"Western Black Rhino Declared Extinct" 11/06/2013

Poem for the Black Rhino

I'm a little funny looking
I must confess,
all chunky boxy & truck-like
and with 2 big old horns
that look quite deadly
but really we just
use them for show mostly
oh and digging around
in termite hills,

I do hear though
that you humans
really cherish them
for folk cures and
help with your
dicks and such,
you know
very important
scientific things,

but then again
we can make a fearsome
fearsome charge
at a land-rover
full of folks
all with their
cameras & stuff,
at least we used to
till we became
fucking
extinct!!!

  Mother and Child


  A gypsy woman
  of a rare
  and ferocious
  beauty,
  is seated
  on the pavement,

  a child
  lies upon
  her lap,
  and arranged
  before her
  on a faded blue cloth,
  are coloured liquids
  in glass bottles,

  she rolls one
  up & down
  the blind boys
  naked body,
  and the child
  laughs
  delightedly,

  she opens
  the glass stopper
  and the presents the liquid
  for the boy
  to smell,

  then she waves
  it slowly
  round and around
  his head,

  both smile joyously
  as he follows
  and takes in
  the perfumed
  scent,

  as they sit together
  beneath the hot sun
  by the crowded street
  in Mysore
  Southern India.
   
  


 

 


 

                                           When I get to Bombay ….

  I will bathe my eyes in the warm bright light …
  stand under a cold cold shower
  and feel new,
  then squat over a dark hole
  and wash myself with my hand
  and cool water
  and be clean.

  I will drink chai in a dark street-side tea-shop
  perhaps with a biscuit or samosa
  as the fan turns and I gaze gently
  upon the portraits
  of the gods
  and goddesses.

  I will accept the gaze of strangers
  as why ever not
  as who am I?
  I will return the smile of beggars
  as why not
  no harm
  is done.

  I will take off my sandals and enter the temple
  and wander silently and try
  not to think too much
  as I spend some time
  in the presence
  of the Lord.
    
 I will have a 15 cent rice plate
 perhaps with fish
 though just one piece
 is all you get,
 perhaps
 with mutton,
 depending.

 I will visit a tailor and
 for just a few dollars,
 will be fitted out
 for a light shirt
 and pyjama trousers,
 then retuning to my hotel
 will give all my western clothes
 to the boy who looks after
 the laundry,
 to do with
 as he wishes.

 I will be up at dawn
 as the crows caw
 the vultures fall
 and the monkeys
 scatter,
 and soon the
 shiny bright children
 will wander by
 chattering
 as they go to school.

 I will find the Govt store,
 often just a hole
 in the wall
 with bars,
 where I'll get
 some ganja
 some hash
 and a little opium
 unless they're
 out of stock
 that day.  
 
 I will drink from a green coconut
 that's just been opened
 for me as we stand
 together next his cart
 by a youngster
 with a machete.
   
 I will find sweetmeats
 with dripping honey
 and almond slices
 and thick thick syrup
 and coconut
 and have more
 chai and relax
 and await
 the night.

 I will see fruit-bats
 and rats
 and huge lumbering
 white cows
 and hawks
 and even perhaps
 a dancing bear
 if he's made it
 down from
 the hills.

 I will shower once more
 feel cool and refreshed
 light incense
 in a packet so colored
 and gaudy,
 and smoke,
 listen,
 and wait.

 I will immerse myself,
 I will dare,
 I will enter
 the still moving
 throngs,
 shouting and calling
 and never
 tiring,
 always
 to-ing and fro-ing.

 I will wander back
 amongst the draped
 and sleeping figures,
 mindful
 hopefully,
 and
 I will smile.










 * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From a poem started oh, twenty years ago ... from memories
of years even before that.
Bombay is called Mumbai now. 
     

     

      
     Me and Mum in Mexico after far too much tequila ...

     Anyway folks, here's three poems from a long time ago ...

                  * * * * * * * * * * *


  'On Reading A Poem by William Carlos Williams'

    It is titled 'The Painting'
    and begins with a line
    containing the word
    'black'
    which made me think
    of charcoal

    which led to the drawings
    composed by students
    when I used to model
    at an art school

    and then the poem
    goes on to speak
    of 'a delicate lock
    of blond hair'
 
    and I picture
    the fair-haired girl
    who I never spoke to
    but whose shy smile
    open and inviting
    haunts me now,
  
    and I wonder
    how it might have been,
    our friendship

    * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   'Pregnant Lady in the Laundromat'

   Draped inside a diaphonous
   and billowing
   angel-white sari,
   its red border
   trailing over your delicate
   sandelled feet.

   Eyes downcast
   or gazing everywhere
   but where
   others are.

   Intently passing time
   by reading 'Rental Homes'
   then placing it in front of
   your blooming belly
   as a barrier,
   hiding from view
   the growing little one
   inside you.

   I guess it is
   so very personal
   isn't it.

   You were so aware of yourself,
   shy and a little afraid,
   like a nervous animal
   at a water-hole.

   * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   'Bourbon'
 
   I am discovering that it is the hardest thing
   to stop myself going downstairs
   to the liquor store
   for a bottle
   of Bourbon,

   it seems to call and my whole body
   seems to be craving
   some release,
   and my mind
   and my eyes
   hurt real bad.   

   * * * * * * * * * * * *
   Stillman Street, San Francisco, very early nineties.

   
 
  
  

   

   
 
   
    
      



 
    

           
  A Night Out for a Chat or Thrown for a Loop by God's Intervention or Martin makes a
               mistake, and not for the first time.

