We just can't make them
like this anymore.
The skill and craftsmanship
have been sacrificed
on the altar of accuracy
and machines and computers
have sterilised
the smell of hard work and love.

To make such a map
with no satellites, no certainty
meant wallowing in the mystery of the world.
In the space between knowing and supposing
there was a beauty
we may now miss, or deem unimportant.

However,
if I want to get from my house
to your grave, to pay my respects -
through the shopping malls
and bypasses,
the glass and steel towers
you could never have imagined,

I will use my sat-nav
and be grateful for it.

Tumbler in hand,
Without a stem,
Wine slowly warmed in your palm
The carboxyl-laden liquid gold

Daily medicine,
You prescribe yourself
And send your loving wife to pick up
From a clanking pharmacy

Returns
In lilac paper
A present you unwrap
For yourself.

A beauty,
More so than her
Or the daughter you both raised
You cradled your glass instead of her,
Sick, balding, bloated.

In the bathroom
Crying against the locked door
As you shout
To control, stop now
Her unregulated rate of mitosis
That was done in spite against you.
It’s her fault
That you cant fix it.

Unlike a mitral,
You cannot sow, stitch, or glue her in place,
She won’t stay where you put her,
But like this valve -
A pig.

She remembers nights you don’t,
Her memories your hangover
That you’ve grown resistant to
Like a bacteria.
The MRSA of our family,
Washing our hands of you,
Sterilised with alcohol.

The line of freedom was drawn,
fortunate passports found
amongst the rubble of Ground Zero.

The future was not a boot,
more, groping hands through
intimate pockets
and blue light that decimates
the privacy of dreams.

No concentration camps,
Bernays fuelled the fire­
in a wolf's disguise
until the crowd would herd itself.

No Aryan prophecy-
hatred more efficient
when its hands are untied.
Small disparities linger
the stem of deception:

the bottom-feeders are sterilised,
benefits withdrawn, foundations exposed
as ******* palms gather the loot
they lifted through the ceiling.

Sensory comfort provides
the leisure of a clouded mind,
a blood sugar spike,
the Soma of our time.
Under halogen lights
they make love in the high-rise

then labour in sleep
for what love cannot afford.

Continents divide.
Africa: the cold shoulder.
Asia: the factory line.

Oceans swell in neoprene heat
as sling-shots are drawn
beneath a dying star.
Old skull of Palestine,
cross-hairs on the White House
and a contusion in Pakistan.

Doors of perception only open to addiction.
Separate from G-d ,
draw more blood from the ground
like a smoker in the inexhaustible
process of quitting.

A belief in infinity
that will last until the world's end.

The line of freedom was drawn.
Everyone believed that they were on the right side.

You can die from their tears
I check the board to find out
who has passed away the previous night
  and then don my personal protective equipment
  Everything has been rigorously sterilised
 I have forty five minutes to treat and care
  as we sometimes collapse from heat exhaustion      
  I care for the weakest
  first  those who cannot move from their  blood
   **** and *****
  They look at me with such pleading sorrowful eyes
  babies, children, adults, , some have the courage to smile
  I smile back with my eyes
Care is compressing and feeding
to keep up their strength
They must fight this devastating disease alone
  I disrobe and painfully flick my elastic band
  every time I touch my face
We sterilise and sterilise but you can never be sure
  Rarely there is a ray of sunshine
  I have been singing and dancing with little Kaita for days
  behind the yellow fence
  and now she is free to go home
We celebrate any little victories to carry on
  Dear God, I beg you, please make terrifying Ebola gone


  This poem is a tribute to those with Ebola and the thousands of workers who  help them. In January cases are set to rise to a staggeringly sad 1.4 million.

'Now, make sure you've sterilised those instruments well. I want no complications with this one,' I say to my rookie assistant.

I carefully lay out the gleaming stainless-steel blades and check that all is in order. We're waiting on a last minute ***** donation to complete the procedure and although the timing is unorthodox, I'm confident of success. The pleural resection should be reasonably straightforward. If anything, it's the closure that bothers me...and the possibility of problems further down the line.

From outside comes the sound of a vehicle screeching to a halt. Then the kitchen door bursts open. 'Mommy, Mommy, we got it! The last one.' My six-year old holds the bag of chicken giblets up triumphantly. I smile at my father as he appears with the rest of the Thanksgiving groceries and passes them to my son. 'Right, so who's going to help me stuff this bird?'

I want to dig a hole
and bury
the emotions
that rise inside me
for you

I feel sorry when
I see them swell
and rise only to
be met by a silent
stone like shore
of your heart

so I want to dig a hole
and bury the emotions
even before they swell
rise up and come
crashing down

the hole I dig would need
to be quite wide and deep
to contain the range and
depth of emotions that
arise inside me for you

the emotions which you
ignore and don't want to know
the emotions which you
feel but have learnt to un-feel
the emotions which you
browse and carefully skip

once I bury them
in the big hole that I dig
you will never be able
to see them and
will never need to ignore
or feel or skip

then it will be all clean
calm, clear and free
once I have sterilised
my conversations from
all trace of emotions

when I would have
buried them in the
biggest and widest
hole that I can dig

epitaph
eulogy
i write
your life
for all to see
in four short lines
what could have been
sterilised existence
bones picked clean

The untrained eye cannot detect the lies,
is that the fault of the deceivers ?
The untamed liars cannot likewise deny or defy,
the thoughts in the vaults of the everyday dreamers.

