Poetry From Sara Brown

Aping Gently

I masturbate with my glasses on and feel they compliment
My nudity. The shrill tweed lights of morning reign in
Through the blinds a while for me to tolerate

Inside a skin taught like a polished onion and also soft
Like an eyeball. I smoke a cigarette and pretend
To feel enthused about living for a while, alone aloft

Trapped and condensed on a film like a fraud, a
Victim of living inside my own face, looking out
Feeling peripheral and other worldly, abhorred

Bent between me and myself unanswerable
The hairline of a genius, the ears of an ape,
I feel freshly unapproachable, incorrigible

Seeping out of my own skin, like a bad taste
Oily fish. The way I feel right now. And all
This is difficult. As I attempt to contain my nerve and faith

And respectably drink this cup of coffee.
Perhaps I should try to distinguish myself.
Lecturer at a local polytechnic university. 1963, my

Sepia livelihood; too loved images of a life once lived
Clutter a desk. Confined to a room, alcohol before breakfast,
A window without a view. Something chronic. Acid.

An expression of concision. Tense, pressured. Like a murderer.
Beautiful, I can be beautiful. Maniac with eyes
Bloody and loathing, and intensely comprehending observer so

Articulate and erudite in discipline and art.
But I artlessly executed this masterpiece and
Spun my web too soon, before the final scene and got caught.

Sheila Take a Bow

She puts on a record and shuts the door. Can’t let mummy see. Flower of youth, the girl with a photograph of Albert Einstein on her wall; young and full of the life she had.

A knife on the table, pills; the end of the world on a plate. For Dutch courage a bottle of brandy. The itemisation of these things, constituent parts of a downfall. Control over the wild, though her hands were shaking, her manic eyes bulging perversely with excitement.

Yellow curtains let in the light of another day, drowning the room with a quick warmth. The air is suffocating. The brightness drills a hole in her brain; the thoughts pouring like butter. The room tilts.

A bed, a comfortable bed, the hider of many things is beneath her shaking weight. Chests of illicit books sit underneath, breathing heavily. A schoolbag full of blades, conformity glazing her purpose; sensibilities suspended for more than a single gross moment.

Adolf Hitler Would Have Never Invaded Poland If He Had Worn Flip Flops

Priest with a dirty face and a maddening
Smile. Wild slick of jet hair and
A cigar. Surreal, man, surreal.
Jackboots baby jackboots, and slacks that
Fit in a new way, caressing the arse.

Or was he a servant? Nineteen thirty three and
Repressed passion exploding on to balconies,
Exploding in his trousers. Servant to
The people, servant to a nation irritable
To be freed from their freedoms.

Priest with a snarl, imaginary lip biting
Under a moustache, digging his own Khaki threads.
Boy wonder, with a side parting, partial to
Slow talk and leather.
Wave your hands boy, smile for the camera,
Let the world see that sorrowful brow
Those wild impudent eyes.

Bending over acres of reconnaissance surveys,
Pushing the little men over the maps,
Low light, smoky boardroom, nineteen thirty nine
Here we go, march those bad boys over the world.

Taught and starched, a star-crossed family man,
Hands held bitterly sweetly.
Oh the slick chestnut waves, the skirt to the knee,
Just uniform enough this model of woman.
And he, such girlish glances, lash wide
Pregnant with ambition. Erect, and this close, transparent.
Awkward glaring experience and inexperience,
Sweating under the hot lamps of a silent bunker,
Later you can tell the boys it was all right.

Like a spirit level, limbs at iron creased right angles,
Stood in front of windows of deception, faceless
Swathes perspiring under his persuasion.
Hey I won’t spoil the end, but you lost.

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