Monday, 6 May 2019

Fragment 1

I find myself with some time on my hands. I've been signed off work for a period (for those who remember my blog before the unwanted purge, it won't surprise you to know it's mental health. Again).

In trying to find some space for myself, I've started, tentatively, writing again. It's rough, unpolished and in many cases unfinished, but it's a start.

This is something I scribbled down on Good Friday.

A Good Friday
God is dead. He died today. "Then
why," I asked "is Friday Good?"
"Good" is when the hero wins,
when evil dies and love prevails.

"But he comes back" they say to me.
"On Sunday He will rise again."
Then call that Sunday good.
Good Sunday. Bad Friday.

Unless of course the name is right.
God is dead and this is good
because, at last, we are free
from his paternal tyranny.

A theological point too subtle
for my mind at six. There were
Creme Eggs to devour, after all.

This is my body, the fondant my
blood. The child's Paschal
Communion, sweet and
blasphemous.

And on the third day, he looked
amongst the foil wrappers
and saw the cardboard tomb
was empty.

He is risen! And on Monday
the shops will sell the story
at a heavy discount.
Just to be rid of it.

God is dead. In His place
consumption. "I am the way,
three for the price
of one." A trinity of value.

Though in honour of my
resurrection, all shops
must close. Show respect
while hawking cocao tombs
to the flock.

God is not dead. He just
obeys Sunday Trading laws.

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