The religion of conformity,
a non - choice that some must take.
Heaped upon many a shoulder,
the sullen, they fake, the weak just pay.

The discovery of independent thought,
of being brave and at last feeling strong.
Frowned upon by the would be controllers,
who need you to believe you are wrong.

Carry on, carrying on,
in that same sterilised traditional way.
Applecarts are the place to put your faith,
so everything stays comfortably the same.

The status quo of uniformity,
perfect guidelines, our God to follow.
Taught from a blackboard of empty prophecies,
and shells full of hollow.

Glorify yourself in bygone years,
with testaments of lies filled with tears.
Appeasement is a word that stands quite tall,
designed to grind the smallest even further behind the wall.

Suspicious bonds, rigid lines,
they're never properly identified.
A zigzag mess of a map,
its called being alive,
from birth to death,
oh what a grand design.

Little boy of urges hid, birthed in his mothers
Blood of stagnant death, behold the urges bathed
Him now in. Little one grew with morality taught
Only the Bad must bleed the good must be saved
With the cutting of a sterilised blade.

Blood became his urge as he worked with that
Loved, cherished so much. Oozing off objects
Trajectory of A-, From the exiting wound.
A sawn off shoot gun mouth fed then words
Became thought on everything but his mind.

Night earned my respect for deeds done, in
Silence, like a wasp did it sting then awoken
Upon pictures displayed, and then I spoke.

"Do you recognise those now never to utter words,

"I used to let them talk, but they mostly screamed,
"Swore, told me they'd **** me, really??
"Did they contemplate that they were about be silenced.

All was surrounded, sealed upon plastic and duck
Tape to keep that which spilled, kept in. As the blade
Fell, breath, life drained away. My urge fulfilled and
The bad gone permanently away but death is a clock
And tomorrows a brand new day.

My little playmates in their playground of death
At the bottom of the sea, now others have joined
Living breathing taken them away from me. I keep
Them in essence a blood droplet of final breath, in
My walls how Norman Bates of me.

"Come on son just do the right thing,

"Not now dad were having a meeting,
""He pops up at the most annoying times,

I have killed family, friends, lovers have even
Crossed the path that meets the edge of a blade
That makes lies still and fulfils my urges, they
were good I thought but paths were crossed so
They were ended another droplet spilled.

I love my hobby, who can say they love to ****,
Its only the bad that need to worry for when my
Fever peaks, and so many bad people to ****.

"I look at you, and see a part of me,
"But when you turn silent, I'm nothing like you,

I get a call, close up shop. All neat and tidy, like
No one had been here before. Slowly under the
Seat sealed delivered to my playmates  new
Hidey hole. Now back to work and see what splatter
Awaits that I didn't cause.

"Mmm yep I'd say their dead, as I don't think?
"Don't worry I found their head behind the sofa,

God I love my job, cant get any better than this.

pigeon coo’s echo outside the window
relentless repetition please stop,
grey skies, lacklustre rain
drip drop drips from the sky
like a tap not turned tight
enough

the kettle is screaming at me
fogs up the window
desperate, don’t look out there,
the forbidden fruit, sacred outdoors
sterilised sanitised inside, free me,
I long to ***** my feet

how can the world keep on turning
when we are all so still
does the passing of time matter
during this vast nothingness?

a cup of tea to calm my nerves
hot liquid chases down the fear
bubbling up in my throat but
it just crawls back, and settles
so quiet becomes the house
eternally occupied, no respite

heavier now, thankful for the sound
drowning out the silence, rain
like the white noise, grateful
the sound of breath has become
too much, all of us in mute,
in sound, in colour, in all

it's the day before my driving exam and i still don't know how to parallel park. i'm sitting in the passenger seat as my mother drives to our old church. this space no longer holds me. i stare blankly at the bug smeared across the windshield and hope my silence will be mistaken for submission.

we sit in the right wing of the chapel, half way up the staircase. i make eye contact with the girl i made out with last summer in the youth pastor's office. she is all sour cherries, collarbone tan lines, and the taste of salt water on my tongue. she abruptly turns and whispers something to her friend. the friend gasps, clasps her hands together, and starts to stammer, "Dear Lord.."

love the sinner, hate the sin. this love is choking me.

i know they pray for me over melancholic sermons, stale pizza, and gospel songs. then they write slurs on my locker, ***** me, and try to turn me straight all for the glory of God. i wonder if anyone ever thinks to pray for them.

the pastor starts to list things he considers abominations: bruised avocados, atheists, wokeness, his ex wife. my eyes glaze over.

as a child i learned "lesbian" was a bad word before i learned it was a part of my identity. i was taught that my love is inappropriate, immoral, nothing more than a **** category most commonly searched by the same boys that tell me to rot in hell.

