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Jacqueline Weir: Poems


Poems

Jacqueline Weir



THE  TUNE OF ANOTHER


Observe

On the salacious edge of the light curve,

The lines, the wave, the fault in your reality.

It is a sign, a trick, a snare.

Stare,

Be afraid, be aware that the eye deceives more then the mind.

Illusion, trickery; nothing but the tune of another's psyche.

So 

Observe. Glare through the flickering flaw,

The slubbed fabric.

Tear it open, peer in, reach in,

Do not avoid the void, rush in,

Be that fool tumbling.

Stray from the sordid path,

The glowing edge, the Id can be your guide,

But don't think to return from the new world,

A true world.

Crawl through the space, into space and swim among the stars,

Such a bright

White

Night.

A beautiful dream of reality true.

A gift, a life so sweet tasting;

Drown

In dreams and honey, pure.

Rest In the gentle arc of the lillies.

Breathe the perfume for once,

For always.

An new adventure to venture forward.

Touch the light  and taste the rich abundance.

Indulge yourself. Treat yourself kindly..

Devour your own Heaven.

And leave no trail, no telling footfalls.

Be consumed by the light;

Let it feel you, feed you, tear your flesh, dissolve you 

In acid sunlight.

Who gains the remains?

No one -

There shall be none,

No claims on your life.

Oh sweet deceit Into freedom!

Wallow in that resplendance.

And forget all that lies behind you in memory,

In afterthought.

To turn back is to turn to stone,

To dust,

To die.

Go!

Run from this weighted existence,

Plunge into the cool black water

Deep,

Endlessly deep,

And cleanse yourself of a putrid Life.

Misery, what has it granted thee?

A mirthless soul in ravenous flesh.

Dare yourself to be human,

To be, a tiny God.




PRIVILEGE THROUGH VIOLENCE


So many laws of Empire still stand firm here.  You can see it in the
eyes, hear it in the voice, and feel it in the attitude

Of those who start their speeches with "Believe me when I say I have
no predjudice..."

The wolves of colonialism have forced their claws and carnivorous
desires into the blood soaked skins of slaughtered sheep

And stalked among their 'subjects'.  They are just like us, now.

Why worry, after all, when they've already granted us our freedom...

Yes, our freedom. Our liberty. 

How easy it is to forget that freedom can only be granted if it is
first taken away.

When the predators relaxed their jaws, their punctured, petrified prey
gained nothing, but reclaimed a little of their lives.

Never be deceived by a bloodied herd baring gifts - they are merely
thieves returning the goods

That no longer serve their purpose.

Behind those gleaming smiles lie hateful sneers and a deeply embedded
wish that we will all remember our place.

"So, where are you from?" she asks, even though my accent is more
local than hers.

She will never believe that we were born under the same flag, or even
under the same sun.

After all, her forefathers were the masters of mine and 
it is only by their precious grace that I am 'allowed' 
to step foot onto her hallowed isle.

She expects gratitude worn upon the sleeve and an unhealthy expression
of how happy I am to be living amongst her brutes and thugs.

"Where am I from?" From a place that never invited you but welcomed
you all the same:

And was thanked with beatings, bullets and a life in chains.


Incarceration is so easily veiled when the shackles are,
convieniently, no longer made of iron:

But made instead of poverty and the imposition of a culture built upon
greed and selfishness.

Easy to pretend that you are not injured when the lash comes from the
tongue.

Yet, every time your history is omitted or distorted it is the
bull-whip across your back.

And everytime you believe the lies of free enterprise, that equality
can be bought with enough money and aggression, 

The chains around your arms are pulled ever tighter.

How can you raise your hands in pride when they are tied behind your
back?

And when you dance to the stereotype's tune you lay at their feet the
proof for which they never stop searching.

That apparent and blatant role model is the slave traders' tool - that
manufactured 'culture' is the collar around your neck.

That collar will become a hangman's noose.

And with that burning rope they will lead you into the pit, the mass
grave which we are all too willing to keep digging:

Whilst telling all the imperialists of old that they were right, all
along, to compare us to those who walk upon all fours.

                                       

                                             

HATE BLINDS


This fear,

Terrified eyes twisting

Searching for reprieve, for mercy

This is what the butcher didn't see

As his fist cracked another rib.

She knew she was bred to die

It was a fate to which she was resigned

But why 

The added brutality?

The others tried to shy away

In their non-space, non-home - breathless cell

They trampled upon one another,

Panicked, garrotted witnesses

Hoping to make the horror disappear.

