This poem is based on the Cozi Writers group task set to us by Steve O'Connor last week which was to imagined a world in which one of our habits or mannerisms was illegal. I imagined a world in which using pseudonyms were illegal - and in doing so journeyed into a story of how the pseudonyms were created.

Identity Crisis

_______________

What
Is
your
name
and
Number?

They
ask.

Slow and monotonous,
Like their systems
that require you to respond
with pin point precision.

I refuse
and
declare a war on stupidity.
Leaving their cables snapped,
Wires crossed.
At the edge of my sanity.

Just
can’t
cope.


See, I’m a man of many names,
They say I’m crazy.
Multiple-personality disorder.

I say I’m an actor.
I act.
But unlike you fakes
my acting doesn’t hurt anyone.
But encroaches the gates of the morally weak,
And enlightens the minds of the humble.

Ben Franklin died a long time ago,
Long before I stopped using that name.
He died the day his father
Swapped my mother
for a
fat
cheap
whore.

A Masonic man,
All about secrecy
and funny handshakes.
His 5 knuckle shuffle could put Cena to shame,
Well, he is a bit of a wanker.
This “Worshipful Master” can
get down on his knees...
not to pray to a God that doesn’t exist,
But to beg for forgiveness from a real angel.

The Indigo Angel.

My afro like halo
glimmers like the stars formed from my mother’s tears
that crystallized on my neck.

There will be no redemption
In this life or the next.
Forgiveness is given out too easily.
Superficial sorry said not meant.

The Phoenix rose from the ashes of
Ben Franklin’s broken dreams.
Burning up like the rage he felt at the world.
Living in a place worse than prison.
No.
Not living.
Just existing.

He flew onwards,
Chasing the bright lights
of Vegas.


Stalyvegas.
Just as tacky.
Full of cheap drinks,
And even cheaper sex.
But cupid took pity on a fallen angel,
Yet spited him,
and clipped the wings of a phoenix reborn.

Her father,
Called himself working class.
Hadn’t worked in years,
But always had money for Stones
bitter.
Sometimes lager,
Ocassionally John Smiths.
But always
bitter.
Pissed her off when
the gas meter ran out
mid shower
and she was left frozen
like the love that never got the chance to live.
Shunted
like scrap metal.
Rusty and wasteful.

Tried to make something real out of something fake,
Except the phoenix was frozen mid-resurrection.
Died too many deaths.
Nothing left.
Nothing but the sparks of love that never engulfed…

Thought it was real.

Wanted to believe it was real.

Knew it wasn’t real.

The ashes were snorted like Charlie,
Charlie had one angel.
That denied himself,
A lot more than 3 times.

Flew to a higher plane,
Never saw her again.

Got taken from the back,
By a poor man’s Captain Jack.
Stood to attention,
as Bidaman experienced the
ecstasy which he was born to
Receive.
And give.
And receive.
And give.
Fucked a lady who called herself a meerkat,
Awakening the feral beast within.
Lust.
The most sensual of the 7 sins.


Bidaman remembered his anti-hero
Clenching a sexy feline villain.
“Mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it,
A kiss is even deadlier if you mean it”

But we did more than kiss,
Call this sin? It’s bliss!
I could feel myself inside her,
Connected as one.

Two peeps, one week.
Quite shy, not meek.

The Indigo Angel ascended to a higher place,
I’ll be flying high in the face of disgrace.
I’d swap fame for shame,
They’re practically the same.
Except shame can lead to regret.
Not the painful shame,
Like a ball and chain.
But the shame that leads to change,
When lie turns truth turns strange.

Like the shame of using,
Like the shame of being used.
Like choosing that
Nature
VS
Nurture.
Is bullshit.

I nurtured myself in the nature,
Of the light side of humanity.
In doing so revealing the
Illuminating Indigo.
Hovering halo.
Hidden no more.

People say I pretend,
But nay I ascend.
Ascend to truth,
Living proof.
Of divinity in human form.
Fuck Jesus…
Indigo
Angel
Ushiku,
Is the real gift from God.
They ask my name.
Egyptian like Isis?
Sicilian surname,
It’s my identity crisis.

They ask who I am,
I say I don’t know.
No name.
No number.
Non-descript.
Non-conformist.

I’m me.
Bidaphoenixangel.
The real holy trinity.
Rising from the ashes,
Relishing in revelation of his sexual identity,
And ascending.
Spreading his wings.
And always ascending.

With my cape tied on and my wings spread wide,
I search for the truth, refusing to hide.
I will never die if my name lives on,
I’ll never die if my names live on.

Who am I?

Who am I?

Who am I?

I ask 3 times for the 3 parts of me.
Answer 3 different answers each honestly.
Each receives a part of me,
Imbued with the spirit of an
Antagonistic anarchist.
Refusing to conform,
Sticking my middle finger to the norm.

They ask my name, and they deplore,
I reply “Bidaphoenixangel, forevermore.”