Your scars are worse than mine, you say
My transgressions have diminished you
you are the injured party
a victim of my indifference to your sensitivities
I owe you an apology, you say
I have flaunted my privilege in your face
worn my ignorance as a badge of honour
on my snot-nosed sleeve, you say
Was it unconscious bias? I say
No, it was deliberately provocative and malicious you say
You have been much aligned by me
Get out of my way, you say
Get out of my own country? I say
I have disrespected your right to exist
appropriated your culture, you say
You are only getting started you say
I am a bigot and a racist and everything on your list-phobe
Well excuse me for living I say
I never met you before in my life
a horse painted red plays a nocturne
on a grand piano in Wyoming
the sound carries to our campfire
our tears flow easy
such is the emotive power of the melody
a noose on the tree swings a hanged man
vultures croon a lullaby
the red sky is redder tonight
Jealous of the horse
it is the music that transcends the night
I sway softly in the breeze
beneath the moon and a hanged man
this night has wandered into a side street
there it will lay its head
away from the city
far from the **** cars
far from God
seeking solace in the bronchial lungs of winter
What cares the night watchman
if death heats its hands on the coke fire
is not the grave cold?
the damp soil hardened by frost
this night has wandered into a side street
there it will die like an unwanted dog
far from the **** cars and prying eyes
it will not die alone
for I shall keep it company in its last hours
wearing the clothes of a pall bearer
let the moon mourn if it will
I have gorged on prayer
assailed the ear of God
'His voice' you say
What of it ?
a barking dog cries ( there is no solace in that)
the gates of heaven are closed
the car parks are full
the side streets are open
it is there we will lay our heads
So sorry to hear your pet elephant went on the rampage through your front room. I know you treasured that antique vase your great grandfather pillaged from an ancient tomb in Cairo.
Try not to worry about your crushed shoulder blades. You were never too fast on your feet. Elephants can outrun an Olympian when they decide to get going.
I understand the insurance company refused to entertain any associated damage as contrary to the household goods act 1783.
What a pity but to be expected eh? Anyway what possessed you to turn on Wild Safari on a Sunday afternoon. That 85 inch telly is like a window into Africa. No doubt that elephant thought he was one step away from the Savannah.
Well done and full kudos to the grandad on the Honda 50 who went in pursuit of that magnificent creature. What a heroic gesture he attempted in overtaking your pet and waving his arms in the air.
A brave but futile attempt. You might want to know he was picked up off the ground by a rapid response ambulance. First reports say he will live but will be restricted in his mobility for at least two years.
The Honda is a write off and his family are none too pleased.
Anyway at least the Zoo are happy with their new acquisition.
Your elephant has settled in nicely.
I know you are anxious to get a replacement pet to keep you company. Maybe now is not the right time for an anaconda.
I will drop by next Sunday and drop a few grapes into you.
All my love
In the retirement home for skinheads
it is hard to maintain order
everyone wants to swing their chains
don their doc martens
run riot in the rockers wing
before launching into foul mouthed tirades
all the nurses on standby with sedation syringes
Other than that it's a very quiet place
I was a Britisher in the days of the Empire
when a Britisher was the epitome of Noble grandeur
my V.C still lies in my war chest
next to a propellor from a Spitfire
and an asseagi from the heart of Africa
I stood on Mount World and surveyed the four corners of the Earth
tipping my hat to Oueen Victoria
See you in Blighty old chap!
Roust the blighters!
I was a Britisher when Churchill saved the day
sent the Luftwaffe back to Germany
with a cigar to spare
I was there when England grew up
caught her falling a few times
We grew up together
She still can be seen sometimes walking with the spirit of Dunkirk
or picnicking on the white cliffs of Dover
Slick Brick Mandini, half Irish -half Italian, was raised in the Dublin slums. Around the corner from Henrietta Street, Europes biggest slum, was the Italian quarter of Smithfield.
Slick Brick knew every stone and alley, every hawker and scumbag, every dark street in the North side of the fair city.
A tall, good looking man with a penchant for riding street horses late at night. Many the harmless vagrant were run over and trampled to death as Slick galloped his piebald down North King street into the early hours. He could turn that horse on a sixpence, with the deft assurance one would normally attribute that skill to an Apache or Commanche warrior from North America.
North America would beckon one day but for now it was the mean streets of Dublin that tried to contain him.
Everyone knew he had a brain and could recite his Shakespeare as well as the Bard himself. In his own mind he was a MacDuff ready to take on the Macbeths and weird sisters of life.
An incident in secondary school which he evaded suspicion of set him on the road to criminality.
Brother Lugnaciois was patrolling the school corridors that fateful day. 'The Lug' as the schoolboys called him behind his back was a vicious *******. A Christian Brother with a passion for violence and intimidation. His leather strap hung from his swaggering hips like a gunslinger from the Old West and many's the hand he welted with pure savagery. Lug's favourite torment though was to pull a young school lads locks and lift them up off the ground in one horror filled moment.
Slick had the misfortune to be returning from the school toilets and was confronted by Lug. For no reason other than the infliction of base terror Lug grabbed Slick by his locks and twisted his ears for good measures.
It was expected from Lug and retaliation meant sustained torment.
Slick pulled a flickknife from his waistband and slashed Lug under his left eye. It took a moment for Lug to realise what had happened.
Stunned at the emerging pain and gush of blood from his face, Lug went into a rage.
That was when Slick's fathers tutelage came to his mind.
'Always remember, Son, a swift kick to the lower nether regions will stop a racehorse'
And Lug became a racehorse in that very instance of thought.
He reared up to grab Slick by the throat when the kick landed to his nether regions.
First he went purple then green then a fury arouse on his countenance. With what must have been a testimony to the power to retain control in extreme pain Lug lunged at Slick for revenge.
Slick knew it was a life or death moment. He deliberately and calmly drew the knife across Lugs throat. Even that was not enough.
From his pocket he took out his pistol. A silencer had been fitted.
The horror with which Lug's eyes met Slick's was one of disbelief.
'You ***** toe rag!' Slick uttered and pulled the trigger.
Lug's head exploded in a spray of red death.
At all times Slick had retained his composure. He had opened the door to the underworld and eagerly walked through.
In time the world would come to know of the foul exploits of Slick Brick Mandini. Only a few close friends would ever know who murdered the ******* Lugs.
Slick would lie low for a while and it would be some time before Dublin was shook by another ******. This ****** would be the one that placed Slick Brick Mandini firmly in the gaze of the police.
For now Slick smoked a cigar of Cuban origin and felt proud of his efforts. He allowed himself a smile as he recalled Lug's terrified and confused countenance.
'You had it coming you *******' he thought as he held his war trophy.
The leather strap which would never again inflict pain on a schoolboys hand.