For when I am weak, then am I strong
Sometimes, I lack command of cadences, tones,
Sometimes, words tumble from my pen like grain,
At other times words have to be pulled like teeth.
Sometimes, words tumble from my pen like grain,
At other times words have to be pulled like teeth.
So I sat down by the Manchester Ship canal,
On a cold grey December day,
I wept silently because of the curse I carry:
The curse of a glint of a light from Elysium
Or from Zion or heaven-knows-what-you-will.
But I cannot sing the songs of the Lord,
Not because I'm bored, or a snooty atheist,
But, because, if I ever forget to sing of the dead
May I be silenced forever. Instead,
Let my highest joy be for my little boy
Who died of meningitis just before
Christmas 1989. If I knew that Babylon
Or Satan or whoever-the-fuck else
Had arranged this, I would seek revenge.
But, my friend, knives & fists & bullets are of
Little use against viruses or bacteria or god.
