WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

Dad was a racist cunt.

Not
that I minded the leather-faced bugger,
‘cept when the bigotry became a bludgeon.

From
a different age; his outrage at being thrust
into the midst of multicultural mélange

was audible two doors down.

Dad was a racist cunt.

but
he frowned on the National Front. “Neo-Nasties”,
“Hitler-Spawn” – we fought like buggery till dawn,

till
drawn and shit-knackered, shattered – and we still
can’t squeeze out the despicable spectre.

No,
Dad was for Red Constitution. Working-Man’s-Rights
kind (Brit Whites, mind); Trad Labour scrimp-n’-saver.

Toffs
as bad as the fookin’ Blacks and Pakis. Got yer back,
mate, if you save me a place n’ a pint n’ not a damn

word ’bout Third-World affairs.

Dad, the racist cunt, swims in my ink;

writing,
I hear the Professor’s mantra – Show, don’t tell – soft,
steady, in the ears of this arid mind, wooing monsoon.

Dad
thought he’d taught his son nowt about the merits of
bigotry; resting in rotting plywood a few feet beneath

stunted State turf, he’d shown him The World.

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Chancellor George Osborne with The Budget neatly packed away

✩

The Conservative Government of The United Kingdom, in their Annual Budget announcement of Wednesday 23 March, revealed they are cutting the rate of tax for the richest (those on incomes of £150,000+), and reducing age-related Pension benefits.

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He’s credo-desecrated; she
is censorship-truncated. They

are mutually masturbat-
ed, grappled, self-inflated. They,

defamatory overweight-
ed, dappled, self-elated. They

want time with God (not yours) today.

I’m cold, refuse disclosure; we
are told the ruse has censure. They,

of confrontational compo-
sure; dark-meat self-exposure. They

are pushingploughing fast foreclo-
sure; white-meat weapons kosher. They

need time with God (not yours) today.

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The fetid stench – the fettered, seething, bustling;
unkind to kith, the pith stays isolated.
Biodegradability in rustling
black plastic sacks and body-bags, frustrated

by rank bloodlust and bloodiest of skirmish.
Obscene onscreen finagling pity-putty;
as night claims sketchy sundown, thighs lose firmish.
The flickered violence; dick-avid slutty

slysinks the skull and shapes a man’s demeanour.
The keener and the vulner’ble affected,
manhands are dirtier (and yet, they’re cleaner).
A penitentiary: no doubt elected,

but chance to move with Truth is mealy-meagre.
Vow oust the housed-in self that dampens eager.

✩

An experiment using feminine end-rhyme (stress/unstress to end the lines – eg ‘mea gre’/’ea ger’) in English Sonnet format (lines have their ten syllables of iambic pentameter, plus one unstressed on the end).

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congregate, philosophise
negotiate; trip the tenuous compass of mores

eat, fuck, shit, sleep

reincarnate, empathise
dedicate; weep on white at pluperfect cruelty

eat, sleep, shit, sleep

music-make, romanticise
thus spake; plead ivory towers from gown and gavel

gather, eat, fuck, shit

painstake, synthesise
for art’s sake; frame from cauldrons of cortex conception

eat, fuck, shit, sleep

kill
kill
kill

vindicate, rationalise

run (on)

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Destroying buoyant aid
surging the planet’s largest lockup

(Alcatraz never dreamt
such island alienation).



State-Sponsored Terrorism
feigns law, pretends sense, claims pretence.


Chocolate without milk: darkest, bitter.



Another sanctioned skip towards Genocide -
does wearing a badge make
that surging chest Holier with pride?

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His sleep was stirred before the burgeoning of dawning sun.
Regularly, years, despite vicissitudes, in bunk-bed
he wouldn’t stay – before the barrack’s early morning run
coughing, smoking, first of many. Found it cleared a tired head.

This gentle Northern lad defied the constant warning signs,
hacking at him, packets daily, deaf to implication.
Was not his place to question why, but wary of field-mines;

solace lay in morning’s dawning peace, a mute elation
accompanied by nicotine and tar, inclined, supine.
Old and well-thumbed copy of The Prophet travelled with him;

confronted by mass-rape and genocide, sick civil war,
continents dark seas away, with NATO forces keeping.

The inhumanity he witnessed slunk into his core -
blackened lungs gave up to cancer; Prophet never left him.

