Human Writes: Luka Rollings


Ignition It was blue before and now it has gone white

to fill the flame that blinds

It has dissipated into our breath and infected our blood

   has generalised century’s tongue into a spear

          tested culture towards the tiles daughters gentle roast

                    temptation into toast

So many windows

So many screams

So often we call to please the men 

               who stand outside

               to watch the hours burn.

The men who seed the children. 



For a Man Who Struggled to See

We become the smoke,

   rising from his cigarette

into polluted skies we call beautiful.

We become his relentless chemicals,

burning the ground we walk - 

the freedom to acknowledge, 

  a small and censored son.

Nobody is safe from the corrosive mutterings of night.

No one is ready for the horrors they cause.

The alcohol that refuses to tear itself from his lips

         kisses him goodnight in a room

         with no door

My father,

   imprisoned in the grey rivers

that hide between minds

               with this substance he consumes

               hiding the sky



The 3:00pm chat

Come 3:00pm my school tie chained

around its scent of defeat.

In my garden, the decked retreat

waits for my tongue,

tied with half of day,

to reluctant conversation.

A failed bird song

lulls my brother’s mild swing.

His uniform hosts a carnivorous poppy,

its paper wet and broken

              the moment weeps an apology.

                                                                                His words scar my light,

the silence of all to come;

             Its tempered call,

             Its mistaken cry,

(My hollowed home reaps seventeen lines

of flora through spine.)

The conversation is written

          in the Braille of the suns eye

but a muddy wing bludgeons

the sentence of tonight

I walk out

                       soaked in quiet

               and leave to rot in his rest.

  His everyday prints disbelief

                  under my palms.



The Crying Frenchman 

Simple and straight.

Endless dominion seeping blood,

power into our mines.

My country is skinned slowly

Red and black and white

The name of my face,

pinned to the veins of its sad fluid

           of its grey September.


Her black fedora is mine today.

her black dress sits on my skin,

her parted tears dig graves in my eyes.


No one is a man.

No man is alive.