   Well now, let me tell you a story about last night. I thought I'd go to one of those support-group & help set-ups, you know for general problems in life for various reasons events, but don't worry friends I'm doing very well now actually. It had first been suggested years ago but I'd always either just shrugged it off or seriously said no. This evening I thought, sure why not? Lets just bite the bullet, stroll on down, sit in with some other folks, chat, tell stories, offer support, maybe laugh at our human failings, smile at our small triumphs, something like that.
 
    So it takes me awhile to walk there, but I make it. Its in a room in a church, that's fine I figure, they have the space, they offer comfort and help, no pressure, that's fine. So I'm a bit hot and flustered by the time I get there, the evening is warm and I've walked awhile. I hesitate, then open the door.

  There's two guys sitting on a couch, they have a calm and contained look, papers in hand, glasses waving. Everyone else seems a little dazed & nervous, uncomfortable for the most part. As am I of course, but I grab a chair and take a seat in the circle.

  A paper is being passed around and read by each in turn, its in a plastic holder so I can see its being used a lot and this must be a regular event. There is mention of God amongst the self-criticism and humility, later I look up the 12 Step manifesto and its a variation on that theme.

  I wait till the paper is passed again and interrupt.
   "Is this a Christian thing?" I ask, directing my question to one of the guys on the
 couch.
  "This is about human beings, not God." I say, 'It's nothing to do with God."
  "You are welcome to stay,' he says, "And no it is not. There is some literature
here," he says, gesturing to the table just in front of him I glance but honestly can't
read any titles as I'm so flustered. I think I see a Bible there but I could be mistaken.
The reading continues with the guy next to me, more talk of God. He passes it to me with a very nice smile and tells me I can pass if I like. I say hello to everybody, 'How you'all doin'"I say, but there is silence.  I read the statement number 11 to myself and see a whole bunch of religious phrasing, can't remember exactly what it says. I laugh out loud as I tell them I have to pass. The paper continues through one more guy, and then the next begins.

  Now I'm going to have to paraphrase here, as I can't exactly recall the sentences, but basically its "I acknowledge that only a power greater than myself can help me through this." At this my patience is gone.
   "Oh this is fucked I say. Its got nothing to do with god, its us, its us here as human beings." I get up. "I'm sorry, this is fucked, I don't know what the fuck you are all doing here.' And I'm gone, taking the wrong turn as I leave the room, and getting lost in my emotional fog.
 
 I head home, and actually I feel real good. What the heck1 I think, I hadn't expected that. How does God come into this? It's not that I'm an atheist, in fact I often picture myself as some sort of radical be-robed shoeless Jesus casting the money-lenders, cursing the rich, shaming the evil-hearted, but still,  can't see what God has to do with this. Its human, its human at its core. So I ponder starting an existential-humanist support group so as we can talk about life and ourselves, about how hard it can be, about our failings our achievements, our sorrows and our happiness, and the answer put forward will be of human source, god cannot help us with anything, its up to us, we will be free when we make ourselves free, and I small broadly as I stroll down the road. I see people glancing over from their cars.
 
I realize too of course that they may be talking about this stranger this evening, or of course they may not give a damn, but perhaps they are saying that this is only evidence of my need for the lord's hand, of my resistance to change, of my troubled psyche, or again I may have just stirred things up a little, but I doubt it. Its similar perhaps to other religious cult set-ups, like the Hare Krisha's, with their ex-addicts and their flipped out acid freaks, needing the structure, the certainty, the meaning to life. I almost joined up myself once, but that's another story.

  Only man can make man free, or something similar ... yes indeed.
 
             

Life, ethics and value ...

Am I wrong? Am I weary?
Are my ethics
born of fury?
for I would gladly
trade them all
the commentators,
rifle guys
& manufacturers,

for a hundred lemurs,
a score of tigers,
hammerhead sharks,
even slender trees
just for their barks,

Am I here
beyond the pale?
to suggest each
and everyone
be replaced
by whales?

For I know that we are taught
that man's kingdom
rules over
all,

that each and very
human being
has value equal
one to the other,

but in these times
I do wonder,
as children die
& species leave us,

if those responsible
are
less
than
weevils,

    A proposed Bolshevik solution, a little revised, to the present state of emergency here in the US of A. Perhaps part 2 of 'Despairing and Childlike Political Fantasies' or maybe, just maybe a potentiality, should we so choose.

   In light of the US Senate's craven non-decision on gun control it has been decided after an emergency meeting of the Central Committee that the following measures be immediately
introduced. These measures are not open for discussion or appeal, those charming and seductive illusions of democracy, free-speech and the right to argue, are hereby abolished in the matters of national importance. The primary purpose of our government is to protect the well-being of all our citizens, both young and old, and especially the more vulnerable young. The issue of so-called personal rights is an illusory and moreover dangerous ideology, and the argument regarding a so-called People's Militia is rendered null and void by out decision to revoke the Constitution in it's totality, later in the day when peace returns to the land the debate will return to said document.

1. All leading members of the NRA are hereby ordered to report to the offices of their State People's Commissar, from there they will be transported to the Penitentiary. In our hands at an undisclosed location is Wayne Lapierre, he has been placed incommunicado, all officers of the said NRA are warned that failure to report by the end of the day will result in the mobilization of the People's Militia. We will find you, and be aware that any resistance will be met with appropriate and unforgiving force. We will be patient no longer, the time for talk is gone. The continuing power of the NRA, the gun lobby and associated financial interests has led us to this position. As years go by the chatter goes on, the discussion, the so-called weighing of the options, respecting the others viewpoint have all proved to be mere stalling tactics by an immoral and dangerous combination of personal 'rights' issues, ignorant group psychology and monied interests. The failure yesterday, 4/18, of the quite modest gun bill has revealed to us all ... naked and unashamed ... the inability of the present democracy to function. Senators have been bought, threatened, and cowed. The American people have been fooled, in their own ignorance to be sure, but lies and fear-mongering have influenced their thoughts on this matter. Yet still the will of the people has been usurped on several of these points. We can wait no longer, we will act. Incarceration will be indefinite, with a release date dependent on behaviour. All guests of the People's State will be given guided tours if crime sites, funerals, the empty bedrooms of brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. You will be made to SEE! 

