The Recusant

Spiked arms reach up to catch or pierce
The remnants of my being, of who I was
Blue-rinsed ladies, blue berets
Snag at the sac which carries me
Chattering classes and weaponed warriors
Tear every message apart
Denying me my right to be
And I am lost in translation

This is the Fall

Trampled by the blue-rinsed ladies, the blue berets
In their march of unacceptable unacceptance
Pallbearers to the shrouded voice
Suffocated with plastic platitudes
As the incensed censer swings
Purging belief, thought and the Word
Wrapping it in cotton wool
Swaddled, infantised

Until then …

No-platform you say
And you stitch my mouth
With your needle of intolerance
Your thread of conformity
Forgetting I can speak with my body
Reshaping the world in pen and ink

I am the recusant