Christian Ward



Rebirth In The Age Of ID Cards


I have been condensed,

boiled down to less

than zero, shoved through


tubes, dropped down

onto petri dishes fed

to machines with hungry

mouths. Woke in a garden


where the trees are made

of 1’s and 0’s, apples,

from pissed-on manifestos.


I walk, think, wank, shit

and sleep. I hear scratching

when I dream, find new

objects in the morning:

credit cards and passports

with a name I don’t recognise.


Sometimes I like to dance:

my hands will leap up

and my body will fly through

the air. Perhaps I will soar,


see the hands that mould,

that give me inoffensive

scenery instead of life,

bloody and raw like hands

cut with smashed glass.



Christian Ward © 2009



Anthem for Obedient Youth



With no offence to the obedient

youth, I would like to rip off

their generic faces and turn the


knobs of an etch-a-sketch

to produce some variety that will

throb in the electric undercurrent

of our society. How I would love

to pull off their hooped earrings,


hoodies, tracksuits, fashionable

crops, retro glasses and everything

Hoxton-esque. How I would love

to strip them bare and let them


redesign every inch of their pathetic

selves. And burn, burn the media

priests that dominate the theatres

of their heads with pointless shit


and spoonfeeds them a heroin

of gossip and noise to ensure

subservience. Then I would let them

walk through the streets and watch

them tear it down, tear it all fucking

down.


And it will be beautiful,

oh so fucking beautiful, my friends.



The Conservative Poets


Their words are hollow,

trite. Snatched from Marie Claire,

Cosmopolitan. Who gives

a fuck about whether an avocado

gets you fat, or a man changing the oil

in your car. Held up to the light,

their words are blank; unlike the ones

labelled 'other' or 'underground'.

Theirs is like the lump found on an x-ray:

hungry, raw, growing.


Christian Ward © 2009