Filmpoem 57 / Anither Season - by
A filmpoem based on a poem written and read by boxer and poet Ross Wilson.
A filmpoem based on a poem written and read by boxer and poet Ross Wilson.
Built like a gorilla but less timid,
thick-fleshed, steak-coloured, with two
hieroglyphs in his face that mean
trouble,
Shame in our hulls
/ why else would we drink to incoherence
/ jump on the heads of passing men
/ punch our women
/ tell our children…
The swine hangs on,
/ The swine hangs on to power,
/ The townsfolk mutter round the tower:
/
/ ‘Roast him, toast him,
/ Thin…
I’m out because I had to come;
/ I am no blooming volunteer
/ Who fights for King and Christendom –
/ I jinked the army…
For our last meal together / my father takes out of the freezer / a tray of frozen songbirds.
For Lois Pereiro
/
/ In Ithaca everyone was dead.
/ They say it was me, Argos the dog, who woke first:
/ — Dead, dead, dead!
/ A smell…
In his dark room he is finally alone
/ with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
/ The only light is red…
Leaves turn sere and there are bings
/ from networks stretching in through the window:
/ you could tiptoe now among the stubby thumbs…
With a ragged diamond
/ of shattered plate-glass
/ a young man and his girl
/ are falling backwards into a shop-window.
/ The young man’s face
/ is bristling…