Making tracks erased in the blue wastelands of Thatcher

Posted in Uncategorized on August 18, 2020 by antonyowen
black and white road sky man

Photo by David McEachan on Pexels.com

I don’t post reviews on here and this is not a book review more of an observation of something positive happening in the changing landscape of working class expressionist writing in the UK. A new pamphlet by Katy Wareham-Morris brings a poignant perspective of Morris as a daughter of a Longbridge factory worker in her childhood before it closed. It has an incongruous warmth amongst the Soviet-esque and machismo factory setting of the Rover plant where Morris incorporates a prosaic account of prose in how a factory produces childhoods as much as car parts. The affection for her father as the main protagonist of this work is tangible but Morris does not add saccharin to these reminiscences she adds all the dirt and duty a factory demands. A factory man is not the man we see as out father, the necessary primal worker to survive in a male dominated environment amongst the ruthlessness of commercial versus blue-collar pressures sum up to a malfunction of inevitable destiny our industries faced in the Thatcher years. The cold table charts of data that Morris intersperses are not designed to be poetic but as close to a data sheet of alternative information of what a factory is to a person that works there and the families that become the sum of the breadwinners parts. This is an impressive and experimental work by Morris taking some risks given that the inhabited domain of what is still largely a male domain has to be a credible piece of work regardless of whether the author is male or not. I think given a wider platform this work could have been expanded on in more detail but the abruptness of it’s ending actually strengthens the work as it feels like the lack of an ending or conclusion only amplifies the fate of what factories like Longbridge suffered in sudden demise and ending. I think Morris is at her strongest when she does not hold back as she is at her most unique and affective when she presents the truth as it is and not as we would like to think of it. One of the most exciting young poets writing today Morris is definitely one to look out for as this is early days in a long and exciting future in gritty subjects she has covered from fresh perspectives at feminism, sex and relationships and motherhood.

Cov kids art by rango

Posted in Uncategorized on August 16, 2020 by antonyowen

front cover

Nobody cares about Muslim genocide

Posted in Uncategorized on July 20, 2020 by antonyowen
hollywood sign

Photo by Paul Deetman on Pexels.com

In China there is a train eating muslims.

Outraged in my sweatshop adidas I am writing a poem.

I am titling it nobody cares about muslim genocides and why?

A version of myself is westernised enough to turn my eyes away,

to look at the millinery of night sky planets too tired to orbit each other.

 

In Xianville there are trains on three stripes

Like me in my adidas taking myself away to prison.

I am calling myself out in the hope my whiteness gets a blood rush.

I am calling myself out that I am too tired to care about the white plague.

I am watching a fly bound to a web and the spider is sick of spinning silk.

 

Nobody cares about Muslim genocide because Hollywood sold them all out.

Hollywood traded muslims as Aladdin and tea-towel madmen,

we bought it in True Lies when Conan saved the day

and those trains are going to leave as we watch,

All that matters is sex and chlorinated chicken.

 

I remember a beach where the white sands blinded me and I never moved.

I chose to swim between two red flags and risked the current

it could have dragged me down to such depths and yet,

I saw something I wanted from the warm waters

It made me feel better until life pulled me back.

 

Nobody cares anymore about muslims or anything uncomfortable,

if they were fashion we would store them away from sight

they would not make the one dollar store because,

because. because, I guess we sold ourselves out.

We sold out the human as we were possessed.

A racist is welcomed into heaven by a brown Jesus

Posted in Uncategorized on June 20, 2020 by antonyowen

Peace Poet Antony Owen

astrology astronomy beautiful constellation Photo by Sam Kolder on Pexels.com

I picture you in Boots buying fake tan

you want to look good for the march and you’re too white.

You want to air your views that our Island is sinking with non-natives.

You get a rush of blood, roman blood, mixed race blood, yeah, English blood.

I picture you having a heart attack as you turn brown from fake tan.

You are in your union jack boxers and collapse on your bulldog rug.

A second later you open your eyes to a bright light in heaven.

All of the Angels are speaking a foreign language.

A brown Jesus wades through water and welcomes you with open arms,

he is making the effort to speak your native tongue and as he does so

birds fly under his mouth as it bleeds and they become robins.

“Welcome” he says “you are one of us, come…

View original post 108 more words

A racist is welcomed into heaven by a brown Jesus

Posted in Uncategorized on June 18, 2020 by antonyowen
astrology astronomy beautiful constellation

Photo by Sam Kolder on Pexels.com

I picture you in Boots buying fake tan

you want to look good for the march and you’re too white.

You want to air your views that our Island is sinking with non-natives.

You get a rush of blood, roman blood, mixed race blood, yeah, English blood.

 

I picture you having a heart attack as you turn brown from fake tan.

You are in your union jack boxers and collapse on your bulldog rug.

A second later you open your eyes to a bright light in heaven.

