Download - Survivors Poetry

B ROA D S H E E TSaskia’s PartyThree days before, Saskia cleared the house –a seething rubbish mosaic that movedin waves of green–black beetles,fat enough to carry bass guitars,dancing in a trash heap of yesterday’shoarded newspapers, where she beheldthe flash of footnotes that didn’t exist,joyful black–bag clearance, no excuses anymore.As the guests walked in to an empty house,eight o’clock on every hand–made invite,the only sound was an echoing metronomeand before they could even call her nameDamien was warmed up at the keyboard,and cups were dipped into the well–litliquid shimmering punch bowl,handfuls of nibbles bathed in their sick syrupswere snatched up and crunched, spilled, split,a girl with a fin for hair who wasn’t invitedtucked–in while Damien improvised on an A scaleand their chatter grew like larvae, hatching.In the backroom drum and bass penetrated heartsand spines, all the days of fresher’s–flu bilewashed down with cheap vodka.She’d wanted elevation to the leader of fools,It should have been different this timethought Jo, blushing, grinding down dancing,waiting for Saskia’s smile,self mutilation under a sterile latticeof cotton bandage, a comfort against January,she’d made a grammar for talking to strangersrendered in scars, raised messages reading love meleave me, love me, a footnote for Saskia.And they carried on and on waiting,twisting down–dirty–down with no host.But Saskia’s out by the river,she left the door cracked open,and she’s watching plastic bottles half–fullof green bitty slime water bobbing,pond skater’s eaten by gulping mouthsthat break the surface scum,orange lamppost light glowing likethat twinkling string of January sale Christmas lightsshe’d draped under the punch bowlto make it look invitingand not just a pale, frantic curiosity.She can’t enjoy her own partybecause they’ll be grinding their grime in,grinding themselves in,rooting in the places it took three daysto clean, it hurt because it isn’t junk,it isn’t junk, it wasn’t junk.She threw a note in the water,a footnote about talking to strangers at parties,about seeing messages no one else sees.Jessica NashNo fly zones over Bradford and MarseillesFrom a nation obsessedWith cheap celebsAnd weddings of toxic royal chavs,Pig faced CameronFires cruise missilesFrom his fat arseOn a sovereign stateWhen he has no cashTo feed his own peopleWho die in hospital corridors, after bash,bash the bashing of poor workers,Asians, Blacks, students and the unions.Dwarf Sarkozy cannot Reach his wife’s vaginaFor foreplay but playsA “war leader” the frogs never had.Even Marie Le–Pen out polls him!Cheap scum, baskingIn war glory when puppetMaster, US of A has youBoth by the short and curlies.Revolutions fomentedBy the CIA and MI6,For oil and Lockerbiestoked up byBrit and US hacks like the “Con”,Cough linctus in the pay of CIA andarms merchants is no war of “Liberation”but subversion(List of bribed whitie hacks and MPs on internet Tomorrow)10