Monday, 28 December 2009

The Rebel Always Finds A Cause

Desperate croaks from a child searching
For his rebellion, but nothing creaks
Nothing groans against his shoving or his
Obtuse behaviour and whines.
There is something out there with his name on it
And it is lit with fierce fire and glittering
With melting, splitting coals, demanding attention
Because no-one, nowhere is tending it
Washing it and caressing it and its pleading
Pleading to be represented and strung high
To be martyred and noticed
The child grinds his knuckles into the stiff wood of his
Desktop, crying in rage, tears squeezing vice-like
From screwed up, balled up eyes. Spittle lurks in the
Corner of the rebel’s mouth, blown by gasps
And sobs as the spirit runs rampant
Tussling with the need of the fire, with the yearning embers
That only he can see, can act for, can speak for
If only he could speak at all. But
He can only cry and wail to himself in silence
A silence that carries more rebellion than his young heart can know.
The red eyes aid his fire’s cause, the tired weep
Splashes over the streets and the nights and the days
That lay at the foot of his bed and the gateway to his life
Marking his purpose with the lapping floods that show
That above all else, he cares and wants to do it,
It is anything so long as it is his and it is there for him to
Fight for.

The fire warms him and strokes his back like the lapping
Of a friendly cat’s rough tongue, nuzzling his broken
Spirit and his broken, angelic neck, as he continues
To beg on the other’s behalf, desperate to keep
His feet and his ground that they stand upon,
Still from rocking, but to demand and wail till they hear
Till they cannot ignore the cries of a solitary yelling the
Need of so many using just a simple voice and a human
Method of such common existence, that its fiery source
Must be acknowledged and received, but not welcomed.

The forest burns without their knowledge and he dances in
The middle of its snapping branches and clamping jaws
Singing to himself as he has always done, his hair flinging around himself
And licking his shoulders, the smile has dried up the tears
They look at him as if the child has lost all sense and sanity
But he keeps whirling around to the drumbeat, he knows
They are there but it makes no difference to the chant that he has
Throttled from his heaving chest.
‘Look if it makes you notice! Listen if it makes you wonder!
Touch if it makes you comfortable!’ The child laughs to himself
And to all of them standing, watching him. The wood is
Collapsing in on itself and they try and bait the boy from the flickering orange
But he has nothing to say to them, petting the crackling bark with his
Naked hands to soothe the forest and its quiet moans, hushing it like
A mother a child.
He knows what his reasons are, he has found his purpose and as such
He will take it with him and the trees to his
Grave that he dug the moment he was

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