the guns of brixton
The origins of a poem arrive at many different levels. For example, I have in my possession a stash of naked photos of myself and erotic poetry I have written over the years. I have toyed with the idea of printing them into a booklet of a sort, make a hundred copies to send to my friends. But the people I suggest this to see it as problematic. That is not the purpose of poetry, I am told. Do not write smut.
You see, I work at a nursing home with teenagers who fully embrace the lyrics of violence that are sold to them by corporate America but see nudity and erotica as censurable, sinful, pornographic. We live in a culture that embraces violence, not sexuality. Death Row Records, corporate punk, buffoonery, anarchy; it's all the same really. How can we take serious any "desperado," "outlaw," "miscreant" backed by the Time/Warner juggernaut as legit?1 That isn't to say there aren't righteous artists speaking out against violence or brutality, who are trying to embrace a healthy sexuality, but you are not going to buy them at Tower Records. I wonder how many other people are tired of the mantra of "pimps and hos"? The manta that it's sex that is problematic and that violence is a natural consequence?2
Thus I am coming to see to be subversive in this modern world you need to be the naked one; not the one waving a gun around. Not the one who claims it's hard to be a pimp out there but the one who actually is living out the creed "all you need is love" … if indeed love is what we need.
Why not? Anything else seems like a perversity …
… who knows? Maybe someone will write to me and say they want one of my booklets? Maybe they will have a booklet for me? It is hard to know; we live in a world that turns the divine into corruption so easily. But for those who wish a different ending than what is sold to them, I call you friend. This poem, this photo, is for you.
It will. It will. It will happen. You know
it will happen. We do not know the end.
Not when. Carry this poem, this photo
on your body. Your body shall twist, bend,
fall. It will. It will. So carry your friend
with you. This nude photo. This rude poem.
I give them to you. How can lust offend?
Let lust thrive when there are cop and hoodlum
alike who will not leave you alive. Numb
to this bliss. Do not be dumb to my kiss.
It is. It is. My kiss to you. Welcome
our kiss. And more. More than this poem, this
photo. More places for your last heartbeat
than on death row or gunned down in the street.
- The last couplet comes from a dimmly recalled line from The Guns of Brixton, a Clash song: When the law break in/ How you gonna go?/ Shot down on the pavement/ Or waiting on death row? Or something along those lines. Like I say, it's The Clash, it doesn't really matter. [back]
- Perhaps I am being too hard on my teenage co-workers? They are, like you and me, simply products of their culture. After all it is not as if we have had role models in this culture promoting a healthy view of the erotic world. Far from it, when the topic comes up the Left tends to talk of some distant utopia apparently not connected to this world where Confederate flags, Bible studies, bigoted drama queens like Katherine McKinnon and Ann Coulter are simply ignored. No wonder our civil liberties in this country are in such dire straits! [back]