AfterBirth

 

“It’s not necessary that Women play Cricket”

said the zealot

whilst adjusting the dress of his own middle wicket,

fearful of progress and all that goes With-it

 

In the Maternity Ward out pops another

Allah is praised for the gift of a brother,

while the now Empty Vessel knowing her place

Averts lesser eyes from his superior face.

 

The Un-bearded head spat out between Thighs

coughed out Her Blood and replaced it with lies,

to think all that hate was born of his seed

It’s beyond all debate that it’s him we don’t need

 

 

Poets do nothing

 

Poets do nothing

save to steal and to share,

they relocate riches

That are already there.

 

A Sunrise unspoiled 

from a blue virgin sky,

they’ll scrawl on the page

not knowing the why

 

They’re up in the morning

when the wild things awake

like Cat Stevens yawning

fuck, give us a break

 

They’ll paint secret colours

that you’ve never seen,

and tell you of places

that they’ve never been

 

But mostly they sit on their

arses and write,

subjecting poor wretches

to unfettered shite.