2. All Senators who voted down this bill, our patience is up, you to are hereby ordered to report to the local offices of your State People's Commissar,you have 24 hours, we advise you strongly not to be late.

3. Gun manufacturers have 7 days to produce working plans for the conversion of their plants to items of constructive and peaceful use. 8 days will see an expropriation of all said properties, imprisonment and forcible transfer of all assets to the state.

4. All broadcasters, so-called journalists and talking heads who continue to propagate ill-formed, scare-mongering and hateful 'news-stories' and opinions. You are warned, our patience is up. As has been stated at the head of this bulletin, the primary purpose of the incoming Peoples's Government is the protection of its citizens, on that we will no compromise, we have had enough. State controllers will be listening and we can come for you in a matter of minutes, we advise you to be careful in your choice of language.
 
   We reiterate that all actions hereby undertaken are in the name of the people, for the people and by the people. No compromise is to be given on this issue, we are done with the corruption, the smoke and mirrors, and moreover the sorrow. It must end and we are acting now.

 By Decree of The Military Revolutionary of the Bolshevik Party of these United States.



        

                                          Thatcher Years … or the Devil done bin dead at last …

  Welfare cheques, Guinness and hashish … fire, blood and sirens … miners, pickets & police lines … the groups: the International Marxist Group, the Revolutionary Communist Tendency, the Socialist Workers Party with their 'Jobs Not Bombs' - the papers: Black Flag, Freedom, Xtra with their 'Bombs Not Jobs' - Squats, pubs and a dog called Trotsky - Elections night and hurling a brick through their window - The Kite, drunk George, & Irish songs on the jukebox - Pool, punky-reggae parties, and the punks, oh the punks - Airey Neave, The S.A.S. & the National Front - The Irish Hunger Strikers and solidarity marches and vigils - Bobby Sands elected as an MP, now that was something - Birmingham and a Bloody Sunday remembrance and a crowd of hostile skinheads - Magic mushrooms, Cambridge eternal at night, a dog called Desmond - A squat in Stockwell, a night in Brixton, fires, flames and a warning to go no further - Snatch squads, tension and rage - 100 jobs up north for 10,000 school leavers - Tony Benn, Arthur Scargill, & Norman Tebbitt - and through it all her voice, and her hair and her horrendous preaching and lecturing and strident pontificating tone - and a pub in Brixton the evening after the IRA almost got her and the grumbling old men - and the feeling of 'almost, almost'  - and her party and her people and her followers - of the fucking horror of it all - and the headlines and the news and the talking, talking heads - and it never got better not for the millions who suffered - and some died, were damaged & deranged - and nothing seemed to make a difference, no matter what and she always came back and dismissed and went on, and on - and her lecturing the soccer hooligans, the rioters, the 'enemy within' - and the families broken, children wretched & despairing - and always the Irish, the Irish - and the poor, all over the place, and still her vacuous defenders, those red faced white men  with tight collars - and Linton Kwesi Johnson, and John Cooper Clarke and the Clash - and the punks, oh the punks - and now she's gone, left her mark, done her deeds - have I forgotten anything, passed over anybody, failed to remember - I'm sure, I'm sure - but she's gone … finally … at last.           

'The Park Lane Boot Boys or What Else Ya Gonna Do On A Saturday'

 
   The Manchester City  game might have been the most dangerous. I was wearing my new wide, ridiculously wide jeans that were fashionable here and there, only problem was they didn't appear to be fashionable in London, and after the game a group of us were followed by a Tottenham gang, who figured we were from Manchester, think they even mentioned the trousers. I do remember starting to get real scared and taking out my Tottenham Hotspur Supporters Club Membership card thingy, but that didn't cut it at all, and son of a bitch those guys were bigger than us, and way, way tougher. Someone decided to run, and off we all went, tearing down a back street and just legging out to get away, no idea where we were going. I do remember hay were after us, running seemed a confession of guilt I guess, but they must have given up, for we had time to flag down a taxi, jump gratefully in and head to the station. No-one talked about it, so I wasn't blamed, just inside I accepted it was my fault because of my new trousers, never did wear them again.
      
   Peterborough United was the first match I was really moved by. It was an evening F.A. Cup game, and important. There were the crowds, the lights, the noise. I was standing at the London road end, where all the young men gathered to sing their songs of victory, ridicule or threat. Peterborough scoring is all I remember, and then the tumult of jumping, cheering, waving, being swept here and there by the packed crowd, and then the songs, oh the songs. It was a seriously moving experience believe it or not, the joy, the loss of self, the melting into the crowd, the transcendence of it all, and just as Nick Hornby's awakening at an Arsenal game in Fever Pitch, I was from that time on a football fan.

  The village postman used to give me a ride to the games, he'd go up into his seat and I'd make for the London Road end again, to try and relive that glorious night perhaps, but the crowds were too small to come anywhere close to that moment and I ended up just hanging around on the edges of the loose-knit gang who gathered at the top of the stands.   

   Now Tottenham Hotspur was a different story. They are a North London team, about 60 miles or so from my hometown, and for some reason nearly all the local boys chose them to follow. An evening match against Liverpool was the first game I went to I think, huge crowds, a lost game, afterwards coppers on horses to keep the boys apart, all rearing and crashing. One memory is of a Tottenham skinhead climbing upon a railing or something to get  a view of the enemy, and then off they all went, charging down the High Street. The excitement of it all just had me from then on.

