Suffer the little Children
Not all crime scenes bounded tape,
sealed off from prying eyes
Some, laid out bare for all to see,
though many cannot, or will not,
look, for this is no festival of the dead
Here, walking victims can be found
- she, just a chalk outline -
no inside, nor detail, or feature other
than the bald, obvious fact, this is
a crime scene, a murder; the body still
moves, still breathes, yet she is dead
True, you could miss the clues, a
casual glance would see the mousy
figure, scuttling by, just another wife,
or mother, in another life.
Yet every night at home her body is
reburied, preserved and pickled out of
sight of good Samaritans; evidenced
by nicotine-stained stigmata, a wreath
of tin cans, and bottles, many bottles,
of supermarket holy spirit, touching
her, in her confusion, as nuns and
priests once did, with taunt, and stick
O Sisters of no Mercy every night,
the dead speak, in broken voices,
the other side of care,
“suffer the little children,”
that today, some would rather go
away, be silent
No, not this day
Burning Churches
They’re burning down the churches now;
seven catholic one’s to date
Arson is suspected, with investigations underway;
the forensic teams are pouring in, before smoke
has blown away
With politicians up in arms, the media crying too,
a pope speaks to a crowd; the least that he
could do
But, I want to hear the crackles, see the ashes
billow by, more reddened fucking clergy
with cinders flying high
Those dying kids never got such attention;
all the authorities deliberately ignored
For generations no police came a calling,
no forensic science employed, no politicians
went a roaring, no media certainly cried
Children’s lives were discarded; their bodies
dumped in unmarked graves
Inquiries will be promised, rigged affairs again;
institutions protect their rapists, and their
murderers go free
The churches are burning, please don’t cry,
they’re just buildings that are lost
Don’t talk to me of any sacrament;
that blood-stained piece of cloth
The Chalk Outline
The Chalk Outline talks to,
the Other One; it’s not just me,
only she’s funnier
She’s always been able to make me
laugh, she’s the funniest depressed
person I know
In fact, even minus her depression
(and other labels)
she could bring the house down;
though mostly on herself
She once told me of her
struggle to find a glass
doorhandle, attached to a glass
door, with the entire optician’s
shop front made of glass,
and her eyesight; ‘effing poor
She reckoned she must have
looked like a frog to those
inside; pucker, pucker, pucker
go webbed-feet, trying to get in,
says she, re-enacting the scene,
before jumping to ask: Is fish oil
really good for memory? Surely,
fish need it all, their memory’s
shit, ain’t it?
Yes, the Chalk Outline talks
to the Other One, only she’s
funnier than me
Flights, Issue Nine, June 2023
Flight of the dragonfly 