A Market for Adhesives
Today, it’s as though there are prizes for
clinging around the White House. Casualties
and eye-witness divas become a commodity
as salt and psychoanalysis. Death is taken
down and favoured according to location.
Prayers are recited and withheld in equalling
measures nobody can explain:
there are fewer reasons and motivations,
fewer justifications to those ears bent, yet
more prizes for selected deafness, for
those clinging around the White House.
multimedia images quickly
onto you today. No fleeing
into death without a webcam
or digital mobile to hand: fancy
Abu Ghraib bereft of nostalgic
sadists; England caught.
England saved. She was
sick and we didn’t speculate
A plain time doesn’t seem quite appropriate, agree
the heads of state, pinching here, biffing there,
collecting the ingredients for an eclectic bear-hug
and sneaking a coy left hook in when the referee’s
back his turned. On that they agree. A need for
haemorrhage and weakening backbones. There
are pills and powders to help. Documentaries and
flash newspaper coverage, telepathic satellites that
determine the outcome before it has happened;
heroes that survive and pander to commercial
indiscretions before a victory, fidgeting with the
meaning of the word victory. Morals have been
grated slick as iron filings and teeter between
winds. Magnets have been discontinued. As have
ashtrays, buckets and cat-litter troughs. In the
next decade, bloodshed might become genetically
farmed and screened prior to deciding who to
discriminate against. If we try hard enough.
Though, science can’t really help taking the piss;
putting bashfulness aside as the fancy takes him,
a tight coquettish grin rings from ear to ear and
sounds his intention. “Oh, go on!” he says, with a
flapping wrist. And forgets to blush.
Clare Saponia © 2009
The pacifist Pacifist
I don’t want to fight this because
fighting this is also war.
So what is the peaceful pacifist
supposed to do? Equanimously
sit cross-legged, eyes closed and
lightly smiling at atrocity and its
allies? Do I let enemies maul each
other and then me, should I
accidentally get in the way? Do I
love them, all the same, sit tight,
ommm and hope for the best?
I have no special reason to get
hysterical. We live sufficiently apart
for me to delete you from my wad
of preoccupations. I simply have to
sell off the TV, carefully avoiding a
morning tendency towards BBC
online, Radio Four, Guardian-Buxton
Spring deals at WH Smiths – in all
national railway stations – and a
history of serious guilt complexes. I
could start eating animals again,
maybe even on a daily basis. I could
take up judo or kung fu in the name of
self-defence, christen the world a dojo.
My dojo. I could build a cyclone B
plant for fun and tell all the journals
I no longer read: this is how it’s done.
I could write about these adventures
and invent some others, like the one
where I met Gandhi and we secretly
took Elevenses in his back garden.
And then I became him.
And we copied ourselves into myriad
Gandhis because the elevenses we
took were actually aphrodisiacs and
love got all randy on an empty stomach.
How different it would have been had
love multiplied relative to us.
Clare Saponia © 2009