Freewriting Again
because I tell my students to do it
serenity is the wrong colour of police lights
cosy, serene blue wailing crazy down the street.
Black men snuggling blondes
in a pub
even the White men don’t speak
English.
unseasonable weather
Katrina, Katrina, Katrina
unrecognisable siren.
is it death or healing singing
tonight?
two boy children zip past
my 8:30 table rocking
bedtime. where is
your mother? where am
I? now at this suckling hour,
my student waves at me from a bus.
it is the first time this has happened
here. waving happens to other people.
it is a thing from my past
where women dress all in black
and wear white shoes
confidant. uncaring.
startled and sad
I realise nobody
ever told an entire nation
of women, you are too old
to dress in this manner.
They are a constrained
frivolous group of random
garments
which mean nothing in context.
A middle age woman struts
in a lilac satin formal skirt
topped with a sporty cotton hoodie
as if
most women wake; greet
each of their individual body parts;
and invite them to decide
in what manner they will be less offended today.
the hips want sweat
pants. breasts desire
silk black camisole.
feet demand sandals -
birkenstocks specifically -
imagine.
allowing your body
this level of control.
what havoc would ensue?
but tea always happens
and biscuits are served
with vicious politeness.
a man on a cell steps outside of the pub
to walk in circles
“i’ll be there, yeah, i’ll be there
cheers mate, cheers.”
blue is the Holy Mother’s colour
why is it screaming,
chasing, trying
to bring gunfire
to a firearm
free nation
which has no choice but to shoot
offenders now. my heart.
Would you tell me? offer it
as sashimi? yes i agree,
the rice feels like too much
of an accessory -
like these women
who use a blue strip of sequins
for a scarf on cloudy days.
these things after all
connote choice.
serenity is the wrong colour of police lights
cosy, serene blue wailing crazy down the street.
Black men snuggling blondes
in a pub
even the White men don’t speak
English.
unseasonable weather
Katrina, Katrina, Katrina
unrecognisable siren.
is it death or healing singing
tonight?
two boy children zip past
my 8:30 table rocking
bedtime. where is
your mother? where am
I? now at this suckling hour,
my student waves at me from a bus.
it is the first time this has happened
here. waving happens to other people.
it is a thing from my past
where women dress all in black
and wear white shoes
confidant. uncaring.
startled and sad
I realise nobody
ever told an entire nation
of women, you are too old
to dress in this manner.
They are a constrained
frivolous group of random
garments
which mean nothing in context.
A middle age woman struts
in a lilac satin formal skirt
topped with a sporty cotton hoodie
as if
most women wake; greet
each of their individual body parts;
and invite them to decide
in what manner they will be less offended today.
the hips want sweat
pants. breasts desire
silk black camisole.
feet demand sandals -
birkenstocks specifically -
imagine.
allowing your body
this level of control.
what havoc would ensue?
but tea always happens
and biscuits are served
with vicious politeness.
a man on a cell steps outside of the pub
to walk in circles
“i’ll be there, yeah, i’ll be there
cheers mate, cheers.”
blue is the Holy Mother’s colour
why is it screaming,
chasing, trying
to bring gunfire
to a firearm
free nation
which has no choice but to shoot
offenders now. my heart.
Would you tell me? offer it
as sashimi? yes i agree,
the rice feels like too much
of an accessory -
like these women
who use a blue strip of sequins
for a scarf on cloudy days.
these things after all
connote choice.
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