"That one shot girl of nineteen through the knees.
They threw that one down concrete stair--
till I was angry, said I was pleased."
- Auden "Easter 1929"
All these many angry protests have revealed
to many more who only saw before
exceptions - trauma best propitiated -
police battalions marching black and blue
who would do black and blue and bloody too
to me and you, who wish all harm
within the reach of swinging arm.
That lumpen Trumpery hype up: "Let's kill!"
We hear them clear who like to strut
on cellphone video their impunity and star
in shoving over elderly.
Totter, fall like clown,
bang ancient knees and hips and jawbone down,
or backwards fold till head the concrete crown
and blood springs from the ears, to be ignored.
They pull a mask to pepper spray the eyes
of girls and when Sis slumps to ground,
a kick to sprawl her on the tarmac's sound.
Oh women, especially, they like to beat,
club standing girl to ground to rough her there;
for sadist brute supremacists, their porn,
a field day.
Hot dang! This is why we're born.
"What's going to happen, sir," a young girl asks
"What's going to happen is I'll beat your ass!"
As clear as day he answers for history.
And get that knee off of her neck - The knee! -
From our eyes fall scales and mystery -
but in our eyes the pepper spray and gas.
Eyeballs explode as rubber bullets blast.
'Non-lethal' weapons are fired with hope to kill
and failing that to do some lasting ill.
'Hey! Say this canister, like in Judge Dredd.
sticks in his craw and fizzes brains from head.'
They fire at point blank range on any dare
peacefully approach them, or who dare
to be the world's press in that brute melee.
All this in knowledge that they're on the stage -
reduced humanity slab psycho rage.
Their night cavalry cruiser late streets
to ambush groups of kids.
They miss
and hit a car or window - just the fcuking biz.
Put out our eyes; put out our lights
put down our speech, put down our rights.
And dog knows what the evil round the corner
where no light shines on Jack or Jaqui goner.
These brutish thugs who clue no wrong from right
swagger all roads, the army of the night.
No sunlight tames them, nor no rainbow pauses;
they're made of deepest trash and final clauses.
................................
The first two direct speeches are close to verbatim. The whole is made from the impression of many many clips, so not unfair at all.
..........................
This in 1976.
Crumpled Paper...
Crumpled paper on a summer pavement
in the breeze: it scrapes and rolls
from time to time. Bits of dead leaves
circle in a corner between wall and hoarding.
In the summer city breathing traffic waste,
under white sky glaring from a roof of haze,
transitory crowds avoiding collisions,
eyes in their own worlds bobbing through space
among each other between the buildings
and slow roads trailing fumes,
bus roars above car-carouse,
drowning in each other. Through shaken air
the waves of street sound rear,
break in opaque thunder.
...........
YOU ARE READING
Bridging
PoetryPoetry. Each new poem with the bonus of a much older poem from relative youth, bridging time, in a way.
