I climb the church, with grit-needled hands -
a devil dared. A steeple jackass.
A pubescent goyle of gargles, spouting filth.
Stoned. Drunk on possibility. You couldn’t tear me away.
But now on this ledge I’m stuck.
are my graveyard ghouls, to whom I am an anti-social climber.
Little bastards, we fend for ourselves in a land of never -
where councils erect honey pot tower blocks,
attracting teenage delinquents and their friends.
Such am I –
in the thrall of 666,
above the call of 999.
they say. God knows, it’s high time. I can see that from here.
I am both hijacked and hostage-taker.
A conscientious objector; a prisoner of conscience.
To hell with this. I’m getting off.
I dismount the Trojan bandwagon of my peers.
Broken, yet back-boned, I will reach the ground and walk away
(sticks and stones not thrown.)
Giving in to fear?
More no carrier of the thrill-seeker gene –
going dopamine cold turkey,
a chicken wannabe.
Now how do I get down from here?
ROB HAS GIVEN US PERMISSION TO SHARE THE FACT THAT HE HAS VERY GENEROUSLY DONATED HIS PRIZE BACK TO FIVE ASPECTS SO WE CAN PUT THE FUNDS TOWARDS OUR SUMMER ACTIVITY PROJECT - WE'RE DELIGHTED ABOUT THIS, ROB - HUGE THANK YOU FROM ALL OF HERE AT FIVE ASPECTS!
There is little that you miss now it is over;
the life perhaps that tumbled in and out of each other’s houses;
children’s games that spill into neighbourhoods
beyond your own.
Somewhere on a village green
boys are playing cricket. The ball strikes wood
and is netted by a shield of hands.
You draw the curtains, bank up the fire.
There is little that you miss now it is over
but in your dreams you hear again the ball striking
wood, spinning this time far beyond
the clutch of hands
and mothers who stand in open doorways
calling their children in from the dark.
When I was ten our village took a vote:
should the Majestic Cinema
(where the bugs wore clogs)
be allowed to open on Sundays?
Our teacher decided that our class
(the big boys and girls)
would hold its own election.
She told us about secret ballots
and democratic decisions
and what made Britain great.
And being a religious woman
she told us as well
about God’s fourth commandment
(you know, the Holy Sabbath).
In our corner of the playground
(next to the bike shed),
Pudding, Jexy, Jem and me discussed the matter.
Why shouldn’t the Jezzer open on Sunday?
(the most boring day of the week).
We’ll vote in favour, we said
and we did.
I know we all did
because after the count
the result was announced:
Against Sunday opening 36,
for Sunday opening 4.
(We knew she meant God 36, Satan 4.)
Will those four people stand up please?