Father Faith


Father Faith

Eyes shut tight against sunlight
you get those motes
and Meccano bits
protozoa sinking
in a primal soup gone cold.
Or like birds just hit a window
sliding, cartoon style, down the
red screen of the inner eye.

That’s one version.

soon as he entered church
sidled into the pew and sat
my father squeezed his eyes tight shut.
I mean really squeezed
and pinched his nose
like he was taking a crap.
But I knew he was squeezing meaning from god
or trying to squeeze god into meaning
like washing through a mangle.

His prayer was brief but intense.
Like the harder he squeezed
the better the odds of being received.
At the same time there was no point banging on –
you got heard the first time or not at all.

I think now of the Little Tailor
in the Brothers Grimm
pretending a piece of cheese
in his fist was a rock
and squeezing water from it
to scare away a giant.

I don’t want to sell him short
or trample his mystery.
But I don’t think he felt any
pressing need for redemption
or banked on anything much
beyond the self-salvation
of sweat and hard yakka.

Still, he suffered for his lack of faith –
all those Sundays squandered
butchering Charles Wesley
when he might have been hosing leaves
from the gutter.

His shy, scrunched up prayers
so far removed from the wrung-dry pieties
of those cat-arsed Christmongers
had something of the kid
awkwardly aping his elders
like the bad pantomime
of me and my sister swearing
and sucking coral tree petals
pretending they were smokes.

In any case my father took
the utilitarian approach
attacked faith with a mattock
just hoved on in like it was
any other piece of work to be got through.
Whether invoicing god
or shouldering a sack of spuds
it was don’t muck round, get stuck in
it’s not fucken flower arranging.

His belief in action was miraculous
his moral fibre spliced tight
to his provider’s spine, the rod
and staff of his Proddy work ethic.
It was just the hoodoo part of the equation
the communing with the spook bit, he lacked.

He once told me going to church
made him ‘feel clean’.
I don’t know what prompted it.
It was uncharacteristic, which is why it sticks.
Expansive, for him,
beyond the tight orbit of the domestic,
touching the mystic.

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Who Put the Mock in Democracy?


Who put the Mock in Democracy?

Classless my arse.
Body is class entirely.

The beach a leveller?
Well it is. Just depends
who’s levelling.

The hierarchy military,
flesh ranked sharp
as a hammer smashed thumb

a crashing inner parade
of fascist boobs and abs,
flashing meat medallions
of bella donna beach bitch
polarized Il Duce.

Washboards versus Beachballs.

Some hang it out
others squeeze it in
like accordions
wheezing on the sand.

Ain’t it grand?
Our great egalitarian skyte
a seagull gargling
at a bone white sky:


But topography down it’s a lip-serve lie.
The beauty spot’s gone carco,
a crazy traverse of stretch-mark scars

trench lines barb-wired by birth,
backs to crossbows bent,
burnt and striped as the English flag.

Ah, it’s not so bad.
Beyond the gym’s panel beater
bomby cars park beside lamb bikinis

puff-pastry picnics next to body shop buffets,
maybe swap a pleasantry
over the scenery, the cricket.

Still, everyone knows the score, hey?
We slap like pavlovas into waves.
They shoot the boogie board ballet.

At heart you don’t give a stitch,
but skin deep still curse
that genetic bitch

and walnut finished son, gliding down
the burning white carpet of the beach,
oiled and glistening as machine guns.

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