We Once Was Animal!

 

 

 

            Forty years it took to make it,

Forty years of bashing heads against walls,

Forty years in the making and baking in the Sun;

     A hazard symbol weeps while roaming Earth.

 

 

            Who cracked the first blow upon

The cherub whose vision of a devil

Forms the shape of mum?

            A Taboo they will not talk of;

A mother’s violence on her son.

 

 

            (He only feels the cold although

The sun is shining like a lie upon a desert).

 

 

            Forty years upon the making

And stalking all his memories he

Lays unconscious on the floor,

      How is it I’m not dead,

How is it ghosts of child abuse

Walk lonely in my head,

          Walk lonely like an outcast,

                Violent the quietness making parodies

Of silence and all accounts remain unsaid.

 

 

            Let’s bake cakes from Britain’s

Poorest estates, bake cakes for those who

Seek the comedy while claiming higher ground,

     To be sold on stalls where destruction

Punches holes to break the roof,

     Let’s bake a cake for old times sake,

A bonding by a wounding

A leather belt upon the buttocks

And the crux,

            The crux remains the same;

            The rejection of an infant,

Punished as a victim and a mother

Lame of all excuse.  

 

 

            You cannot cover up the past,

Rehash it all as silver spoons of love,

You cannot throw away the cast

That crippled in my infancy the only

Heart I knew,

          A heart that born in innocence –

You crucified with……….

 

 

……….the pain becomes unbearable

To talk,

            And what I know of Britain

With it’s ugly system of excuse,

Is that the rich still turn away their heads,

Still say with all conviction,

That the poorest people do it to themselves.

 

 

            Forgiveness is a tired word,

Tired from it’s meaning where effects

Have nothing left –

     It’s raining,

Raining for the victims who

Can no longer shed their tears,

     It’s sinking, sinking like a ghost ship

Where the passengers no longer live the lie,

And for all those subjects you bitterly

Imprisoned;

       the best that they can hope for,

The best reward for taboo’s you will not talk of,

Is a quick, and silent,

                                 Death.

 

 

Michael J Waite 3^rd October 2009.