Archive for June, 2018

North Tower 11-09-01

Posted in Uncategorized on June 29, 2018 by antonyowen
black and white road sky man

Photo by David McEachan on Pexels.com

North Tower
A
M
E
R
I
C
A
These are not your foundations
wrought steel, immigrant bone.
I saw black tears of North Tower
shapes, human commas, the end.
If telephones could pour them back
“We’re on the floor, we can’t breathe”
the line goes dead, a wailing sounds,
please add a full stop it is inhuman.
The Hudson should not be orange,
it should not echo a thrown skyline
Fish mouths are agape on ice trays
these are not your foundations, no,
if a Mother can rise we are human.
In Kabul a dove smashes into glass
twerking violently it dies unnoticed.
Sky is low and birds fall like night,
these are your foundations, alas, yes
today a diorama will be constructed,
pins will be people, the game starts
Forget the falling man, he is erased.
Salaam Alaikum my sworn kin of kin
I’ll read your death as prime numbers
and build foundations of prose to unearth us,
If a single word is out of place then we all
Come a
T
                     U
                                    M
                 B
L
          I
                N
                               G
D
O
W
N
T         h            e          s      e                                           A  r  e       N   o   t
y         o         u         r
f o u n d a t i o n s
Alonso N-5 Anthony Alvarado N-23
Antonio Javier Alvarez N-70
Victoria Alvarez-Brito N-8
Telmo E. Alvear N-71
Cesar Amoranto Alviar N-16
Tariq Amanullah S-42
Angelo Amaranto N-64
James M. Amato S-7
Joseph Amatuccio S-24
Paul W. Ambrose S-70
Christopher Charles Amoroso S-28
Craig Scott Amundson S-74
Kazuhiro Anai N-63
Calixto Anaya, Jr. S-21
Joseph P. Anchundia S-52
Kermit Charles Anderson N-9
Yvette Constance Anderson S-48
John Jack Andreacchio S-44
Michael Rourke Andrews N-53
Jean Ann Andrucki N-66
Siew-Nya Ang N-5
Joseph Angelini, Sr. S-9
Joseph John Angelini, Jr. S-9
David Lawrence Angell N-1
Mary Lynn Edwards Angell N-1
Laura Angilletta N-32
Doreen J. Angrisani N-15
Lorraine Antigua N-53
Seima David Aoyama N-2
Peter Paul Apollo N-26
Faustino Apostol, Jr. S-6
Frank Thomas Aquilino N-39
Patrick Michael Aranyos S-30
David Gregory Arce S-13
Michael George Arczynski S-54
Louis Arena S-5
Barbara Jean Arestegui N-74
Adam P. Arias S-31
Michael J. Armstrong N-43
Jack Charles Aron N-4
Joshua Todd Aron N-42
Richard Avery Aronow N-66
Myra Joy Aronson N-74
Japhet Jesse Aryee S-48
Carl Francis Asaro S-10
Michael A. Asciak N-63
Michael Edward Asher N-36
Janice Marie Ashley N-58
Thomas J. Ashton N-19
Manuel O. Asitimbay N-68
Gregg A. Atlas S-5
Gerald Thomas Atwood S-11
James Audiffred N-64
Louis F. Aversano, Jr. S-58
Ezra Aviles N-65
Sandy Ayala N-70
et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra, et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra, et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra, et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra, et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra, et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra, et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra, et-cetera, cetera, et-cetra.
exeunt

LORD SUGAR AND RESOURCEFUL GUYS OF SENEGAL

Posted in Uncategorized on June 22, 2018 by antonyowen
sea sky beach sand

Photo by Serkan Göktay on Pexels.com

You have nothing to apologise for because you are an anointed Lord of barrow boys made good.

I picture you with those resourceful cockney boys eating jellied eels and cracking jokes about Sam Fox with her tits out

Wrapping golden delicious in Linda Lusardi and Melinda Messengers tits nothing not funny or cliched about that at all, not sorry you’re a Lord and I a poet

We are far too important to be held to account for the sensitive tweeters so I knocked together a poem like a pass from a beach salesman and national footballer,

Nothing at all derogatory about a cockney eating jellied eels or a Senegalese lucky lucky man selling knocked off goods to women with their tits out and beer swigging lads from Blighty.

