Rape

 

The chickens are making a disturbed noise next door. And we have seagulls in the sky. How
strange a juxtaposition
that cannot be denied
I’m going long on this one for my head
In bows and curls is running faster than my
Other head the one that thinks
I’m guessing that you,ve reached the brink
And ready to withdraw but wait
A single thread of sanity is starting now to form
I’ll try to catch it sideways, and smile,
I’ll mourn later when you can’t see
Me
And make up swiftly taken off
And looking making sure that I’m alone
The tear can come
The natural frown can come and darkly, quietly
Take me down
Down
Down
Down
Down
Down
Down DownDown
Down

And the bell can begin its mournful cough
And hell long fought can enter me anew

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Rape

 

The chickens are making a disturbed noise next door. And we have seagulls in the sky. How
strange a juxtaposition
that cannot be denied
I’m going long on this one for my head
In bows and curls is running faster than my
Other head the one that thinks
I’m guessing that you,ve reached the brink
And ready to withdraw but wait
A single thread of sanity is starting now to form
I’ll try to catch it sideways, and smile,
I’ll mourn later when you can’t see
Me
And make up swiftly taken off
And looking making sure that I’m alone
The tear can come
The natural frown can come and darkly, quietly
Take me down
Down
Down
Down
Down
Down
Down DownDown
Down

And the bell can begin its mournful cough
And hell long fought can enter me anew

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Chip Papers

Lightly now,
The footfall of the night
Shifts uneasily into early morn.
All about
The protest, the dissent
Remains, but now quieted
Forgotten
Like the remnants
Of ancient texts of truth
Yet morning
Like the day of the desert
Oft brings forth truth
Hidden in caves
Buried
Hoped missing, believed perished,
That gives light to the darkness
That so surrounds us all
But kept at bay –
For now –
By sodium-bright light.

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Sunday, Bloody Sunday


 

Satan:

 

Were you watching as they dragged my battered Jesus from his cell?

Did you gloat on how they’d tortured him, and beaten him so well?

Were there gleeful, loathsome parties in some lower fetid hell,

As a kind of celebration on the day Messiah fell?

Did you mingle with the crowd

Shouting insults vile out loud?

Spitting with them all

Holding them in thrall

Wallowing in pride

Demons beaming wide

Did you laugh the hours away

On Friday, Bloody Friday?

 

Did it give you hellish pleasure as they made him bear his cross

Along the via dolorosa, through the rubbish and the dross?

Did it make you feel triumphant, that at last you were the boss;

That Messiah had been broken, and his true men at a loss?

Did you catch his eye that day

A glance that was to say

You’ve lost what you had

You’ve got it coming bad

Im going to watch you die

Watch you shriek up to the sky.

Did he watch you mock that day,

On Friday, Bloody Friday?

 

As the rude iron nails were planted in his gentle, caring hands

And his ankles pierced with heavy blows, a torture all of mans’,

Did you smile with vile delight?  As all his erstwhile loving fans

Deserted him, the zenith of your plans

Must have seemed to you

To all come true.

For Messiah hung

Feebly strung

On wooden tree

Just for your glee.

Did you watch him, wordless, pray

On Friday, Bloody Friday?

 

And as they raised his cross up high, did you laugh deep in your soul?

As they dropped the cursed cross into its hellish prepared hole,

And he gasped in pain and terror as the nerves jangled their toll,

Did your inner being exultate as at last you got your goal?

You felt the triumph then

Over God and over men

Your blasted nether hells

Rang their dissonant bells

To tell the demons how

Satan’s rule was started now.

Every devil had his day

On Friday, Bloody Friday.

 

At the third hour, your power 

Spat out, and in hell’s deep bower

They rejoiced at victory won.

 

Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani?

 

I thirst.

 

Blessed are they that thirst

 

It

Is

Finished.

Friday, Bloody Friday.

 

Temple curtain rent in twain

Thieves crying out in pain

Alone, unloved, 

Hung

Messiah.

 

But were you doubtful of the battle you had hard won, even then?

A huge round stone, you got your men

To seal Messiah’s body in

The cold grey tomb of death.