   There was always trouble really come to think of it, no matter where or who Tottenham played. I was such a follower by then that I started to go to away games  a lot too, often on my own, though I'd of course soon join up with the Tottenham gangs, all chanting and scarf wearing. I remember at Birmingham I think it was, and now there's a dour place seeing one guy just festooned with scarves, they were all from other teams and he was displaying his trophies, the ones he's snatched or fought for, just as an Indian with his scalps really. Birmingham was also where I got my first injury of sorts, head-butted in the face as I passed though the turnstile to catch the train home, it was a cold, miserable day and the threat of violence was everywhere, we were bombard with bottles as we made our way into the ground. I left before the end, as many Tottenham boys did, hiding my scarf and trying to look local, it was not fun at all.

  Usually though the violence passed me be, I was quite young really, 14/15 or so, and maybe the tough guys from the other side didn't think I was with bothering with.   I remember at Derby, at home to West Ham, away to Leicester opposing fans would come running at as, I would stand my ground and watch it all, and boots and fists would be at work, and I never got touched, kinda curious, but I guess I looked not worth it to be honest. A friend was stabbed at a Manchester United match, and man that was a big one. I remember sitting at my desk at school way, way before the actual match and making a list of all the boys I knew who would going, think it was about 40/50 or so, my did we look forward to that one.

   West Ham at home was probably the most violent I think, before the game a crowd of their boys came round the side of the ground, you could do that before the grounds were sectioned off, I remember it also because a really, I mean really, big black dude ending up standing amongst us all in his black crombie and with a small West Ham pin on his lapel, looking deadly serious and just daring us I suppose. No-one touched him. Oh, and Arsenal, there was usually trouble when Arsenal came. Once there was huge bust-up before the game and I heard that the Tottenham Youth had just run the Arsenal Youth, that means made them turn tail, though who knows the real truth. Rumours were common. There were the Tottenham Blacks who used karate and such, some guy called Paxton who was supposedly our leader, umbrellas which were actually sword sticks, fearsome Chelsea crowds, and funnily enough I never did see Chelsea play, maybe I stayed well away from that one. I do recall one of our local suedehead kids coming to the local pub one evening all bruised and banged-up and looking meek, word was the Chelsea had cornered him in the underground. 

   It was a joyous time too, like the day we beat Arsenal 6-0. Such a day, such a day, just the sheer happiness of it all, the first goal, and then another and then another, and the crowd rolling and jumping and chanting and singing, and tumbling out at the end to glory in it all. By 16 I think I'd stopped going, and when staying in London  years later went to see Tottenham play at Arsenal, all the boys were there still, threatening, singing, drinking. I left at half-time, I realized that I really couldn't care who won, I just couldn't, but the times we did have, oh yes the sheer joy of it all when everything was right, you had to be there I guess.
 

   

 

Once more for Saville: .... 'A Special Place' ...
Now I have the right picture to go with the words, lets bow deeply before Beelzebub & babble in tongues & petition this dark Lord to hear our plea & interrupt his infernal pastimes to send his multitudinous minions here there and everywhere in the underworld & find by all means necessary the soul named Saville and return him to the feet of his master for judgement in their world, to grasp him firmly and drag him kicking & screaming from some hole or hiding place & to meet his maker one more time ...      



There is an awful and special place below
where only the wicked need fear to go,
Jimmy Saville is hopefully there
exquisitely suffering in Satan's dark lair,
with his big fat cigar and shock of white hair
his wide-open arms, his grimace, his stare.

paralyzed youngsters alone in their beds
awe-struck young teens scared out of their heads,
he picked them you know
chose youngsters alone
chose young girls without
the firm basis of home,

why did no-one talk, act or seem even to care,
was it his power & fame & his threat & deceit?
was it his golden fingers, his act, so discreet?

how come nurses and colleagues knew rumors
and yet,
he continued his ways aloof yet direct,
you won''t be alone, don't fear being lonely
company will come, lots of clergy, Sanduski


Satan will sit there upon his throne
questioning Saville eternally prone,
There is a special place for people like you,
Welcome, oh welcome
and how do you do!
Welcome, oh welcome
I've judgement for you.

   Tenderloin Girls

    Used to be
    the prettiest girls
    were boys,
    but no more,
    for nowadays
    there's a whole mess
    of the most
    gorgeous women
    in heels
    and short tight dresses,
    standing on the corners
    as offerings
    to the
    ways of men,
  
    some so youthful
    that their long legs
    totter and tremble
    in their fancy shoes
    as do the steps
    of a new-born
    upon the plains
    of Africa,

    and strutting jazzily
    their tender flesh
    to catch an eye
    and then lean
    in provocative geometry
    in a car window
    to state terms
    and size customers,

    with small handbags
    squeezed tight
    to their sides
    as at times
    they gather
    in groups
    and emanate
    an erotic power
    seemingly enhanced
    by numbers,

    and yet to stroll
    and listen in
    reveals nothing more
    than simple gossip
    and observation,
    for after all
    these are
    just working
    girls.

    and so …
    I wonder ...
    can a pretty girl
    in a short red dress
    take away
    this emptiness?
   
    Hold me close
    squeeze me tight
    fill my soul
    with rays of light?


   

   
  
    

      

 Oh What a Night! - Catholic Night at Heaven

  Our Religious Affairs correspondent was lucky enough to receive an invite to the party of all parties, yes the Catholic Coming Out night at the so, so trendy and hot nightclub Heaven in London last Friday. We here present his, near breathless at times, report and interview with Monsignor Santo Avrilo, the spokesperson for the Once Secret But Now No More Gay Cabal.

  - Well, with me here the next day, over strong coffee and toast, I have Monsignor Avrilo. Welcome Sir.

  - Nice to be here, really, really nice.

