THE ABATTOIR BY THE SEA....
where the air and wind caught all the screams and turned them into sea whispers, or like blast and gust of gale, moaning sea wind actually being the whisperings of the dead boys, sweat and sweet blood dripping down the flat hollowness to ribs flexed, picked apart by meat knives, little chicken bones protruding from the foam of their chests, and eyes calcified in their death rattle, they will never come back to haunt you - why? -
in our Mother's breast you placed a watery cross for them, to know where to kneel and pray, a cross with hair entwined, their long beautiful unwashed hair forever floating, and the seaweed - a watery cross, please, a cross, for all the dead calcified souls, for all the mutilated young bodies, lost in the sea, and lost, forever lost, in their weedy deathbeds - lay them down, let small fish pick on their empty eye sockets - and their deathly daydreams, sleeping naked, dying awake, limps around them like broken down dolls discarded by a wilful child now crying by the seaside and wanting its dolls back, the whole of them strewn back together by guilt and magic and prayer, low sleep...
and who are you now?
who is He?
the boy who was the dreamer and the victim,
the victim who was the dreamer and the murderer,
the judge and the jury,
the prison and the grave
prisoner and gravedigger
mutilator of dreams and desires obscene,
a priest to hear his last confession,
communion in pain and death,
the dead body
and the killer?