So, this is what it means to be worthless.

Another crack, a leg this time

Could he not hear her cries, her pleas

To stop?  Stop

This pain,

Every ounce of flesh aflame

Roasting in the Hell of inferiority,

This is what the butcher didn't see

Now he stands and raises a foot

To finish a killer's handiwork

Not a kick but a stamp; a crush

Her scream was eaten by fleeing air

She bit her tongue and tried not to care

Believing, the end to be near

Will this day of blood be forgotten

By this body,

This soul,

Pleading for darkness and life no more?

A screaming, tortured vivacity

This is what the butcher didn't see

As he slid a pig's carcass 

Across the metal floor

God only knows what he thought he saw.




THE HAND THAT ROBS THE CRADLE


At the sound of that first lonely cry

He stands beside the cradle

With gifts to steal the pain away.

One hand outstretched with a bright delight

The other held close, concealed

By a hungry, lightless body.

And in those hidden fingers he clasps the vial

As empty as he, and craven.

There is one for each squalling child

Rising from the core of separation

To procure purpose, memory and truth.

Stealing from a babe is his most trying task,

They know too well who they are. Uncorrupted and new.

Seduction is simple

When there are eyes and ears to be deceived

And other hollow vessels 

To help lead the strange astray,

Turn its eyes to the prison wall

Hurling a shroud over the fey.

In convienient shadows, he barely dares to breathe

While he waits for that childish wonder

To accept his tainted oblation.

All it takes is a hint of 'I'

To trap a glimmer of soul under glass,

There it will grow. Ripen. Fester.

All benevolence will be betrayed

By a twisted undine slithering beneath the skin.

Consequence deceased in a daylight eye,

The spirit dragged, in misery, to dust.

The cold glass encroaches, begging to be filled

With the spinning mirror: a wonder light. 

And the hand

Still closes tight, while the tongue dreams 

Of succulent premature death.  A wish 

Too often fulfilled as senses are stung 

By things that do not concern them,

Reason and resolve blur behind the haze of desire.

The future is thrown to the mouth of a liar

And behind each smile, an ungrateful sneer

As he swallows the essence of stars. 

Never satisfied.

And as another newborn cries, calling for caring touch

Out of reach,

He is there with the  offering, 

An impoverished subsitute,

Waiting for the wanting,

The murder of all there is to love.





THE DUKE


He seemed so different through the beautiful rose blessed window

Dangerous, yes, but delicate.  Compelling eyes, tender lips

All so temptingly displayed on the face of an impoverished angel.

No, this isn't right;

That gentle mouth wears an impish grin.

This is how he draws you in...


He danced towards me, playing jester or demented harlequin

Closer...Closer...Keep your distance!

I could almost feel his chilling skin...

Don't think I don't know who you are!

I have walked behind your eyes and tasted your torture

Tainted further by untruths told.


Closer...Closer still...

The Devil's hand is filled with gold.  But, I know his gifts 

Are maimed desires and pain filled lusts.

Such a seed would tear me in two

As his mis-shapen brat screamed to freedom.

Unfathomable agony...What is that growing across my face?


Dear lord, I wish for this spell...

Grant me that hypnotic gaze

I could remain in his arms for the rest of my daze

Never caring

Or asking how he grows so strong from my weakening pulse.


His face is almost upon mine, now.

The clear smooth sand is my only sheild

Do not crack!  Do not bow!  I fear I will yield.  No...

The faintest sound as the virgin is pushed to the stone.

What can protect me now?

This is what it means to blindly fall

Into the ravenous mouth, into the labyrinth...


How far can these muscles stretch, these bones bend

Before the body rends under the force of those deadly arms?

A lifetime.  An eternity.  So he assures me...

I must never steal my eyes from his

So he assures me...


He climbs in like a thief

Leaving no mark but the shattered glass;

pathetic protector

His tongue bears the sound of empty love

But he sings so sweetly the songs of the ordained

His voice filling my heart to burst.

I refuse to resist.

A demon could not spawn such beauty...Or be so beautiful,

Could he?

And what a sight he is to behold -

A winged gazelle bearing no signs of the flames of Hell.

And even with the aura of graves around his feet

I still feel my place is beneath them.


This is a cold but comforting embrace.  My head weary

upon his shoulder

He whispered a perfumed insult and told me not to fear

The sleep.

And it was so deep...

Distant laughter in a half forgotten dream

Then silence...

Silence...

Silence.




E-mail Jacqueline



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