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…

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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

Workshops 2021

Posted in Uncategorized on April 13, 2020 by antonyowen

WAR SHADOW2

All the little plagues

Posted in Uncategorized on March 19, 2020 by antonyowen

Last night we saw a pipistrelle

it shot across the clean white sky like spilt ink –

no aeroplanes to quill the corona dusk in familiar font

just a Cessna coughing its way to Coventry Airport still open for enthusiasts.

 

I looked at you and said “They eat birdsong and bats in China because they can”

I told about the bunting of the Ortolan and you never believed me

how the romans poked out their eyes so it would eat more seed

how they drowned it alive in Brandy then torched it singing.

 

Last night I walked on the bones of Brinklow Castle and consumed the starlight

I was not alone, there was a buzzard making a corona then swooped.

In the distance was a stillness of more buzzards and the sky,

so still, it made me stop and all the little plagues were gone.

man walking on the empty street

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The hounding to death of Caroline Flack (poem)

Posted in Uncategorized on February 15, 2020 by antonyowen

I picture your ammonite bones
curled shield maiden slain
raindrops can sound like stones
sticks and stones have no refrain.

I picture your phone Instagram warm with pings
your cold body, warm baby eyes
the shrapnel of a troll then a bluebird sings
tweeting crow today she dies.

I picture an under-sheet moulded from your slumber,
did you choose to be deaths valentine?
An island without latitude, number or line?

I am talking about the hounding to death of Caroline Flack
the red badged news and the pack and the pack.
I am talking about trolls and the armchair jurors
I am taking about hate island and the online Fuhrer’s

We need to talk about the hounding to death of Caroline Flack
and how pigs turn on wolves who stray from the pack.
We need to talk about the ending of life that cannot come back.
We need to talk about the death of Caroline Flack.

abandoned alone blond building

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