Paradise for Terrorists.

A room spins,

part of a cataclysm

in this eternal yarn,

it’s line swimming like sea waves

and distant as a dream.

White sheets,

crisp and cold

from the constant change

and upheaval

are repeatedly used and

repeatedly aired

to show off the squashed blackberries

that were forced to escape a place of innocence.

He smiles,

eyes hooded.

This red blooded male

smokes a cigar

and pats the weeping girls rump

as she limps out of the room.

The yarn slides down her thigh

and glides connecting

to the line of others.

The sheets are changed

by smiling servants

who place the next table cloth down

to serve his ravenous hunger.

“Praise Allah.”

he says, smiling fondly.

“Blowing that train up was totally worth it.”



He offered words to the birds

because their coos were too crooning.

He offered the knife and fork a small spork

because the spoons, they kept spooning

and through it all, the world,

it keeps moving;

as somebody wins somebody’s bruising.

Bruised cheek, last week,

she can not talk, she can not speak.

Black eye, don’t know why,

the only break she gets on sheets.

Get her breath back, count to ten

then it’s time to fuck again.

Aint got no love, aint got no friends,

got no Mother, it’s men, men, men.

And where is he as spoons do spoon

and little black birds groove and croon?

Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay,

my oh my, is the world starting to pay.

Plenty of sunshine, boiled grass looks like hay

no food to eat now, so let’s pray for rain.

And the black’s don’t have souls until ’76,

and the towers, they crumble, like fallen twix.

Have a break, have a kit kat as you kill the world

and the rainforest dwindles, palm oil is like pearls.

The world is our oyster and we suck it dry

and get more fat on our backs from eating food fried.

As we get fat arses and doubled double chins

we chuck it all in one bag, fuck recycling bins.

He offers words to the birds

and a buzz for the bees

but where are the crutches

for that whore on her knees.

People get trafficked

and there are millions missing,

for Him to find them

would be like going fishing.

He sits with a line

that is hooked and the sunk

in this Hades realm of lost souls

that are drugged up or drunk.

They can’t grab His line

because it’s not even there,

invisible and hidden

they think nobody cares.

To bite onto His bait

would be like a mouth full of cock

and these poor little choir boys

are sick of having that shock.

Whose to blame for these paedophiles

that can run amock

and throw women in prisons

and keep them locked up?

It’s the Jews,

it’s the gays,

it’s anyone but themselves.

What does He think when he sees this?

Religions in bad health.

In fact it is dying, critical, comatose.

It’s been dying since Chaucer

with the priest whose nose grows.

Not literal, but cynical,

they are all lying c*nts.

Anything to get money,

they pull stupid stunts

like saying “to get into Heaven

you must pay your way.

There’s an entrance fee on the door

or down you go with the gays.”

I’m sick of this fear

and I’m sick of their lies,

Catholicism and cynicism

hold hands in the night.

Do you think that priest prays for your soul

as he counts up those riches?

Does he fuck! He’s a pimp,

and you’re all his bitches.

So Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,


let’s pay the bigots

and let’s hang the gays.

Let’s say Jews killed Jew Jesus

and the Roman’s saved the day,

let’s say the Holocaust never happened

and in a holiday camp they stayed.

“Yeah, they’re a bit skinny,

but that’s just their race.

Too fucking tight to buy food

and put it on plates.”

And that’s what sticks in my throat

and makes me choke,

that these issues of seriousness

are a big fucking joke.

And the people that matter,

the victims,

the dead,

they are forgotten and scorned

and put in their beds.

Shooed like a child

with wild thoughts and nightmares;

“Darling, Auschwitz never existed

now get up those stairs.”

How can our children

learn empathy and love

if we won’t learn from our mistakes?

Instead we are innocent, Gov.

We can’t teach children the past

if it is emotive and sad

but we let them play violent computer games

and question behaviour bad.

And what does He think

when He sees the ghosts of the dead

who lost their lives for nothing

and for Him they were led.

Does He feel guilty

as he croons with the birds

when for those lost and missing

He can’t give them the words,

or the chance to jump out and escape

like a Jack in the box?

Instead they are winded back in again

and the door is then locked.

To Him I do ask,

do we learn and get better?

Or do we keep repeating

the same mistakes forever?

I listen, no answer,

what do I expect?

I’m just a fish in the water,

hungry and vexed.

Swimming for answers

and diving for truths

but these truths are old

and so is this news.


God softly croons

as the birds twitter and tweet

and the poppy’s do bloom.

One day we’ll get answers,

maybe one day soon

but for now the birds sing

and the whores sit alone in their rooms.


They say it started with a big bang,

but it was more the spider web

that linked the sparsely twinkled stars

to create the constellation of your name.

In abstract art it would be:

a red tinted triangle

a duck beak coloured circle, slit down the middle,

an electric blue pyramid

and two golden arrow points, connected

and part of your crown.

Your Majesty,

resting above your head is your destiny.

You were once King of country

in this paradise of Eden.

Simplicity was not enough.

Submissiveness was not enough.

Reading the story of your life

on the fine print of your hand

was like making your name

out of the shapes on a Kandinsky painting:


How do you sleep when Eve’s legs are closed

for the night

and Dawn’s golden tresses are hidden in slumber?

You gave your ribs for her creation

but never call the morning after.



get up off of those knees,

he should never have stolen from that tree.



Some people thirst for romance,

like a cherry ghost,

wanting and waiting to be popped.

It is a weasel

that’s been pawned

for a bevvie in the bar;

a different thirst:

a thirst for social acceptance

or an alcoholic need.

It is the unquenchable desire

for success,

and money

over family and love.

It is a thirst for knowledge,

for change,

for the acceptable to become


to become extinct.

It is a thirst for escape,

as the key locks

and they wonder

just what they did wrong

as the nuns

reign down,

heavy and powerful

with their tiny rocks of fists.

It is a thirst for justice.

For a queer religion

to not fear women

or hate them

for their beauty,


and youth.

It is that thirst

for forgiveness.

For the all powerful priests

to bathe their bodies

in the Holy water;

to let them dance in it,

free and wild,

bathing in their love of God.

Drinking Him.

Devouring Him.

Forgiving Him

for a religion that dooms them

at birth.

They wish to throw the water

up high into the air,

watching as it falls

like gravity’s tears.


My face: A coin
with a date.
It scrapes against rocks
until it is a brown circle,
a metal inedible
chocolate button.

Without identity
there can be no real consequence.

My stomach:
A ricocheted fork
pranging and praying
for stillness
as reverberation
is a gospel singing reverend
who won’t quit.
Lest we forget
the lungs that sweat
a folding,

Who knew each breath could cry?

My heart:
The loud clapping of hands
believing all they hear
from the bible of my brain.
My psalms are clammy
and tight fisted.
Trying for another moist breath
is too much of a cross
to bare.

The hope is in healing.
To grant faith in the unknown.
To allow the coin to save face,
to stop panic reigning down on lungs
and for the fork to remain still
through lack of impact
against me.
For thine is the divine,
the power
and the glory.