes on their slum landlord's obvious lies.
Having climbed with tooth and nail from this awful bone-cold trap
the scars it left upon my lungs are the ominous short-cut back.
Without sick-leave we're all hel in this precarious state.
This is the poverty burden.
This is the 99%'s fate.


DISCLAIMER: My current landlady is an absolute gem and it's actually in response to her fantastic reaction to our garden that I've written this. She's magnificently pro-active and I feel very lucky to being doing business with her. Xxxx