For this piece, as a one-off, I hand over blogging chores to a creative and original writer of my acquaintance. Why? Because I’m currently too distracted and demotivated to do much blogging myself.
MOORGATE
by Martin Fenton
nobody knows
the reasons
(behind
that fateful
crash)
forty miles an hour
into a wall of brick
forty two dead
(including
the driver
motorperson newson)
the tabloids
suggested drink
(as youd expect)
in spite
of the fact
that the drivers
liver
was fit
for exhibition
(in a butchers window)
neither inquiry
nor inquest
examined
the psychosexual motive
whereby
man
(symbolising
all that is
cruel)
machine
(symbolising mans quest
for power
and ultimate indolence)
and
brick
(symbolising
mans desire
to rape
ruin
and penetrate
the sky
with phallic permanence
the world over)
conspired to
enter the annals
of history
through a contrivance
of bestial
male
aggression
guard harris
was not to blame
(although
the inquiry
dubbed him
both undisciplined
and idle)
for being
a pretty boy
of only eighteen
(with flowing locks
of brown hair)
an innocent
(in a savage
mans
world)
that fateful day
harris arrived
(late)
but
(alas)
not (late)
enough
shed better blow today
thought newson
(the two hundred
and some
sheets
burning a hole
in his hip pocket)
he felt like a big man
(thrusting his
phallic
red
nineteen thirty eight
monster
through tunnel
after tunnel)
oh yes
shed better blow today
he thought
(imagining harris
in the gymslip
hed bought her)
harris wouldnt yield
to this male
(aggressor)
a potential rapist
(by birth)
with slack morals
(and the deadpersons brake
under his
supreme control)
newson vexed
decided to teach harris
a lesson
(hed not forget)
give him a fright
(show him
whos boss)
(the other forty one
were simply
in the wrong place
at the wrong time)
yet harris lived
only slightly shaken
(but his looks unaffected)
while newson
crushed
himself
to death
(head
through the window)
bones cracked
in the shape
of the deadpersons handle
(which came to rest
on his shoulder)
the driver died
as he lived
(frustrated)
(it took five days to retrieve
his body
half cooked
in the fierce heat
of the tunnel)
but the guard lived
soon redundant
a scapegoat
for the railway
(who felt that the wall itself
would be an effective deterrent
against driving
into it
at high speeds)
(no emergency brakes
fitted
as standard)
ask yourself this
who are the real victims
Thank you for exposing my oeuvre to the public at large. I should clarify the reason for the lack of any standard punctuation in the above is due to the influence of the marvellous Astra, whose book, “Back You Come, Mother Dear”, contains no capital letters, commas or full stops. Or talent, for that matter. You can get a copy for 64p plus P&P from Abebooks.It’s worth its weight in paper.
I’m grateful for the clarification Astra, I mean Martin. By the way, I must apologise for not precisely reproducing the innovative format of your original. I tried to align the lines as you did, but WordPress kept defaulting the text back to left alignment and I couldn’t be arsed to work out how to do it. Despite this, I think the poem retains most of its, its, its, its, um – words?