(Stress Matrix Sonnet No. 2)

☆

Second in my own sonnet form, Stress Matrix Sonnet (also known as Stress Checkerboard Sonnet). Details on it can be found beneath the first, Forks and Spades. This piece is another version of my previous post, The Soldier and the Prophet (which is in free verse ballad format).

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His sleep was stirred before the
burgeoning of dawning sun.
Year upon year he rose

from a rude martial bed before
the barrack’s early morning run:
good cough, good smoke; first of many.

This gentle Northern lad defied
the constant warning signs
that hacked at him in packets daily.

Never questioning, but wary
of Sergeant’s friendly-fire, and
a field of land-mines.

Solace lay in early morning’s
dawning peace, a mute elation wed with
nicotine and tar. Supine he stayed.

An old, well-thumbed copy of
The Prophet travelled with him;
Gibran’s words and Lady Nicotine

were sanity amid the genocide,
civil war, refugee camps;
women and child rape-victims

inseminated with hate and HIV,
continents dark seas away
with a dour NATO regiment.

Sitting with ineffable inhumanity, a
packet of fags, and an old,
well-thumbed copy of The Prophet,

the savagery skulked and crept
into his skull beneath the
standard-issue helmet. On return

from service, he began to pen all
that he saw: simple, truthful,
botched backalley-abortion raw.

Nightmares of the Congo’s bloody
internecine ruin recurred, compelling
him like some demonic Muse.

Lady Nicotine his love-hate Queen,
calming, clearing,
reassuring.

Blackened lungs surrendered;
asphyxiated bit by bit, no cards, flowers
or relations sat by that rude, medical bed.

Just an old, well-thumbed copy of The Prophet.

☆

A sonneted version of this piece, Supine, can be found here

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Armless (unrhymed)

In the heat the people stand like statues,
children scuffle up against the long wall.
Hotel California, but no entrance -
visa, passport, transport, no-show shoeless.

Children scuffle up against the long wall;
strangle and garottes the hopeless hoping.
Visa, passport, transport, no-show shoeless -
UN bugger-alling, vetoed armless,

strangles and garottes the hopeless hoping.
Strip ‘em, strap ‘em, limb-from-limb ‘em, all, all;
UN bugger-alling, vetoed armless,
on an island in a sea of loathing.

Strip ‘em, strap ‘em, limb-from-limb ‘em, all, all.
Soldier killed by sniper and it’s “Terror!”,
on an island, in a sea of loathing.
Tank in ‘error’ slaughters six civilians.

Soldier killed by sniper and it’s “Terror!”,
media control our ears and eyes, screened.
Tank in ‘error’ slaughters six civilians;
forces on offensive, so defensive.

Media control our ears and eyes, screened.
Hotel California, but not entrance.
Forces on offensive, so defensive;
in the heat the people sit like statues.

Armless (rhymed)

In the heat they stand like humbled gentry,
children scuffle up against the long wall.
Hotel California, yet no entry;
strip ‘em, strap ‘em, limb-from-limb ‘em, all, all.

Children scuffle up against the long wall.
UN bugger-alling, vetoed armless -
strip ‘em, strap ‘em, limb-from-limb ‘em, all, all.
Visa, passport, transport, no-show shoeless -

UN bugger-alling, vetoed armless,
strangles and garottes the hopeless hoping.
Visa, passport, transport, no-show shoeless,
on an island in a sea of loathing,

strangles and garottes the hopeless hoping.
Soldier killed by sniper and it’s “Terror!”,
on an island in a sea of loathing.
Tank cuts down civilians, six, in ‘Error’,

soldier killed by sniper and it’s “Terror!”
Media control our eyes and ears, sieved;
tank cuts down civilians, six, in ‘Error’.
Forces on offensive, so defensive,

media control our eyes and ears, sieved.
Hotel California, yet no entry;
forces on offensive, so defensive.

In the heat they sit like ruined gentry.

☆

Pantoum: Usually blank (unrhymed), and no meter dictated, but quite often these elements are added to this unusual, repetition-rich old form from Malaysia, originally song and adapted as poetry by the French Colonialists (one of the better things to arise from Imperialism). I’ve used trochaic pentameter in both versions.

Repetition-scheme is simply that the second and fourth line of every stanza becomes the first and third of the next. In the final stanza, the same applies, plus the second and fourth lines are repetitions of lines one and three of the very first stanza. So every line is repeated once. Variations in repetition are acceptable (quite nice actually, in my opinion).

Which is more effective, the rhymed or unrhymed version?

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