  - So was it fun last night?

  - Oh My Lord Yes, Oh My Lord it was so fine.

  - Just so as out readers can get an idea of the momentous nature of this past
     event, as it wasn't really just all disco, poppers and glitter now was it?

  -  No, no, it was momentous as you say. Well The Secret Gay Cabal had been
     around since the early Middle Ages. We had obviously tried to keep a low profile   
     but did try to keep things happening at the weekends, parties and such, all-in
     vacations to Rio and Bangkok, you know things like that. In more recent times
     we have had some wonderfully successful cross-dressing do's, you know 'Come
     as Your Favourite Film Star' things alike that, and could I say sweetheart we had 
     exceptional Judy Garlands and Marilyn's, oh so wonderful, the memories, the 
     memories.

   - Sounds like a lovely night out Monsignor.

   - Oh honey, call me Santo, please.

   - Well, as I say Santo, sounds glorious for you all, but wasn't this all secret, my the
     logistics of it all, the toing and fringe, the frocks, the hair, the glamour, how did
     you manage it al?

    - Well yes, it was hard, so very hard, but we did, we pulled it off. But of course its
      such a sweet sweet relief to be able to put on our Catholic Night here at
      Heaven, just loud and proud, but at the same time just relieved that the secrecy
      is all over and done with now.

    - Yes, I would imagine so Santo, now that the Once Secret Gay Cabal is no
       longer a secret gay cabal, and thats what last night was all about is it not?

    - Yes, such a relief, such a joy, and to see so many of the clergy here tonight.
       My goodness did you see the Prelates getting down, my my … and the
       Bishop of Milwaukee, lord lord, I almost blushed a bright , bright pink  …oh my
       such times …    

   - And El Popo himself of course.

   - Yes El Popo, boy did he look happy.

   -  Well he did have those ladyboy handmaidens did he not?

   - Oh yes, weren't they lovely, so lovely, lucky, lucky, man. We chartered a jet
      from Thailand and just filled it to the rafters … filled it … oh those lovelys …
     such sweet boy-girls too, but frisky though, let em tell you …

    - Yes I saw you enjoying your self there.

    - Well of course, who could resist, certainly not the members of The Once Secret
      Gay cabal, oh know, oh know, we couldn't resist that … so sweet, so sweet …

    - And the music?

    - Oh yes, the sounds. We tried for an authentic yet nostalgic gay night. Tried and
       names were there of course … Madonna, Boy George, Rihanna by satellite,
      also some tribute performers from the glory days … Sylvester, Gloria Gaynor,
      but no Village People, not this time, they were unfortunately booked elsewhere
      The Secret Gay Cabal of the U.S. Senate I believe …

     - And the backrooms? Some I couldn't even get a peek in.

     - Oh yes, well, the backrooms, what times what times …. centuries of acting in
       the dark brought into the light, so to speak, even if it was closely monitored by a  
       doorman.

     -  Yes, well I can only imagine …

     - Oh yes honey, imagine away, Ha!

     - So finally Santo, a great night?

     - Oh yes a mighty night, loved it, loved it.

     - Any future plans?

     - Well I have been in touch with The Secret Communist Cabal, they are  of
       course a serious lot, but the stories of last night are already getting around and
       I hear they are really, really ready to party down.

     - In Heaven again?

     - No, we have plans, well not plans just some ideas … we're thinking of
       occupying a Trump Tower or somesuch … there'll we massive giveaways,
       free food etc etc … we could actually run a kinda secret rave scene thingy 
       where we occupy and loot and plunder and dance and fuck and drink and
       smoke in the very best palaces throughout the world … but that is a secret is
       it not, our cabals and their plans.

     - Oh yes, secret.

      They both smile.         

         

              Catholic Night at Heaven This Friday March 1st, Be There My Honeys

   We need to go out with a big bang my precious, precious boys and boy-girls and so this coming Friday in London at Heaven, the exclusive nightclub, not the place upstairs that we are promised if we're good, like kids who do their homework, but actually not a lot of us are really

going to make it there, lets just be honest here, but anyway, I digress. So this coming Friday in expectation of the coming implosion of the Catholic Church it has been decided after an all-night meeting of the secret gay cabal, well once-secret gay cabal, to just let our hair down, be wild, be free, be ourselves, be proud, and party, party, party ... all night long. There will be video hook-ups, metaphorically speaking, with all the old dudes and El Popo himself, who of course cannot make it this time, as much as he really, really would like too, but really shouldn't risk it because of the ongoing legal problems and the chance of falling into the hands of Interpol, and the Australian clergy have petitioned to have a live-feed, wouldn't want to miss this party for sure, but it was felt that the abominable criminal nature of their past crimes against children was just too, too god almighty much to

face, and this night would be about coming out, about acceptance, about being loud and proud, in our ermine tinged red robes and frocks or mighty spectres and wands, our stardust and glitter, our Dorothy slippers. About stopping pretending, about finally admitting 'who gives a hoot really' ... after all whats the big deal, its a silly, silly piece of utter foolishness that we have lived with all this time, shoot, some are gay some are not, who cares. We feel a tad guilty for our past transgressions on this issue, especially

considering our own mighty gayness but hey, lets just say "Sorry!" .. wave our hands in the air and get down.

  Refreshments will be provided by Smirnoff Vodka and Alqimia Tequila Anejo, best Cali homegrown is provided by the Archdiocese of Humboldt County, best golden Moroccan hash by Ali Ben Hashisheen from Fez, and the very, very best black Afghani will be flown in from that suffering, suffering country and offered at special extremely high prices, which we will not argue with, in fact we'll be obliged to trade in our rings and pearls for it, and all proceeds will go the children of the Khyber Pass. Music will be by Muchacho's Machismo Boogie Nights, prizes will be awarded for the best costumes, best dancer and best all round 'guy who can perform real cool gay sex acts which he had only dreamed of before but now has the chance to do.'

