The Why For

I mind the colour that comes from my mouth

the blackened blues of split words and forked accents

that bind and bruise the sound in my ears.

I am angry

I am angry

I am anti-forgiveness and pro-protestation

against a world where atom


moon feels foot

where the hatred of man spits out holocaustian darkness

nuclear free-for-alls

passivity in the face of poverty

but cannot, in all its power, falsify my own truth

of the newness that separates and un-heals,

from her taking

her void left so full of being not.

And I am to stare into a mirror sickened

slickened through the half-glazed-gaze-half-smash

watching me stuff the gauze down my throat

without feeling the weight of it in my stomach.


I Am Anger

I have no political agenda

No throne for the pretender

I am not a victim of prejudice or malignant protestation

I am not disadvantaged or mismanaged of expectation

I am the angry

I have no slight of hand being played my way

I am not overtly overlooked or promoted above

I am not sexisted for lack of existing

Nor am I a walking talking breathing sin to be prayed for or worshipped against

No misspoken spokesperson kicking me while I’m down

And there has been no time I have been sexually taken the disadvantage of

But still

But still

Yet still I am angry

Angry for the genes I carry and the inevitability shoved deep in their pockets


Folded and folded

Angry for the absence felt daily and ignored equally


Unapologetically and guiltily in tandem force

Angry for the fact that I do not know

How To Be Angry

Angry because I never learnt the skills to chisel out of stone this feeling

Or hammer the truth of it to the wall for me to scream at

Lunge at

Sob at

Anything at for the sake of something!

I covet the angry

The disenchantment of mine own

Falls behind the aggressive and stepping on the toes of the passivity in me

I covet the angry

The stepped out of line thoughts that mutter themselves to my tongue

And purse themselves to my lips when all inside is not well

But all outside be picture perfect replica of a self I once was and wanted

I be the angry

The dissent of the revolved unevolved feeling

That circles and circles itself

A vent

A ranted

A stillness infiltrated by a violence

Of sitting

Of smiling

Of being. Still.