thats when it starts, the same speech i've heard my whole life.

i am a sinner.

my sin is love. my sin is loving so deeply that i was able to reframe my thoughts, overcome the preconceived ideas planted in my mind as a child that preached hatred and shame and passing judgement onto strangers.

for once, i do not stay. i do not endure it. i stand up, fix my skirt, and climb over my mother, her eyes fixed on the pastor, nodding along. i walk out of the chapel and 2.1 miles down the highway. my mother does not come after me.

there are parts of me that she does not know how to love and has no desire to learn how.

my family always jokes that the dog is my mother's favorite child. i watch the way she meticulously brushes her fur, holds her when she cries during storms, and loves her regardless of the mud dragged down the sterilised corridor of the house.

i take comfort in knowing she cares about something, i just wish it were me.

Rattling; a swift, strong to-fro god of quietness
Of collective anticipation: everything lurches
From wall to wall, accumulates
In suddenly-spotlit corners. The news
Of the bombing splashed from the sky
And shook the country awake.
Sightless in confusion, we turned
To terror for comfort, and everywhere,
The crooked bells of fury
Were waking each other up.

I sank on my bed. I was shuffling
From app to app, and you
In France, were excited too. I was waiting
Only for you.
My piston-heart small against the night
Fraught with petty indecisions
Of an exhausted love, it breathed the scattered wisps of news
And sneezed, sneezed to let you through.

I was sliding the apps over each other
And always, you appeared: taut as
Sterilised steel, scorching hot
With your careless endearment.
Do you think that there will be a war?
Well, I heard they shot down some planes.
You say you will miss me, as a joke.
But I am here, incapable of humour
Waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting
My eyes dim like a low-battery lamp
And the glitter of your name settles
Like dust on the floor.
The 3 am clock is awake with me
And I know I cannot afford to skip one more lecture
But 00 turns to 30 and then 40 and I think
I will just make the coffee a little bit stronger.

-

But what am I awake for?
I load, reload the news. An hour ago, for the first time,
A word, like a broken tooth, rang its metallic sound:
Home. And I shivered from the sincerity of it.
My hands are tied to the pungent hands of this land
My words are here. When I yell,
It is these broken streets that hear me.
My paltry heart is fed on its blood. Its abuse
Is indistinct from its love. This grotesque
Is the only love.
And they tell me, sympaths from far off lands: leave.

The mosques are awake and singing
I do not care for prayer or god. But I permit
The sounds of worship tease me.
I permit the thought of you instill me.
Although sweetness runs stale from disuse
I caress - caress you still before sleep.
My hatered is indistinct from this.

My - my mumble-mouth, my hesitancies
My thin laugh and my thin silence
I can afford to heed you
No more than this. I can turn, return
In stuttering strides; and you play
So beautiful, with your sharp soft face
But the night crumbles. The mosques
Have sung and knelt in prayer. The impossible
Hours pass - one after another.

-

There are questions. Will the schools open?
Will there be more attacks? Did you
Hear the fighter jets too?
Nothing ever dies but man, and nothing ever lives.
A white sun spreads its wings
And content,
I bid your absence goodnight and sleep.

-

[In the morning, I will take the little car to 160
And turn lustrous sharp corners
Because the roads will be empty].

I walked down the lanes of a familiar town,
A beautiful haze, a colourful maze
Of people old and young,
Of scenes jovial and bright,
Of happiness shared and upsets spared,
Of dreams realized and nightmares sterilised.
I walked through it all, through them all.
Through the smiles and the cheer,
Of the beauty and the innocence,
Of harmony and friendship,
Of the Christmas red, of another beginning bred
Of the untouched and the impure,
Of the rehabilitated state of sweet and sour.
I walked through it all,
Like a shadow.
There yet not there.
A dark unnatural blot in the natural beauty of it all.
Never belonging anywhere like a door left ajar,
I stick my hand out, so near yet so far.

My teeth are blunt from leisure
I refrain from bite, the flesh
Is just short of spice, but it
Would suffice, would that I
Willed; would that I. My jaw
Bolts shut like a fist and I ****
My body in on itself. Close, all
Movement close, I shall take
Nothing of this. I shall
Lie here, pale and pure as
Sterilised steel and let the
Earth steal what is due but
It will not grow, not one sour
Bloom from my sterile stew.
Let it taste and grimace,
Ransack then my sallow face.
And cold or old, my jaw will clench
Ever as bold and when all is done
In heavens and above, let it
Bellow upon God's flat face:
I did not take. I did not take.

I know how you feel, but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities they took you from your home
To a unknown place, they took me from my home just across the road

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities you survived the WW2 **** concentration camps
I am in a mental health hospital in 2018 today alive

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities some of you survived to have children
I have been sterilised just like some of you too

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities you have been used in torturous experiments and research
Without consent, some died, like you I am alive

I know how you feel but I just don't know how you feel
Jews and ethnic minorities you had freedom taken away from you
In 2018 my freedom has been taken with my privacy too