  And finally realizing that disco down gays so to speak represent only one color in our rainbow of gayness, we must point out that all 'ordinary' gay guys are welcome too, you know the ones just like the Postman or the Librarian or the T.V. repairman, all are welcome, but just come prepared to dance, prepared to indulge yourself, prepared to mix-it-up with the Newly Proclaimed and Announced Gay contingent of Catholicism, be there or be square ... for sure now.          

    

      

                       On hearing the news from Australia of the decades of abuse carried

                       out by members of the Catholic Church, and reading of the two sisters 

                       one now dead, the other in need of permanent care.

      

     

      If I may be so bold

      to comment on your hats of gold

      to share a thought for what its worth

      on your oh so mighty reign on earth

      

      how come your priests

      in secret times

     

      were moved and moved

      despite their crimes?

      a new unknowing flock

      would have to suffer grief and shock

      a new unknowing child

      would feel a touch that was not mild.

      Is it because in your eyes

      only God can censure crimes?

      Is it because in your teaching

      God's judgement is so far reaching?

      Among the thousands from that land

      of red, red rock and golden sand,

      two girls suffered at your priests hands

      now one is damaged and in distant lands

      the other life could no more abide

      and chose the course of suicide,

      how that one mother must consider

      your pious empty mocking chatter,

      how she must forever care for one

      and remember the sad and tragic other.

      Thousands of children suffered there

      because God's servants did not care

      because the priests and bishops of the time

      were silent on this monstrous crime.

      Come Judgement Day I do desire

      that your God will send you

      to that land of fire

      where you shall have eternity

      to think upon youths misery,

      to ponder evil, wrongs and rights

      to suffer in the darkest nights.

      

      

      

      

                      

                    Pleased to meet you … hope you guess my name.

  
    It was the summer school holidays, I had no real plans. I heard from Graham a friend of mine that his folks were going to be out of town for a week or so. I had a stash of acid, it was just about all I considered worthwhile in those days, so putting two and two together I grabbed my jacket and the drugs and hitch-hiked to his house. I could get high in the daytime while he worked, we could hang loose at night, wonderful idea I thought.

   So Monday morning he's off to work, I take the acid and turn on the music. I believe I started with Abraxas by Santana, such a great album it was too, and the cover, oh my the cover, and the drifting beginning, the smooth smooth guitar, the drums, the rhythm and then into Black Magic Woman of course. Next stop was a few things from the Woodstock triple album, no memory of what I started with but after awhile went back to Santana and that potent, potent tune Soul Sacrifice.

  Now those of you familiar with the properties of that popular drug LSD back then will be figuring that its about time that I started to take off, and you'd be right. Santana played, I raised up the volume on the player, the drums beat, the rhythm pulsed, and I couldn't keep still. I began to loosely dance on the living room carpet, swaying, moving, turning to a slight circular motion as the drums led me on, almost as Native American dancers would, knees bending, turning and turning.

 Then things changed, it could have been a lyric from the song, could have been just the way my mind was turning too, but I suddenly sort of said to myself, oh man, this is not good. It dawned on me that I had actually been performing some invocation as I danced, I began innocently but was now being led, I was actually offering up my soul to sacrifice.

 Now again you'd have to be familiar with the character of LSD to follow me here. This was not felt as a hallucination, as some sort of psychedelic illusion, this was experienced as being absolutely and totally real, an actual solid event, happening now. I had with my music and dancing tuned into something very, very dangerous and now I was reaping the consequences. There was no one else there to tell me otherwise, Leary always suggested a friend or guide beside you, and here he was right for without that outside reference I was lost, just lost.

  Seconds after realizing the ritual nature of what I'd got myself into and beginning to get worried I looked up at the wall opposite. There was my shadow, a dark massively winged and horned shadow. I had invoked the Devil and he was now inside me. I could see him there before me, reflected back in that awful black shape of wings and horns. Again, please understand me here, this was not experienced as a scary but illusory vision, this was felt as absolutely real, absolutely real. I had with the drug, the music and the dance tuned into a dark, dark place, I had in actual fact invoked Lucifer and given up my soul.

 I trembled unsteadily as I stopped the music, the great black shadow both seen before me and felt rising forth from my shoulders. I was terrified, frantic. I knew that I needed to communicate with a sympathetic soul here, I needed human reassurance, I needed help. There was in those days a London based organization called Release, mainly concerned with drug issues and the counter-culture, and somehow they came to mind and somehow I got their number. The woman at the other end of the line listened briefly to my panicked mumblings and then slowly, slowly took charge. There was no such thing as the Devil, he did not exist, all good and all evil was within, there was nothing without to be afraid of, everything came from myself, it was all me. She suggested I go in the garden, fly a kite, sit on a swing, just be … I was turned around during this brief conversation. "Oh Yes!" it hit me, how could I be afraid of myself, Lucifer .. Hah! … an illusion of my own creation. I recovered, I was whole again.

  I don't recall what I did for the rest of the day, but when Graham came home we shared a joint and I told him of my day. I had to go home I said, my foundations were rocked here, I needed to be back in my own room, safe. So the next day I hitchhiked back and the holiday was over. Always have remembered that day though, as you can imagine.      

Remembering Mr. Taylor


    If you saw him walking the school grounds there at Kimbolton Castle in Cambridgeshire, or up in front of his class you probably wouldn't give him too much of your time for Mr Taylor was really just an average looking man. He was quite well-built, with light brown hair, glasses, a slight and careful smile, except of course when he was real, real angry. I doubt he was ever angry in public though, it would have been safer that way, it was with us youngsters at night that he revealed his rages. 