And, sure now that all was done

You head from tomb of the Son

Down down returning to your throne

Of blasted stone and mire.

 

Three days of celebration gone, did you at last arise

And look out from your portals, as the son began to rise?

And Mary heads toward the grave, I imagine your surprise

As loud she wails “He is not there” , the stone lies flat, unprised.

Oh would it be that I could have seen

The pain upon your face

As Messiah turned mortal death around

And ushered in his grace.

 

In caverns deep the wailing starts, a hellish song so full of dread

And dying hopes that you did aspire

All lie crushed beneath the heel

Of him that you thought dead

He is Alive! Your demons shriek; He is arisen! Flee!

For hell’s own boundaries are shook

And prisoners set free.

 

Oh, do you remember, long ago, the nadir of your days?

Do you remember all your power leeched by he who prays

Above and to the Father?  He who all fear allays?

 

Then recall, with deep’ning dread

The words you shrieked out to the dead;

The words that will not go away:

 

SUNDAY, BLOODY SUNDAY.

 

 

 

 

© Roger Wright 2004 

All rights reserved.

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NURSES WARNED OF TORY PRESS BACKLASH

NURSES WARNED OF TORY PRESS BACKLASH
Nursing Standard’s editor warns nurses in the latest issue that the Tory press have pretty much already written their copy lambasting nurses who join in the strike on November 30th.
They will attempt to make it appear as though nurses have ‘gold-plated’ pensions and should not join in a day of action; it’s a Tory lie oft repeated, in the hope that if you repeat a lie often enough then the public will swallow it.
In fact, the average pension that a nurse receives is £4,000 a year – and that is before they reduce the pension, put up its cost to nurses, and make them work longer to get it …
Herr Goebbels would have been proud, had he known his work would be ably carried on by the Tory party and their agents.

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I had rather a lot of fun today when the wife and I made a stop-motion video.  It may be short, but it is very sweet.  Or not.  Watch “Patricia Can Park”:

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One Year Drift

I have been one year away and now I am back. Things gave changed a little since last October, and I’ll break news slowly throughout the posts; I would hate to overwhelm you with the minutæ of my amazingly full social calendar or contacts.
One thing I do know is that art and visual media have become very important to me – even more so than last year, it has become an important too for maintaining sanity; those that know me well may assert that it has not worked …

Hopefully someone might find all this interesting, because it really is a map of my mind. One may need the services of a decent satnav system to ensure one does not get lost. You have been warned.

Enjoy and remain within the bounds of sanity if you feel up to it.

Best regards

R.

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All Change .. what a strange world this is …

Well …

So Live Spaces is no more, and I am now a WordPress blogger.  Sounds very grand, even though I am about as grand as a ten-bob note.  Anyway …

PETE BEDS JORD’S PAL

… is the screaming headline from one of today’s Sunday tabloids.  I am not sure why this paper – though the others bear little resemblance to real life either – thinks that the most burning topic of the day is why some once-was pop star is putting up shelves with a mate of his erstwhile wife.  Or why any reasonable human being should be interested where the poor child is putting his plonker at all.

I’ll look forward to those of you (either one of you will do) who thinks that such things are worth knowing explaining to me what sexual proclivities, adventures or positions a non-celeb has can be remotely interesting.

It is surely a sad reflection on one’s own life – and mine is by no means perfect – that such ‘news’ could be of interest to one?  A reflection of the utter despairing humdrum of squalid social existence that causes one to leap up and down with joy at such a headline?

It’s a comment on society – and the monster press, now firmly wedded to ‘celebrity’ in order to sell a single issue of their dreadful rags – that such a headline should have such huge prominence on the front page of a national Sunday paper.  Let’s leave out the erstwhile function of Sunday, and agree that we do not necessarily want Sunday to be about terrible bombings, political unrest, or murder most foul; yet, surely, there is more happening in the world than the dampness of ‘Pete’s’ todger, and where he last remembered having it.

I’m not sure this world was a place I was meant to born into; I think one of those new-fangled multiverses got mixed up when I was due to enter into sentience and humbuggery.  If I could find a way back to the multiverse of sanity – Claus or clause – then I would be off as fast – as my dear departed father was wont to put it – as shit off a shovel.

