Fran and the ‘Flatrock Women’s Irregulars’ response: And Pussy Riot

And Pussy Riot (prose poem)
Fran Lock , with the ‘Flatrock’ Women’s Irregulars

And the can’t-sleep sky is carbon paper blue tonight. And I have ironed my work clothes, stretched my fingers towards the sea, and thought about our childhood. Thought about growing up, how the masked face belonged to the inhospitable modesties of men; spoke in black balaclaval prerogatives of violence, the vengeful anonymity of fathers, uncles, brothers, sons.

And I can hear the churches, godly smoke-alarms sounding the hour like a state of emergency. But England keeps no curfews- yet. I am free to remember. I am free to forget. I am free to picture his pithed face itching in the kitchen, the stretcher-bearing din frying the fat from the small-hours; the lamp-lit collateral of sheltered housing, flickering and noisome and someone ‘jumped’ from the sixteenth storey.

Masked men. The witch-doctored drumming of masked men. They come from under the bed for me, cauled in cretaceous tar, bête noireing monstrous, mouths like bespoke belfries. Terrible obeah. They nurse their heroics beneath the scratch of their dubious cocoons. And we had wanted to take off our faces too. This hurts me under the collarbone.

And the can’t-sleep sky is the water-damaged violet of a two-day bruise. We threw rocks at the blind visors on eviction days. Between us and the pigs it was real a Venetian free-for-all, a carnival of head-wounds. We put up our hoods, for monastic gratuities of invisibility. Our bandanas like bank-robbers to stop the barely breathable atmosphere diluting the scald in our lungs. The masked face belonged to the snide fraternities of angst; raw bloody beefsteak battened on the sleeve.

It is late. The man on the radio says ‘irresponsible and publicity seeking’. Facebook tells me ‘cheap theatrics’, boo-hoos that ‘they broke others’ right to worship’. Pussy Riot. Two years. Two years, for the tea-cosied D.I.Y of their silence-breaking. For the peaceful calisthenics of their revolution, for a women’s revolution, that throws no rocks, that sets no charges, moves no knife between no ribs, that gives back to the mask the stage-craft of smiling super-heroism.

And I want to punch holes in concrete, for all the points these mealy-mouthed fuckwits deliberately miss. Because what’s the right to worship worth without the right to protest? And who gives two shits for the orthodox monotonies of church when church is tied to murderous turds like Putin? Call punk rock a blasphemy? When Nashi bash in heads? When people speaking truth are cracked, fractured, disappeared?

Four A.M. I know how that goes. And Pussy Riot are the antidote to all invisibility. They made it impossible for the regime to practice any of their Houdini manoeuvres, to cover them up like an embarrassed cough. Pussy Riot have made the world look. Have made the world see. The haven’t-slept sky is a menstrual haven for streaking indigo vertigos, whorls of lambent carnelian.  I am sad and I am angry and I grateful. Women will no longer be the load-bearing bones of someone else’s war. Not with aping hate, but with the white-hot heat love, we will step into the light, singing. And we are all Pussy Riot.

Advertisements

About letsstartapussyriot

Lets Start A Pussy Riot
This entry was posted in Creative Response, Freedom of Speech, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s