Late stage capitalism closes in
Sputter stumble grip squeeze…
We heave and try
We trudge and sigh
Bound, and on our knees
Conditioned slaves to a broken system
Of our own pathos
as we participate in the continuation
of our own oppression
How could we make a poem with rhythm
When jolting discomfort is what is now so deeply familiar?
When removal from so much of what is natural and beautiful about the human experience has become our accepted reality…
How has it come to this though?
Our ancestors would not have wished it for us.
The legacy we stand to leave does not look great.
And yet, here we are, rubbing our noses in sea-trash-to-be, as fossil fuels burn on.
Eat shit and die. Could we at least soften it with a comma, or even two, for Oxford?
Your fruity pungence permeates the kitchen
I feel the guilt
It’s not even current yet
But it will be soon
As you all become over-ripe at once
Cute lil hand of ladyfingers
In my tummy
What’s in my tummy?
The honey or the bees?
Or the whole of the cosmos?
What a squeeze!
(C) Zoë Xanadu 2021
Welcome to your appointment with life
Thank yourself for making time
in your busy schedule
to be available to notice
coming into your body
and leaving your body
Your belly rising
Your belly falling
Your mind slowing
Your tension releasing
Your heart opening
Your shoulders falling
Your smile relaxing
Your eyes softening
Your hair growing
Your forehead clearing
Your organs rejoicing
Your freedom expanding
Breath coming in
Breath flowing out
Looking deeply into things
Opening your perception up to the beauty and miraculous perfection all around you
Remembering your innate intelligence
Savouring the elegance of life
And your self as part of the miracle
Here you are
You are as perfect as that leaf
You are all of these things
With gratitude and love
I was a baby bear once
But nobody stole my porridge
And so I need neither therapy nor vengeance, indeed, I can share.
I make the space for the brains to thrive
Being a peripheral part
of the excited buzz
Of the hive of minds
as they pollinate each other
Witnessing their outrage,
their determined agency
in the wryly augmented world
that they know to be theirs
Celebrating the brilliance
in every one of them
In all the manifestations it makes
As it shines through
via their unique and essential imprints
It’s like resting in a forest
As I survey in wonder
the miracles surrounding me
All these perfect human trees
Growing amongst one another
I am in awe
I am humbled
May they thrive
I whisper in my heart
As I meet their eyes and say their names
I have to leave the house for stupid errands
Call when ready and we’ll see what works
I look out the window
Is a wall
How do I crane my twisted neck
To find the freedom
That I know is in the sky
Mum, I’m gay,
I texted her.
That’s nice dear.
As in you’ve renamed yourself, or like two poofy men?
Striding through the Autumn morning in my walking shoes
Seeking solace in the beauty outside me
from the rage that churns within
The grey blanket of the pre-dawn sky warms me not,
but offers me great comfort,
with the reassuring reminder that I am
and as expansive as the universe
A blush emerges as the sun comes back from the other side of the world, busy tart
A suggestive apricot, fuzzy and without edges, and with the optimism of Alabama Whitman
“She tastes like a peach”
how truly did I want to taste her mouth
Still I stride, breathing through my swirling truth
And now, somehow, streaks of pink and blue
Audacious as those marine creatures that you think have surely been exaggerated
in the artist’s depiction
I can even forgive my ancestors for believing in sky god
Here under this cracking morning sky, remembering to notice the beauty of the universe.
Mary Oliver eat your heart out!
Savour those juices as they stream down your chin
Rivulets forming in your cleavage invitationally
for another lover
of life to slurp at
Mum, I like to lick life juice off the tits of women poets.
Still I stride, rounding the corner, home comes into view.
And in the valley beyond, down over the town to the west
The sun, my current favourite artist, has invited the morning mist to dance.
My queer little heart opens in bliss.
Life really does love me!
And I love her right back,
most Sapphically indeed.
And with that
The dahlias are suddenly finished.
My only consolation
The wry knowledge
of just how quickly
next year will come round