Of course the new Christians would never indulge
what the self-righteous do in the sand terrains,
blow people up, cut their throats, knee cap
and generally murder. No, not the cross with which
I have no argument. I did not witness
the regimented panic spread through passengers
in Euston Station when the one-minute bomb alert
sounded, cops sprang out of the floor warning
everybody out and away though some remained
far back as they finally gave up attempting to persuade
the lunch-counter keeper to flee, and he wouldn’t.
Hell, why bother. He’d already sailed over seas, his
caravan of misery attached to bright lights and hope.
When the time ticked off, anticipating the crump cough
of the bomb exploding there was a small stain of
smoke held within the closed doors where he disappeared.
Almost but not quite a trick of the light, dark magic
separating his arms and head; a phantasmagorical show,
merely leaving smoke to float above everything else.
One second he’s standing there, next the immigrant
problem’s solved for him anyway. ‘That Paki blew up,’
I hear from the lungs of some guilty bystander. Good
old IRA, funded by Soviets and Libya at the time while
I went off to another counter to get my ticket to Dublin.
We all know what needs to be done, to learn the notes
of the unholy song flushed upwards from broken throats.
- excerpt from a forthcoming book, ©Blood Upon The Moon
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