Poetry

Apocalypse 24

“Just as the sun will make a man go blind

If he stares at it; so true lunatics

Bring sacred holy stillness of the mind,

Inviolate fire, into low politics.

Either the fire is lost, or, all the land

Is burned into a place of heretics.”

My lord said this, and I: “Is it the case,

That God’s will can become a Party’s cause?”

And he: “That is exactly what Labour

Was doing. See, and weep, for all these souls.

So much kindling, so much food for the fire.”

If you have heard the bark and howl of seals

When they come inland pupping once a year,

On dry land without feet but fins and tails,

Immobile and prostrate, you’d recognise

The sort of scene I saw then with my eyes.

Along the beach were bodies all laid out

And fidgeting and rocking back and forth

With howling noises louder than the tide.

“Who are these people, let me know the truth,”

I said, and then my Lord: “This multitude

Are muslims who came from the global south

To England where, without fear they could learn

To know God’s holy law and know God’s Son.

“But did not. Rather, aloof and apart,

They nurtured envious dreams of joining priest

To prime minister and a muslim court.

Whereas they knew that English things were best

Their eye was blind, and black and hard the heart.”

The opportunity to know the Lord being lost

And reluctant to make a gamble still

They moan and howl Ally Akbar full well.

I half desired to talk to them and offer

My help. And so we scrambled down the slope.

And spoke with some, while others whispered ‘Cuffer’.

A few got up, and moved on step by step.

I lost my patience: “You, why do you suffer,”

I said, “To come to England and end up

Out of your element and not British.”

Then someone answered, “Ask her, Barbara Roche.”

Some people say the sea has a healthful smell

But this beach had a rotten rotting stink

What with the dead things, plant and animal

Which washed up when most life became extinct;

Still, going to the body where they all

Were pointing, to this Barbara, I think

I never have experienced such stench.

And there she was, the Labour Party’s wench.

“These desperate people say,” I said to her

“That you’re to blame that they are on this beach.”

And she: “F- Off! As much as this empire

Of God is hateful, I hate just as much

The British people and Britain’s culture.

The borders opened fully on my watch

And so they came, endless, as I expected...”

She kept on, but my master interrupted.

“Come from this place, there’s nothing you can do.”

“Thank you, my Lord, thank you, I was at risk

Of doing violence to her, then.” And so,

We left the sea’s edge, leaving her to bask

And drown in brine within the rising sea.

But I should go back to repeat that task

Which in my song I need to do better

I wanted to discuss how to get water.

In future times, when I am dead and gone

And you have found yourself on Earth somehow

You’ll need to catch the dew, or catch the rain,

Or else dig down to ground water below.

But there are other means. On a mountain

Springs rise with pure water and downward flow

Through stone and rock and gravel till it’s clean

So, seek the high ground and make it your own.

When heavy industry leaves any town

The owners take their money and just leave.

The workers dissipate, left on their own;

An empty rusty building cannot move

And so it sits there empty and alone.

The trees move in, the wind removes the roof

When man is gone great rusty skeletons

And flakes of glass will be all that remains.

There was a place, down an abandoned lane

In a dishevelled hut near to the summit

That I had seen at night when I had been

Alive and sleeping. I dreamed of a hermit

More than a few times, and that lonely man,

Who called himself Nietzsche, and at the limit

Of dream and life with Jesus at my side

Upon the ridge of that hill I descried

The same hut and the same presence inside.

Almost afraid to see my dreams, I whispered:

“Is this the place I think?” And Christ replied:

“The anchorite, the most myopic shepherd

Who struggled to replace me and who tried

To know the spirit without the Holy Spirit.

Yes, it’s him here, old Mr Anti-Christ.

Let’s speak to him, and start him on his quest.”

“My master, or old master, Herr Nietzsche,”

I said, “Now that your fierce combat with God,

Which beat you down, is over, the adventure

Must now be to escape from being mad,

And come with us into another future.”

And he to me: “You are a friend I had.

Unreal friend. And friendship with the Lord

Was something I denied myself so hard.

“Collapsed in Turin, hanging from that horse

I called out ‘Mother, I can’t speak!’. They heard.

It was a final call to her, of course

Christ’s Mother. And the Father of the Lord.

I then descended, comatose and worse.”

And I: “Despite your anti-Christian word,

You made us think about our loneliness

And look around for real transcendence.”

Now just as children fatherless and lost,

Develop sooner psychologically

And physically develop hair and breast

Too early, and their personality

Is shattered and deceives and is depressed,

So he collapsed in his insanity

Without the Father. “Will you come with us?”

I said, and he: “I will, let’s leave this place.

“I’ll be along, just give me a few minutes.

I will not go across the sea to Ireland

But south, along the coast toward St David’s.”

Sometimes a buzzing noise starts moving round

In a silent room, and that surreal buzz

Comes from a wasp which had not made a sound,

Till now. There was a noise outside just then:

“You can’t go on! You can’t! You will go on.”