Though I must admit, I never understood the phrase. Mine, anyway, on the Atkin’s diet, would tend to stick, and stick terribly.  I never understood It’s like the curate’s egg – good in parts either.  Let me know if you work either or both of them out.

Someone must know.

Pip pip!

Vet

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Talking about Prostitution crackdown unveiled – | MSN News UK – news

 

Quote

Prostitution crackdown unveiled – | MSN News UK – news

How repressive this government is getting – and how controlling of behaviour.
They are starting to look more and more like the 1984 Orwell version, and trying, at the same time, to plead morality and a higher plane of thought.

It should be interesting as MPs start getting criminal records, since they are often caught out visiting prostitutes (as a proportion of 600 or so people, they must rank as the sleaziest of our population).

But then, what is prostitution?
Is it a cabinet minister giving His power and favour in return for being His mistress?

It’s a load of claptrap window dressing, and the government should be ashamed of itself; but this turncoat anti-socialist socialist party are now quite beyond shame.  They remind one of the Roman authority at its worst; a mixture of sleaze, corruption, hypocrisy, and manipulative behaviour that would cause a Caesar to blush in embarrassment.

This has nothing to do with protection, morality or helping prostitutes; it has everything to do with window dressing that is as much to do with the same, as the tinseltown windows of Oxford Street have to do with the birth of the Saviour, Jesus Christ.

Shame on them, I sa.
Shame.

 

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Flying – Of Mice And Men …… Part I

      You know, there’s one thing worse than finding a worm in your sandwich …. and that’s finding half a worm in your sandwich. Or possibly a cliche that makes the hills look quite young in a blog …

      There is, however, nothing quite like finding a mouse in one’s (environmentally friendly jute) shopping bag when one is  about to pay for one’s (environmentally friendly) purchases in an (environmentally friendly) organic Garden Centre.  Said mouse only came to light when my dear wife extracted the carrier from another; as she unfolded the bag, a somewhat surprised rodent peered myopically up at her, squidged eyes trying desperately to get used to the sudden ingress of light.  It looked faintly annoyed too; I swear I could see little ridged furrows on its brow denoting its disapproval of large humanoids who rudely awoke mice from their slumber.  My wife, it has to be said, hardly moved a muscle.  The surprise was complete.

       The creature, suddenly aware of its own mortality and realising that at any second it may become a food item, leapt theatrically and balletically from the unfolded bag; a leap at which many a lesser mouse would have baulked. He hit the ground running and sought sanctuary behind the Pisa-like stack of customer baskets, much to the consternation of passersby who, valiantly, and with varying degrees of success, tried to stifle screams of panic and fear ….

      In the stillness that followed, I swear you could hear a tiny, adrenaline-charged heartbeat.  Free for the moment, my small daredevil rodent had sown the seeds of its own demise; the baskets, though an excellent hiding place, also constituted a cage ….

      It was an easy matter, therefrom, to capture the peevish creature under an upturned basket, and remove it from the shop and its attendant dangers (and delights, rodentially speaking, since the till in question was only a few feet away from the organic food section; a selection of comestibles as vast as it was delicious).   I released the thing into a bush – though it probably, in referring to the incident to an audience of open-mouthed, admiring rodent peers, said that it had escaped into the bush.  I never saw it again and it never saw me again.  Which is good for the mouse, since I found that it had, while comfortably ensconced within my shopping bags, gnawed itself a comfortable bed from the jute linings and assorted leaflets, handouts and till-receipts within … my Bag For Life had met an earlier-than-expected demise.  There was worse to come.  A  Penguin biscuit, saved for the rainiest of days, when chocolate was needed terribly, terribly badly, had also bitten the dust – or, rather, had been bitten into the dust.  I cursed the name of mousedom.  My wife asked, casually as she might, whether I had taken my medication that morning. 

 

And my first flying lesson, later in the day?  That, I regret, like a penguin biscuit should be, must be saved for another time.

Be at peace, now, y’hear?

Roger

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