All of the Angels are speaking a foreign language.

 

A brown Jesus wades through water and welcomes you with open arms,

he is making the effort to speak your native tongue and as he does so

birds fly under his mouth as it bleeds and they become robins.

“Welcome” he says “you are one of us, come to the supper”

 

I picture you shouting at Jesus to fuck right off calling him a liar.

You call him out for not walking on water and Jesus smiles.

He tells you the fictions and truths of black ink and white hands,

you punch Jesus in the nose but it’s you who bleeds out on Gethsemane.

 

Jesus says he has bled on this place before.

He says race wears many uniforms and hides behinds flags.

He looks at the racist and says he wants his unwanted gift back

“I gave you that skin and your insides have poisoned it”

 

The racist is cast out to a Nivea sea

pin and pull

Posted in Uncategorized on June 12, 2020 by antonyowen

pin and pull

George Floyd

Posted in Uncategorized on June 1, 2020 by antonyowen

George Floyd

“I can’t breathe”

 

I watched the white plague of your death

and let us contemplate the worth of this loss

a twenty-dollar bill with another racist president

who owned the grass stained knees of long forgotten slaves.

 

Death is simple when its black and thrown from the thieving lens.

You cannot loot a dying mans eyes he is my brother

and I am a white man sick of primary colours

our skin is not our fault and yet it is.

 

In the circuitry of Earths orbit are not pretty white stars –

they are satellites circling like hierarchical vultures

and they want you now so badly you’re of worth,

A saint no, a man yes, a human without miranda.

 

George Floyd – this poem was written against my knees in bed,

my white skin against the flesh warm breath of my laptop.

Soon it will stop breathing and I shall sleep safe and sound

for I am a white man writing of a black man stolen your whole life

 

and

death.

 

george floyd RIp

Dominic Cummings prepares for his trip

Posted in Uncategorized on May 24, 2020 by antonyowen

For Mel

I saw you waving a safety helmet at camera’s and thought –

here is a man who cares about collisions to his children

here is a man who wore a seat belt to be safe on journeys.

I have a friend who is on a journey of depression right now

she has not seen her Mum in a care home for two months,

long ago when pregnant her waters kept her baby safe

for nine months her body was a care home built of DNA bricks

she raised them in the whole wide world of their tiny universe.

They would set the table to eat together attempting etiquettes.

When they had kids of their own, they got pissed up sometimes

and even then, a mother will give her last paracetamol to her kin.

 

I picture Dominic Cummings buying the Range Rover he journeyed in,

I imagine the order of his questions:

“Do you know who I am”?

“How many speakers does this baby have then”?

“Will you throw in the leather trim”?

“How fast does it go”?

“Oh yes I almost forgot, how many airbags does it have?”

“oh yes, I almost forgot, what is the safety rating of this bad boy”?

“Throw in the tinted windows and we’ve a deal”

“What kind of commission do you get for one of these”?

“Oh yes, you’re not a raging leftie are you”?

 

I saw a picture of two gloved hands joined of a son and his dying father.

It makes me think how a lifetime of closeness ends with forced distance,

and I want to write “Cunt” on the windscreen of a politician’s dustless car,

I want to write a haiku in the covid cremated ashes that cover politicians’ cars.

I want to do this very much but am respecting rules written in commoners’ blood.

I am listening to a Viking song of a warrior who asked to be buried with his treasure

This treasure was the white hair of his mother so he could join her in Valhalla,

he wanted to say he died a good death but what do we say when we get there?

We are all sons of warriors that invaded and Covid has no honour when it gets in.

road closed signage

Photo by Athena on Pexels.com

 

Uncomfortable acts of remembrance for black British soldiers

Posted in Uncategorized on May 8, 2020 by antonyowen
human hands illustrations

Photo by Matheus Viana on Pexels.com

For Viv & Tre

 

Every poem starts with a white page.

Letters are black the two colours mix

and so, we embark onto uncomfortable acts of remembrance for black soldiers.

 

This is the part you can filter out the colours and beauty filter remembrance,

There is nothing sadder than white death

nothing more moving than Private Ryan.

 

A black soldier from let’s say Montego Bay

throws himself on a grenade for his brothers.

Is he red enough for us now, zoom in a little?

 

Let’s rewind to the day he split a shoal of fish

swimming with his sister for no reason except

they wanted to see the colours of the sea’s soul.

 

Is his death a little sadder now, more humanised?

Let’s rewind further, he used to pick flowers for his Mama

cornflower blues, flesh wound pinks, black and white Dahlias.

 

Every poem ends with a point and this ones no different.

Is he black enough yet to be a main leading character?

Can Tom Hanks talk a regiment into rescuing him?

posters

Posted in Uncategorized on April 23, 2020 by antonyowen

antony owen poet Posters (1)

 

WAR SHADOW2