agitation free

I used to be your friend   do you remember me?     I’m the charming junkie bastard      who went to see his dealer     and left you in the rain    I was the viper in your bosom     the lover boy from hades      the raging drunk iconoclast     who smashed your window panes     I took your best intentions     and flushed them down the toilet     then played the bloody martyr     to my insecurities     I’m not asking for forgiveness     I don’t deserve forgiveness     I used to be a bastard     but I’m a different creature now       jesus wants me for a sunbeam      you wouldn’t take me for a sunbeam        but I understand the gesture     I turned over a new leaf     and there was my future     clean as a brand new whistle     and agitation free

the son of heaven

some folk never know      well, you can’t say that of me     I knew exactly who I was     though others couldn’t see    just another working class chump     pretending to be free    so why should I play the fool    when I have things to say?      the cat has my tongue     and my flies are undone     maybe I’m better off this way      I’m uneasy with this silence      I prefer my electrical storms     I broke the root of my sorrow     with a well timed show of force     it amounts to sleight of hand       but I’m better for the change      since I placed the stars in orbit     and gave them all new names      the sun will rise and fall      to the rhythm of my heart     my love will be reflected     in a billion rays of light     now can you imagine that?     I’m so grateful to the spirit     for the fire that burns within    because I’m the son of heaven    delivered from human concerns     and absolved of worldly sin

Scarred

He always wore long sleeves, even in the hot weather. Those who noticed speculated that he might be a junkie. The truth was that he was embarrassed by his arms – the pale inner flesh was criss-crossed with scars. He felt that these betrayed his weakness that they showed him up as a self indulgent hysteric. They were made many years before, but were as livid as they ever were – great white gashes that ran across and down his arms like highways.

His self inflicted scars were constant reminders of the boy that he once was – full of sadness and self loathing. Some were punishment scars; others were genuine attempts to end his life. He often felt that his old arms no longer fitted the man he had become – the defect cicatrices were the property of a young man, a young man who had in fact died a long time ago.

He had often tried to forget his youthful manic slashings. His arms would not let him. He had tried to tell himself that the scars were in fact the signs of struggle – a struggle he had won. Had he not prevailed over adversity? Was he not still alive and kicking? It was true. Like the gnarled old bark of an ancient tree his scars were a sign of triumph, but how do you convey that to others? He kept his sleeves rolled down – dreading the looks he received if ever his naked arms were exposed.

Making love with a new partner was a particular minefield. They invariably asked him about the scars – then would begin a lengthy discussion and an inevitable distance – his sanity suspect from there on in. But there was one girl who asked no questions. She kissed his scars and held him close for the longest time. At first he was mortified, but the gesture was so pure it melted his heart. No words were ever spoken of his disfiguring wounds. He felt like the man he wanted to be – she gave him that. Yes, she gave him that and it was precious.

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Popsicle

I once knew a guy, a square, who would unfold his elbows to disgorge great chunks of scripture from his ugly fissure of a mouth. He claimed to be an artist and a writer – a literally terrible Baudelaire under the influence of an evil river of semantic bullshit. I used to abhor the sound of his voice and his predictable Boy Scout denouement.

This bead twisting bastard considered himself to have been appointed God’s lawyer. His mission was to weed out and pull down the atheistic, agnostic blasphemer hounds of hell that kept bad company and cluttered up the corridors of hope. They only tripped up the unsuspecting with their weed, speed and jumping Jack Kerouac; preventing them from reaching a state of grace in God’s red white and blue heaven. It was his task to usher, forcibly if needs be, the vile unbelievers into the glowing light of HIS love. To this ends he would grind out sermons on every subject from evolution and the ‘monkey fallacy’ to homosexuality and AIDS as a judgment of the Lord.

He was a loathsome little bigot of a man who pulsed negative energy in every direction, but worse than that he was a complete drag who could banish a smile at three hundred yards. One day I spiked him with cyanic acid and stuck him in the freezer to cool off – I turned him into a Popsicle; bitter almond flavoured.

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