GUMFIGHT

It was an evening in January and Brighton had shut down because of blizzards for the first time in twenty years. I had trundled my way to the shop for provisions and on my way back I noticed a doddery figure with a wad of new snow in his hand on the opposite side of the street. As I neared him I feared him less for I determined he was of an age that was no threat. Or shouldn't be. Still, he clocked me and moved into the road. He slurred some words in my direction, "You've stepped over the over line there, Son!" and as he did so he raised his fistful. Now I knew it was too big for him to throw with any kind of accuracy, and I also knew that I too had an ice ball cocked and ready to go in my right paw (for I had been keeping my eye in at lampposts and such). "Go for it!" I offered, showing him what I had prepared. He looked and considered and laughed at the position he had put himself in. "Ha ha! Well done! You got me. You go on". But the thrill of the thing must have turned his head because at ten paces he hollered and aimed and counted to three, then he shot his load… straight into a tree. He stood there silent and who knows what watery thoughts dribbled away, but he was ready to take whatever I had. His sense of irreverence reminded me of my dad, and I let fly at his head hoping to smash his few remaining teeth in. I missed him too as it turned out. You should always aim for the heart.

MIDNIGHT MASS

It was the night before Christmas

But only by minutes

Under the snow dusted dome of St. John’s

A congregation of celebrants

Some had started early

Not wanting to be late

Or come undone

Out of the slowed night

They padded and fluffed

Into the church

All a flicker

All golden and red rich

With sanctuary

Fat Father Unsworth

Huffed into robes

Patent leather shoes

Unseen these years of a puff

In finery

Invisible eyes lost cheekily

Oblivious to the vestments and routine

Assisted by little Sean Reilly

The orphan

Scrubbed and squeaky in a surplice

Cassock, stole, alb and chasuble

Drapery green and gold
A pig stuck in a seasonal tree

But pumped up with pomp

Fat Father Unsworth had gravitas

That belied his apparent immobility

When it came to Mass

He floated

The drunks at the back

Plastered the brickwork

Those in the pews

Closed their eyes

And took advantage

The heavenly choir above

Boosted by Mrs. Kelly’s sibilance

Hissed out hymns to the tired

The merry

The downright pissed

And in came Father Unsworth

Little Sean Reilly

The orphan behind him

Everyone stood

Nearly

And words were said

And someone snored

Sacrament was dished out

Duty was done

The ponderous affectation of the priest had been suffered

For another year some torture

For a while some guilt had been bought and sold

And so to home through the white soft streets

Humming their lullabies

Little Sean Reilly would stay a while yet

Help to divest the swollen body

As it sipped at something stronger than altar wine

Then clean the accoutrements

And back to the chapel

Snuffing out candles and

Having a dip in the molten wax

The pleasure of peeling at fingerprint moulds

There and then from high in the still church

Came a lonely cough

That turned Sean cold

Someone not gone

The echo fades

Sean’s ears

Deaf to the quiet now

His heart as a trapped rabbit

Though his blood pumped true

And his legs moved him on in his duty

The dossers must be cleared from the pews

But waiting for little Sean Reilly

In the balcony

White faced and prone

Masochistic on wood

Hugged into a coat full of holes

Was the shade of a man

Once known

Away from the safety of the vestibule

As fat Fr. Unsworth snorted his whiskey

To the gods

Sean went

Up under the Byzantine mosaic

Beneath the dead eyes of Jesus

To creak on the open plan stairs

For to do his duty

The scared child ascended

Wholly righteous

Towards feathered authority

To confront this snorer

Although thirteen years old

And still wearing his dress

The snow drifted like a crowd

Camped out on the doorstep

Inside

Sean had only his light

Hello

Who is there


A shape
Holey and lowing 

The shadow had words

Come near

I need you

The boy scout

Went to the man

Looked into eyes

Fires in windows frosted

And Sean saw his father

Or the mess of what was
Riddled with bullets

Shot through with politics

Killed by religion

And as a spirit lay bleeding
It gave of some blood

A bloody lie and a gun

Revenge us 
He said

And then he was dead

Wrapped up and done like Christmas

Sean's only gift
Was cold and lumpen
Orphaned twice
It gave some freedom

So Sean shot the priest in his arse whilst running

Put some holes in the chasuble too

Stole a chalice, a monstrance, the offertory box

And never did say god bless 

GOING HOME

STILL NO CURE

Your cold voice calls at five in the morning

Through the gap I had left for night’s stale breath

Before sun or gulls’ elemental yawns

You drunkenly whisper of

And take me with you this rotten harvest

Bury us deep, slow the blood in our chests

We sleep ‘til spring leans its leaves to the wind

Green in our dreams free of care

We wake to fresh scenes and receding dementia

A foot of snow upon the pillow

And headstones at our feet

The pile of cones on the sill are open

And winter comes in like a bear

OSSUARY

WARSAW

Poduzsca

I went for antystresowa

Jyen-koo-ye, Var-sha-va.

HEIDELBERG