Social commentary

Gesture suicide

(in memory of Orlando and all atrocities)

 

Lets not confuse

Terrorism

With that hopeless

Act

Of the man

who believes

he’s nobody

and decides

to undertake

an act

of such horror

that no one

will ever

forget

his name.

Gesture suicides

are about that,

just that.

So lets agree

not to call them

monsters

devils

or psychopaths.

Just men

who’ve come

to believe

that they

are nobodies

stuck in a world

of the nobody

And who act

In an absence

of good faith

to take lives

so that they

will be

remembered

for something

at least.

They act

in an absence

of goodness.

The mark

of the pathetic.

 

RAC

 

Denver’s blood.

 

One night making the long drive home

after working with another damaged child.

My mobile rang. Denver’s voice:

“Hi can I ask you a question?”

“OK Denver you know you can.

What do you want to ask me?”

“Can I have a blood transfusion?

I don’t want my blood anymore”.

I asked why not. Denver replied

“She told me my dad isn’t my dad

 and when the Court test my blood

 it’ll prove my dad isn’t my dad.

So if I get my blood taken out

and put my dad’s blood in me

they won’t take me away from him”.

Denver was 9 years old

living with her sister and father.

They were asleep when her mother

broke into the house during

one wild drunken rampage

and killed all the children’s pets.

“My dad’s not my real dad

but he is my dad

he’s been there always.

He’s the only one I’ve known

If I have his blood

They won’t take me away.”

 

She sighed when I told her

I won’t let them take you away.

 

There is a poverty of the heart.

What’s my name

 

He was four and didn’t know his name

He thought he knew what he was called

But when the teacher called “Ceri”

He didn’t say a thing.

She asked again

And looked at him.

He looked confused

And standing up

Said my names “boy”.

 

There’s a poverty of the heart.

Love song to Sarajevo.

A love song should be sung with joy not shame

Yes a love song should be sung with joy

But it is with shame that I write

A love song to Sarajevo.

 

I hear of the deaths and the blood spilled

And the killing goes on and on and on

And it is with shame that I write

A love song to Garasda.

 

I heard a Muslim child cry

Rescued but leaving her mother behind

And it is with shame that I write

A love song to Mostar.

 

I heard from the quietness of our radio

A man cry for his Serb sister, lost and unheard

And it is with shame that I write

A love song to Belgrade.

 

A Serb speaks of his anger that the world

Has simply turned away and no longer listens

And it is with shame that I write

A love song to Tuzla.

 

A doctor speaks of the death of the wounded

A hospital bombed and riddled by sniper fire

And it is with shame that I write

A love song to the people.

 

Love songs should be sung with joy

But my heart is filled with pain.