 

To defend a joke is like a Ronaldo cross into the box of a shit side where the hapless white defender scores an own goal when it deflects off his mouth just unlucky nothing offensive just very defensive.

In nineteen eighty eight on Alcudia beach a black man with yellow sunglasses sold rip off Amstrad rasta blasters and he must have been the father of the Senegal striker coz you said so Lord Sugar.

When you were knighted by the Queen in stolen Indian diamonds I bet you both had a right old laff one cockney to another and I bet you said you were just a humble barrow boy done good,

I bet the black servant of the queen ran back to the kitchen to check the score of Senegal Vs Nigeria to see how the beach salesman and footballers got on at the world cup derby.

I bet the waiter said yes boss to Prince Phillip as he suggested the electricity must have been done by a wide eyed chinaman but this is not racist at all when a royal says so but quirky.

 

Don’t be so serious for goodness sake that Lord Sugar is a national treasure like the counterfeit crown the queen wears as she knights barrow boys and white boys and occasionally war criminals.

Don’t be so serious  I mean this as a joke in prose and it has to be dead clever and funny because I am a poet earning zero point zero zero zero zero zero per cent of Lord Sugar

Now aint that fuckin funny when you think about it. Maybe one day I’ll fly to Alicante and hitch a ride to Marbella and hang out with Al at his posh gaff and wear Ray Bans

As the Senegal national football team sell knock off Amstrad shite to white people wanting to look as black as possible then celebrate silicon as the natural woman is booed like Argentina off the pitch.

I’m so fuckin funny but if it offends you then I’ll delete my comments like migrant children in Texas and foil.

American Stalag 24

Posted in Uncategorized on June 19, 2018 by antonyowen

pexels-photo-861803.jpeg

 

To work out immigration learn American math.

Write prime numbers on secondary sapiens,

divide mother from half weaned babe

multiply by thousand and whatever.

I keep getting the wrong answer

= American Stalag 24.

 

I was told to go fuck myself by Eugene in Ohio

“We kicked your sorry English asses man”

I must confess a redcoat sang me sky

It was a Robin on Mr Sandhu’s wall

He leaves chicken wings there

All the migrant birds come

I have heard Ohio Eugene.

 

I was told to go fuck my mother by a mother in Tampa,

She told me “We saved your asses from Hitler”

I want to save her from herself and the babe,

Yes the babe I saw at the end of the world

This is where pilgrims vanish in chalk,

Like children of Columbine

Shooting up to forget.

 

I had a dream that Melania Trump prayed to a blond Jesus,

And Jesus from Mexico begged for his boy back,

Give me back my boy, give me back Jesus

I had a dream that Eugene fucked me

He was wearing a red coat singing

America the beautiful,

a crow-crake woke me

 

 

 

 

 

love poem for an injured wolf

Posted in Uncategorized on June 19, 2018 by antonyowen
Your bones into mine

Spread out like candlelit halls

A dark vastness stilled.


Your tongue in my mouth

A wet flame engulfing me

Dark petering out.


My blood in your blood

Oil of your oil on white canvass

We wane as moon hyde.


We slept in sheepskin

Wolf inside lamb wailing

I am vast like the hall inside a cello.

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The night before Grenfell burned

Posted in Uncategorized on June 4, 2018 by antonyowen
pexels-photo-1047328.jpeg

Photo by Juan Pablo Arenas on Pexels.com

“Wisdom has built her house; she has set up its seven pillars.”                      Proverbs 9/1

 
At the Grenfell summit rolls London cumulus

These make do for mountains we left in Jamaica

I wear a necklace of aeroplanes and close my eyes to land.

 

I do not know why my wife bought net curtains and hooks

We live twenty-two floors up and only God can see us

Perhaps he can see into our bedroom, clever wife.

 

A fire engine shoots through roads like a street mosquito,

Blood red it drips over the snaky Thames then vanishes,

People disappear from here all the time in a puff of smoke.

 

Tonight, when you’re home I will listen to my son kick your ball,

Hear your water bathe his red body and if I am lucky

I will see his fingers scroll your skin like a love letter.

 

I am in two minds whether to change my nightshift to morning,

We need the money so I will go out to work, yes, it is done

Tonight, I will marinade chicken thighs for you wife.

 

At the Grenfell summit we sway in siren lights to dead man’s jazz,

I glue the spine of your grandmother’s gospel according to Ava

It is important to pray with a bible that isn’t broken in half.