How can it be that the gas chamber door opens inwards? by Steve Parker

How can it be that the gas chamber door opens inwards?

(to David Irving)

the occasion is Smoking Mirror, an exhibition–Flarf
to execrate the despicable English practice of riding to hound
–W.S. Burroughs
he’s asking in the wrong colour!
–Seance Recording (anon)

what it is	to outselect	the egregious shadow	assemblage
of flickers	the flickering voice	half-memory	a gestalt
of fireflies	& rattle	of redacted love	of the Ramp
of that confluence	of whispers	gargled up	in evoking
of the	noisy spirit	beyond	the machinery of
blue saturates	tested for at	Birkenau	Auschwitz
by weight of	its own inertia	so to assail	a weakness
prying alone	alone with the  conviction	with such fervour	thereby mining
with the fixation	of a boy	digging out	his first living spine
that such determination	sapping away	a bulwark	artfully
might	who might just bring	the walls coming down	with fumbling
with the flagship	at the blowing	thrice O thrice	of the trebuchet
trumpet trumpet	and canary	glossolalia there look listen	with jerks  & squawks of
trumpet	that thou art	in thy posture &	mild hooting hubris
thy resolve	to be other but	always in pursuit	and hot sneer
of what is truly	as the fall	of  clouds cry now	in deadly blue
& otherwise	spirited	from your holes	of deadness flushed
for the shoving	your redcoat tripes	in those faces	of deluded boys

Speak ill of the Dead by Steve Parker

Speak ill of the Dead (Gaza 2009)

They are the exalted birds and their intercession is required indeed
—Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

Blitz By May 1941	43,000 civilians	many of them horribly	as cellars
filled with sewage	escaping from burst heads	heads that lay	with the corn dollies
of Dresden	whose skin grew vapid	as tubers of fire	and wind
whose horses were silhouettes	capering on sidewalks	of armour	and ashen ghosts
whose Pompeiis	cooked down	like stock	unstuck in Time
there in the rising	in the Thames	in the Elbe	the horses at night
they came to feed	of shadows	of the Dead	after night
a three year old	child	in Gaza City	dying
with a broken back	of rivers	running hard	into deltas
over two days	in the rising	through the Thames	of concrete
of heat	of her mouth	with petals	and song
filled with dust	on the green banks	folded aloft	in the arms
of mothers	of the history	of mothers	of the mothers of mothers
and of the baking	of bread	at dawn	and at the going down
of the sun	will we consume thee	thy flesh thy bread	of glory
as white phosphorus	as coins	they inserted	in the loaves
of an Intifada	like vast catfish	coins	for the raising
of the drowned	in dust	face down	now be still
do not fight	do not fight	as the horses fought	it will be over the sooner
into that glory	or thrust	upon shadow	and exalted aloft
upon high	in the upper air	and upon the heights	in cannonades
in loaves at dawn	they seek	the drowned	to ask
why one child	whose skins grew vapid	as tubers of fire	why one child
of another race	worth so many of hers	unable to move her arms	she who will never know
knows only of snow	and one catfish king	says Jim to Tom	of its taste
its cold soft iron	is much like another	much like one another	and all of it no damn good

The Girdle Sensation by Steve Parker

in that her presence was itself	some zonesthesia	past mere atmospheric cinch	he breathed	tight.
shallow	noticeably different	yet for a week or more	would not look	would not feel
the girdle sensation	/the swoon	or more hives or hives	of her a hive or several	of hives
that hemmed	upon him	as poetic asphyxia	he wanted to smash it	the cincture
as poetic asphyxia	the drowning	the press which in such ways accompanies	to perform a delicate	an intricate task
the cincture	which accompanies	the drowning	zonesthesia	task at the very limit
past mere ability	several or more hives	that hemmed upon him	at the very limit	of ability

Gorilla Loose on Highstreet by Steve Parker

“the body has gone underground due to widespread persecution.” Madeleine Shine

in those times of the interior	in those times of the interior	in those times of the interior	in those times of the interior
of antimony	of ambergris	of kohl	of Zanzibar and Shendy
dig my grave	I will dig yours	in wet vellum	we go stark laughing
rush/	from behind trees	it was reported	huge grinning
clutch/ladies	of amorous	to them	covered in fur
fevers/shivering	oh fearful greek katyusha	on a cigar of all nations	unconscionably requited
Freud bitten himself to death	Reich askance the whole winter’s edge	Jung suddenly addressed with fondness his stockpot	keep it for your aghast moments
this ape thing	this ape thing	this ape thing	this ape thing
not universally acknowledged as myth	my half-brother now summertime duke	piss off into your walled garden	not universally acknowledged as myth

Steve Parker, originally from Liverpool, now lives in Haworth near Emily Bronte’s grave in West Yorkshire, UK. His poetry has been been published in Ditch, Cause and Effect, Dogzplot, Underground Voices, Admit Two, The Chimaera and Chaos International, as well as two chapbooks published by Stylus Books in the UK: Selected Poems by Steve Parker and Tearing the Veil. His blog is: brickstackblockstack.