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Debris – NEAT14 Final Draft

28 May

Image

Only a few days until our LoewenMouthy show (please come)! And here is what I will be performing 🙂

Stay

 

We don’t have a government, we have Starbucks.

Lets stray to the docks. What ifthe roads get closed?

Laugh until our ears burn, rum will soften the blisters.

We work too many hours to sleep sober. Dream tanks,

wake in jolts of sweat. Forget. Unite in each other’s saliva.

Squeeze soft when the lights dance off. Sorry

 

I’ve drowned too much. Downed, sorry.

When I saw you stood, stronger than Starbucks,

on that army truck’s hood; face pomegranate pink, sparkling saliva,
wailing Golden Brown into the windscreen. Activism felt closer.

That’s why I jumped up alongside you, my voice-tank

chugging the chorus on repeat. We stood till our pride blistered

 

realising the officers were asleep. My memories blistering

apprehending that week. Trampled. Herot. The sorry

faces of strangers and cars. I found my mum under the wheel of a tractor,

mud softly gasping at her neck, light ripping rubber and red. A disposable Starbucks

cup the only thing left full. She knew to be careful – stay close.

I didn’t know it would be me with gun barrel to her ear. Saliva

 

frothing at her fear as the tank ached towards us. Saliva

and blood. Gelatinous black blistering

blood, like I’d ripped a silent baby from her closed

body. The last thing I outlined from her face was sorry.

You know, after 6 drinks; tea, taurine, Starbucks…

your body interprets the caffeine as anxiety. That cup: a vehicle

 

 

of work and oblivion. Then, I’m told –Go! Rapid, solid, far. Wagon

my car to the border.Pack what Mum would’ve wanted – kiss her chalked saliva

from my hand… No!I kicked my rucksack out the sunroof and ran home, to Starbucks,

one name in a list where tourists shouldn’t go. My Mum worked nails to blisters,

then stayed up to teach me English.She said, English solves everything but… sorry.

I’ve been trying to believe like Mum did but I can’t find the seams where life opens and work closes.

 

Instead I’ve got bottles and lids. I can’t stomach the Rolexes and road closures.

I need the alkali of mouth. You stood, open-bodied, on that army truck

and threatened those officers’ dreams with something more accurate than a sorry

list of names read out as News. Some names sound too familiar. So we choose a new language? No! I choose to salivate

in song like you did; pick up my memories and dreams like bombs: assess what’s wrong or holy. Blister

bright and write instead of run, cause if we do? What’s left; the poor, the corrupt, the immaculately suited trucks? Starbucks!

 

Starbucks, at it’s best was valued at $74.23 Billion. Statistics blister declarations. Death tolls surpass imaginations.

But my Mums saliva is still white as God on my hands. Your words a tractor to this land – let’s not go anywhere.

Sorry, we may not have a government, but we have a dance of stories sparkling close and strong.

 

14 May

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Debris NEAT14

12 May

I am writing this for Karlsruhe State Theatre and will be performing this version there on Thurs, Fri, Sat this week so this version I am memorising for that but I also want to edit it and perform it at NEAT so feedback is welcome and also celebration for my second sestina ever!!!

 

Also it is worth knowing that I have made this to work on Landscape and wordpress doesn’t seem to like that so it has messed with my line breaks a bit but hopefully you can imagine 🙂

 

Stay

 

We don’t have a government, we have Starbucks.

Lets stray to the docks. What ifthe roads get closed?

Laugh until our ears burn, rum will soften the blisters.

We work too many hours to sleep sober. Let’s dream tanks,

wake in jolts of sweat. Forget. Unite in each other’s saliva.

Squeeze soft when the lights dance off. Sorry

 

I’ve drowned too much. Downed, sorry.

When I saw you stood, stronger than Starbucks,

on that army truck’s hood; face pomegranate pink and sparkling saliva.
Wailing Golden Brown into the windscreen. Activism felt closer.

That’s why I jumped up alongside you, my voice-tank

chugging the chorus on repeat. We stayed till our pride blistered

 

realising the officers were asleep. My memories blistering

apprehending that week. Hot and trampled. The blanched sorry

faces of strangers and cars. I found my mum under the wheel of a tractor,

mud softly gasping at her neck, light ripping rubber and red. A disposable Starbucks

cup the only thing left full. She knew to be careful – stay close.

I didn’t know it would be me with gun barrel to her ear. Saliva

 

frothing at her fear as the tank ached towards us. Saliva

and blood. Gelatinous black blistering

blood, like I’d ripped a silent baby from her closed

body. The last thing I could outline from her face was sorry.

You know, after 6 drinks; tea, taurine, Starbucks…

your body interprets the caffeine as anxiety. That cup: a truck

 

 

of coffee and vanilla. We’re told, go rapid, solid, far. Wagon

your car to the border. Pack what she would’ve wanted. Kiss her chalked saliva

from your hand. I kicked my rucksack out the sunroof and sprinted home: Starbucks,

one name in a list where tourists shouldn’t go. Mum worked nails to blisters,

then stayed up to teach me English.She said, English solves everything but sorry.

I’ve been trying to work like she did but I can’t see the seams where life opens and work closes.

 

Instead I’ve got glass bottles and lids. I can’t stomach the Rolexes and road closures.

I need the alkali of mouth. You stood, open-bodied, on that army truck

and threatened their dreams with something more accurate the sorry

list of names read out as News. Some names sound too familiar. So we choose a new language. Now, I choose to salivate

in song like you; pick up my memories and assess what’s wrong or beautiful or conceivable. Blister

bright and write instead of run, cause if we do? What’s left; the poor, the corrupt, the immaculately suited trucks? Starbucks?!

 

Starbucks, at it’s best is valued at $74.23 Billion. Statistics blister declarations. Death tolls surpass imaginations.

But her saliva, still white as God on my hands. Your voice attesting as a barrel to my gullet, a tractor to my lungs.

Let’s not go anywhere. Sorry, not closed yet. We may not have a government but we have a dance of bodies sparkling strong.