May 21, 2017
May 14, 2017
Bastard Brady – was born out of wedlock, y’know
Bastard Brady, rot in hell! Wot you did, done broke the spell
Shadows on the moor – there’s more out there, y’know
Shadows cross that herbivore world: Mods and Minis,
Long legs and Twiggy, in England’s pleasant land.
We could have believed in it, that’s how we conceived of it
Till you came along and bared your rotten teeth
In the back of a car like a rock’n’roll star
Your cherry red lips are unmissable
Still kissable even in black and white
We value human life for what it is
But even more for the possibility it contains
‘Total possibility’ is how you described it
But better dead already than soaked in your atrocities
Boys and girls, begging unheeded; their lives shut down, unplugged
And, of course, your own
Never more the wee boy still as the deer you saw deep in the forest
No longer even the VIP prisoner neighbouring the Krays
And twinned at chess with a disgraced Labour minister.
Inhuman quantities of salt, spewing and shouting; hand hits wall, fractures (not the wall), only eight stone on a six foot frame. Was this when you wanted to be transferred to a secure hospital, or when you went on hunger strike in order to be sent back? Night time snacking, nurses reported, and who knows if it was full blown mental illness or a personality disorder fit to be contained in prison?
Either way, never anything but detained: lucky to have missed the rope; only by a matter of months.
Fifty years of a locked-up life
Brought down to where the sun don’t shine.
Room, no view; and all this time never exercised in the open air.
Box not much bigger than the one you went out in – unless you’re still there.
We’re not talking ’bout lead in pencil
But strip down base graphite to a single layer of atoms –
It can be done – and a new world of possibility opens up.
‘Beyond words.’ The pilgrim from Hamsphire, one of an estimated two million worshippers in the town of Fatima, had entered a state of grace. Or else it was all too much for her – the Pope, the crowds, the Portuguese sun, and the little shepherds whose visions of the Virgin Mary have finally brought them to sainthood, a hundred years after the Madonna first appeared to them.
A hundred years of people striving, warring, winning, losing, dying; now colonised for Catholicism by the Holy Father. Make no mistake, besides claiming for itself the presumed innocence of Francisco and Jacinta, who died in the global flu epidemic before they had a chance to grow up, this was the Holy Apostolic Church taking back a whole heap of time, amending what times past are remembered for.
See how it’s done. Not faultlessly, for that would be in error – perfection has no need of prayer. Instead let the faithful glimpse the feet of clay – this Pope’s jug ears, his Mr Potato Head, so to see themselves making the difficult ascent alongside him.
At the open air altar, in the midst of the sacrament, a flash of calculation in the Pope’s typically humble countenance – perhaps something in his line of sight that wasn’t quite right.
It’s ‘artisanal’, this ecstasy; as he himself might say, ‘you work on it every day’. So how to work the myth and reality, folding each into the other like eggs and flour?
Take two thousand years of practice and as many of belief, moderately sincere……