The Black Earth of the Arawak.

lady of flowers


The Black Earth of the Arawak.

The sun broke the sky into three pointed stones.
Eye stones, keep stones, earth stars, voices
Tall girls were washing the string from juicy leaves
To weave into baskets to crush the toxic sap
From a giant root.

We may be eaten by men or dogs he told them
The water glittered, and a pinkfaced monkey chattered

He traded for some iron to cut the Spaniards
The way they cut  up the womenfolk, only worse
If there was a worse way, he would find it…

They were the wrong people, they were just a  family
Eating their bread and praying  to a paper saint
Before they were felled beneath the tools.

A double rainbow spilled over the spent volcano
The two-note bird shrilled in the wet undergrowth.

Now we are as the Caribs
He said
Except we did not eat them


Veronica Aldous

all rights reserved 2018




I think of the world,
The sudden violence and the angry mobs
The despots and the samurai, the warlords and armies
Edifices of skulls, fortresses of twisted metal
The shadows of children left  smeared on walls and ramparts
I thought of all this
As if it were the story of somewhere else
Not here where I fashion a necklace of shells
Taking each lustred  vortex
Threading them close so they may speak
Through the thin paper of time
As a lover speaks to his other
In low  tender ministrations
Tempering all that is  unimaginable.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2017

Show your Wound

I am re blogging this in memory of Gustav Metzger  who tried to show us what we are and asked us  ‘Can we change?’

artwork by Veronica Aldous copyright 2017 not to be reproduced. Silkscreen and digital print on silk with neon stitch and mica

Show your Wound


Show your Wound

It’s a hat you can wear, felt and fat
Swivel and you miss it, if you know a colour
Is turquoise – not blue
The litmus paper test for if you are a screaming
This or that. What they call you is what you are
But not. I punk it out and sometimes
Take a swing, but why?
When the sea is in my coffee
And birds are just plain happy?
This is simple;
We live
We die
And in between

If you leak like trash in a backyard bin
All over other people’s gardens
Puking up pulpy ghostfear
In a trench of gnashing teeth
Just like a machine head
Just like a wasp caught in a hungry jar –

You won’t be haunted
It won’t prevent you sleeping

But then again,
You never really know.

All rights reserved Veronica Aldous 2015

War Baby


War Baby

There is so much sadness in this dusty child
Not enough skin to wrap around, protect us
From such sights as these
To which god shall we pray?
They say, inevitability, casualty
Not ours, so why should we care?

Because his eyes are blear shell shocked holes
Where mirth should play and smiles flicker
Nothing grows or moves…
An unholiness in the broken bleeding baby
That breaks the soul in two.
But he is material fact statistically,
So, nothing new,he’s old.

Like a warrior fresh from combat sees nothing
He is not here, but somewhere out there
With the burning flesh of accursed rain
A mortar  ends all pain, arms and legs and feet
In piles, blocking gullies and drains
Use them as a barricade, these passive staring things
Useful commodities like weaponry or toys.

No child should know how rank we are
How ill disposed to sweet small trusting things
Beneath a sky that rains fire in hellish measure
The ornaments of war are children
Blown to bloody smithereens
As everybody knows.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved

The Reptiles

lilies iris

Down that tight corridor like eel slippage
With the weight of the dust and the gold I have pinched
From the green room, which will likely turn
Acid. The reptiles have given me an ultimatum

They are calling in their forty per cent

Mortal is weary with all their demands
He sulks and hisses, his paillettes glimmer hotly
Shades of bronze, verdigris and rouge roi marble
Oh for a return to swallowing whole chicks!

The taxes have to be paid

In the felt bunker, three piles of dragon money
Are scintillating and dripping in a pool of mercury
Poisoned drones hover overhead, The directors
Eye the accounts books, squinting cold magnetic eyes
Through half lunar chipped pince-nez

You know there is war
You know it is finality

Despotic singularity
Hardheaded righteous sense.

Veronica Aldous 2015 All Rights Reserved