I go to church and sit at the back while you tell me I’m going to hell
I go to church and sit at the back while you announce the Dates for ‘Men’s Breakfast’
I go to church and sit at the back while you undress my sin, wanting to love me naked
Stripped, beaten, unrighteous, unholy, I sit at the back and go to church, every Sunday.
I go to Church.
I go to Church.
It’s a revolt.
A revolution.
And in the name of God, they are building schools,
Delivering doctors, door to door.
They are conveying the message that people care,
And that no one is forgotten but,
Cameras are not allowed in some places.
People hoist burning American Flags which melt and,
Scar children with big brown eyes.
Women will not talk about this;
Allah is a man in uniform.
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♦picture – Radu Sigheti for REUTERS♦
And they are doing white
Cars,
Nice haircuts and,
Broad Boulevards,
They are doing slick radio Ads,
Smooth charcoal voices,
And Western music,
Wrapped in Cashmere,
Air-conditioned Kaftan’s catching the breeze,
Dark glasses like reflective buildings
Perched on tight noses,
They are moving forward with morning talk shows in,
Gleaming white cars,
Elegant fingers prodding opulent buttons,
Elaborate mechanisms,
Stylish manoeuvres,
In Dehli they are moving swiftly,
Their fabulous Sari’s, flying in the wind.
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If you can’t hear on broadband,
Don’t blame the bandwidth.
Empty yourself of cares,
If you can’t tune into radio waves,
Don’t blame the radio.
Make a habit of creating time.
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There must be an angel looking over your shoulder.
There must be, even if you
Don’t see her,
There’s an Angel.
You may be served a mimosa immediately.
Follow the trail, you are
Special enough Hansel.
You too, Gretel.
Sugar.
You.
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A time will come,
When you don’t even,
Own your own body,
On the side of the road,
A full breakdown not a common,
Puncture,
Leave your heart, it’s broken,
Total mechanical failure.
What will you do?
Trust what you have given?
Love, a blue opinion?
You have only what you spent.
You think you can ride your habits,
You should be fine,
It’s just, the vehicle is suddenly inoperable.
Laugh,
Your soul no longer requires a fading heart.
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Here I am,
In a long, low, valley,
On a horse, under sweltering sky.
A single trail runs East to West,
As far as the eye can see.
The sheep-skin bags,
Slung low off the saddle,
Are empty.
Bandits rode into town last week,
And made off with a couple of dreams,
Now I must choose,
Which way to go,
I am the Sheriff;
The dream-catcher.
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Dance music,
Damp heat and talk
Drifts to halcyon days of,
Seventies groove and Afro’s ruffled,
In the political funk of,
Freedom fighters and platform shoes,
Cadillac language,
Smooth and languid,
Dripping off honey colored lips like,
Melting chocolate…
It’s a card trick,
And we are mesmorised by,
Furtive glances,
Over fanned cards,
Fascinated by the sleight of hand,
And the afternoon light,
Our soft voices and loud giggles,
Caught in a trick of time,
Heavy with love and breakfast.
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Her legs will be amputated but,
Non-collapsible items like,
Book-shelves and fathers
Can make a space to survive.
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How far would you travel from where you were born?
She spends more on her dogs in one week,
Than the government provides for those in trouble.
She’s a naturally happy person.
The mottled concrete walls of the council block she’s moved in to,
Complement her pock-marked, pink skin.
For a rich person,
She’s ugly.
The doors to buildings are painted bright colours,
-blues and greens-
And stand out against the brown stone that is everywhere.
Kevin is a mousey young man with stringy brown hair,
Recovering from drugs,
And she thinks he looks like a very nice man.
They are playing football on cement outside,
-plants are expensive-
Now talking over vegetables, around a table,
About the young mothers who will be coming in to learn,
How to grow turnips –
Like growing confidence, they’ll be told.
Did you know that people move to Dundee from Warsaw?
Makes you wonder what Warsaw is like-
-who’s fault it is that people can’t eat alcohol-
She’s hanging knickers out to dry and telling me that she’s discovered,
She doesn’t need all the shoes that she has,
And would it do if she were to donate,
A hundred and fifty thousand pounds?
They smile when they receive their checks.
Their blue doors fly open,
And when they say thank you, they mean it,
The money is enough.
Round the back,
The husband is in tears.
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