  There was a three years age range of boys at the school, which by the way was only about a 20 minute drive from my house, but I got a scholarship and my folks wanted to give me what they thought was the best education, and so I slept at school rather than going home, a boarder is how it was known. So, the boys entered the school at  age of 9 or so, I forget exactly but young we were, dropped off by our tearful Mothers at the front door, everything packed up in a large trunk case, with our clothes, sports stuff, jams, peanut butter and biscuits for special treats.

  There were about 30 beds or so, we were laid out alphabetically by last name, starting from myself by the door, which made sense I guess because by last name is how we were known to all and amongst ourselves. 'Lights Out' was about 8:00, we were supposed to stay quiet and silent, and gradually fall asleep. It was easier of course in Wintertime but in Early Summer as the light continued to stream in the windows, it was almost impossible. We would chat and joke amongst ourselves, some boys up and down over and in others beds, playfully I mean. It was of course almost always the same crew of naughty kids, all were aware of the dangers involved here and the meeker boys just clammed up tight and pretended sleep.

  So at times we'd be jabbering away amongst ourselves, boy talk, teasing, daring, that sort of stuff and then Mr. Taylor would suddenly fling the door open and burst in. I imagine he must have been listening awhile to time his entry just right, but who knows maybe it was just bad luck on our part.

 "Who's talking!" would come the furious shout "I said, who's talking in here!"
He was visibly shaking and a silence and fear spread amongst us immediately. Sometimes if no-one 'owned-up' so to speak he would threaten to punish the whole roomful of us, at which point one of the braver boys, usually Douglas would climb out of bed, others would follow, as would I. He'd glare and shout and we'd all be gathering by the door in our pajamas. "Anyone else!" Then we'd be sent to the showers and changing room just down the corridor.

   He'd form us up in a line, call us out one by one, have us lower our pajama trousers, bend over, and then strike a vicious, vicious blow on our bare behind with a springy tennis shoe, at times there would be several, usually up to six. The pain was intense for awhile and there was nothing to do about it but rub your cheeks try not to cry in front of the other boys and then scatter back to bed. He'd stop by for a brief lecture, the anger still vivid in his eyes, and then in complete silence we'd all then try to sleep. Now just so as you know, this was not some clunky kind of Nike sneaker, this was a rubber shoe, easy to hold and swing, and shocking to receive, a weapon basically.

   Other times he'd almost quietly enter the room, I'm not even sure he would announce himself, he'd just be there, with no shouting this time, he'd just quietly stroll between the row of beds. We'd be totally silent, he'd be feeling his power I would think. He would stop at the end of the room to visit with the boys whose names just happened to end with M, lie with them and, well it was never really talked about what exactly happened, our fear of him was too great to talk of him amongst ourselves, but we knew he had favorites and we knew that he was smiling as he lay there. I guess the beds at the end of the room were that little bit safer for him, just in case some other teacher may come in, but they never ever did.

  Mr Taylor had one other habit that I remember, this was a day-time thing of his, he'd call you up to go over some homework or such, and as you stood by his side he would work his hand down the back of your shirt and into your underwear. You'd feel a cold strange hand gliding, caressing, resting gently. You would never say or do anything of course, for one thing he was the master of the situation, he was terrifying, you felt frozen, trapped, you just put up with it and waited for it to be over. Never ever told my folks about any of the school practices, curious you might think, as have I. Remember though that all outgoing mail was read by a teacher before it went out, we had a regular Sunday morning session for that, and you just kind of accept that is was them who sent you there, so they know what's up, that is the way the world is and there is not a darn thing you can do about it. I have seen Douglas with a behind that was quite literally black from the bruises. No-one was ever accountable, no-one. The hatred I felt for that place was actually given over to my father, I held him responsible, it took many many years to change that, which is truly a great, great shame.

  Mr Taylor would be in his seventies now I suppose, if of course he is still with us. I wonder sometimes what I'd do or say if I ever met him again. Slap him around a bit perhaps, just to let him know how it feels, let him feel the pain, the terror, the helplessness of it all. I guess once I'd done that a few times that that would be the end of it, maybe I'd just spit on the floor, curse him, turn and leave. Afterwards perhaps I'd feel a little better.           

                     The Hundred Dollar Bill

    Cochin was in darkness, it's streets quiet, the air warm and heavy. Insects buzzed and fluttered at the lamps of the few remaining wayside vendors. The rickshaw driver turned his head and chatted briefly as he took me down a side street to a nearby hotel. 

     Crossing the courtyard to wash I followed a path through the draped forms of resting men. Some watched my passing, as they talked amongst themselves, their cigarettes aglow, white vests bright in the deep shadow of a sheltering tree.

  I was resting on the bed when someone appeared in the doorway. I could see he was a man of business. He told me his name was Rajamund, and as I looked up and spoke of my tiredness, he nodded with understanding and a faint smile, sat down, relaxed and lit a cigarette. He then began to talk of a scheme of which he seemed both confident and proud, and with the open mind that weariness can bring I listened, as politely and with a quiet enthusiasm, he told his story.  

   

     "In town there is a girl a very pretty girl … Yes ... Very Pretty … A German girl …"

I glanced his way.

     "Please, no girls,"

     "Ah … but wait. It is I who have the money. I will give you one hundred dollars, a good bill … Fresh … Just minted … Arrived this week from Singapore."

     I looked his way again as he went on to explain his plan. 

     "We will share the change, you, myself and my brother."

     "You see?. You understand?"

     "A good bill?" I asked.

     "Excellent quality. The very best," came his reply in words that echoed perfectly the whispered temptation of so many a street encounter.

      "All will go well," he said as he leant back in his chair.    

      "You have your pleasure. We share the change. All will go well."

