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Paddy Screech

of

London, England, UK

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God's on his cross

by

Paddy Screech


God's on his cross
and all's right with the world.
That's what my mother told me.

He's hanging there,
the blood knocking in his wrists
his hands near pulled off by the weight
the angle of his arms blocking his lungs
sweat, acrid vinegar and radiation sun
naked before strangers
blind with blood from his special hat
yesterday's whipping grazed against the wood
behind him,
and what in front?

We'd watch the TV in the evenings,
and I would ensure that the fire
stayed alive.


Deus ex Machina

by

Paddy Screech

You were Eva Peron and Pippi Longstocking,
Albert Camus and Mutley,
Cordelia, Regan and the Fool,
Sophie enobled in the agony of choice,
Little John and Little Voice;
You were Jan Leeming and Joan of Arc,
parents, watching, over poppets in the park,
my father, watching, from his captain's chair,
my mother, young, with a Narnia of hair.

You entered, en masse,like Ariel,
and took the World with you when you left,
like Atlas, loaded with the shopping
off home to stock the kitchen cupboard,
and put your (the slipper fits) feet up.

You were here
then you were there
and now
with unnavigable years between
an Old Testament God
you are everywhere.

I, like a stopped clock, rarely get it right.
Despite my nervous ticks, my hands won't work
and point, insistently, nowhere.
There is a pocket, somewhere
that contains a key
that tesselates with my mechanism.

So I sit here, ticking
waiting
to be wound up again
waiting
for time to start