He regarded me silently for a few seconds. 

       "Good! Yes?"

I found myself unable to contain a smile in reply.

   I awoke the next day to the sound of crows, the rumble of an ox-cart and the steady chatter of small children on their way to school. Normally this would ease me into the day but the events of the evening troubled me. Did I want the girl anyway? Would she have a protector? Would they see the game we played? Yet the money to be made could not be denied. I packed my bag and left for another part of town, unable to handle this anxious questioning, this tempting yet fraught proposal. That morning I began wander by the docks, Rajamund had told me that was where he could be found. Though I told myself that this really was a bad deal, I still felt drawn to it. I would tempt fate.

     Catching sight of me Rajamund leapt from his resting place in the shady roots of a banyan tree, his face alive with the possibilities of the day and we greeted each other with the strength and vigor of those about to embark on a vital journey. His brother was by his side and took from the hundred-dollar bill from the top pocket of his faded cotton shirt. I looked at it and then gazed up into their faces, as if to say "Is this it? You expect that I use this?" For it was the sort of money children would use when pretending the ways of grownups. It was then that I realized that it was with an innocent and primitive trust that we were to undertake this venture. The note was good because we believed it to be so. That was enough, that would see us through. A taxi sat nearby, its engine warm, turning over slowly. It had been waiting for us all this time, and I became a passive yet willing accomplice as the three of us opened the doors and climbed inside. 

  We arrived at a small brick house on the outskirts of town. Words were exchanged with the driver, and he sat and waited. Rajamund had wanted to smarten me up a little, with new shirt and trousers, perhaps shoes instead of sandals, but I said no to spending any money on this quest. I was apprehensive and afraid as the three of us walked to the quiet building. Rajamund knocked and the door was opened by a plump, middle-aged Anglo-Indian woman. So this was the beauty! This plain woman in a worn brown house-dress.

   'It's nine in the morning. What will the neighbors think." she said forcefully.

Rajamund apologized whilst nodding my way, as if laying the blame on my desires. Anxiously I took a seat on the couch and glanced around, behind a cloth curtain I could see the figure of a man as he moved around the kitchen. The woman asked forgiveness for the untidiness of the house and then suggested that I relax in the bedroom. 

   "Just this way," she said with a smile and a wave of her hand.

It was at this moment that Rajamund produced the note. The moment dragged on as I hoped for release. She regarded his extended hand for a moment.

   "But I cannot take this. It is too early in the day and I have no money." 

  

 These words lifted the weight, my whole being relaxed. I made for the for the door, eyes smiling, feeling so very, very good. The brothers followed silently behind. Outside I joked ecstatically with them about the note. "This useless thing," I called it, the brothers did not smile back. Then the three of us entered the still waiting taxi. I looked out with a quiet happiness, the two of them in silent despondency. After a while a suggestion was made that we visit a store in town, owned by two Sikh brothers, with wonderful ivory carvings. Perhaps I would like to visit, maybe buy a few items? I shook my head to say no. The taxi continued on its way and then a voice asked hopefully.                

    "Hashish?"

    Our destination was the house of a Muslim in the old quarter of town, on the island known as Fort Cochin. As the ferry pulled in at the jetty I noticed at the top of the steps above us a small hunch-backed figure. He is wearing a beautiful, almost luminous red and yellow cloth wrapped around his waist and thighs. His brown body oiled in the sun. His bent back offered to view. Before him lay a selection of colorful lottery tickets laid out neatly upon a square cloth. He had an air of infinite patience.

   A rickshaw is called and we move slowly through lanes of aged wood and stone before coming to a halt before a street-side house, its door and shutters ajar. I notice two old men seated inside. They gaze out at the world in steady and open regard. Rajamund, taking my money, advances to the window. Greetings are given and received. Hands touch lightly in gentle exchange. He returns bearing a package of dark, sweet smelling resin. The old men follow him with their eyes, their look then coming to rest upon my face.

  The brothers suggest a cool drink before taking the ferry home. 'Toddy Shop' announced the hand-painted sign nailed to the front of a rough wooden shack. Entering the darkness inside we are greeted by the proprietor. A large and happy man dressed in a magnificent blue shirt. We sit at a long trestled table, a lizard shimmies across its stained and wounded surface, and a rat clambers up the palm leaf wall.

  The toddy is brought in old, large, mis-matched bottles. It is milky-white, fermented from the coconut tree, strong, sweet and refreshing. Side dishes of fried shell-fish, pickles and chopped onions are put before us. More bottles appear. A cigarette is emptied of its tobacco and with practiced and casual care marijuana is mixed with the shreds. It is all returned, and then a smoothing, a tapping. The proprietor brings matches and soon a pungent smoke drifts lazily around our heads. Everyone is relaxed and happy, and then touching my hand Rajamund says he has a proposal.

     "You could make a lot of money my friend"

       I sigh and turn my head away to watch the patterned light trickling over the floor.

      "One million rupees"

      I lift my head."And?"

      "Just for friendship. Nice, very nice, Indian woman, maybe later perhaps marriage" He smiled and titled his head. 

      "But first you must get some new clothes. These you have will not work."

      He took my loose cotton shirt between his fingers.

      "I have a good friend, a tailor, we must go this afternoon, take measurements, choose the cloth … You will look fine." He says proudly.

      The brothers regard me silently.

      "I need to rest, I am very tired." comes my reply. 

      The next day I decide leave town, it has been enough. I make my way to the bus station and crossing a field I come across Rajamund, it is as if he had been waiting for me. His eyes are hard this time, his shoulders taut, he demands some money to help pay for the toddy of yesterday. I offer no resistance and give him much more than he is really due, after all, I tell myself, we all have to make a living. As we part he does not return my goodbyes.