Poem: The Incorruptible Child

inner child art play

So, why did I kill the tramp?

Because I was sick of being a Wise

Old Man – I fucking hate it – I feel

The world loves me more,

And comes closer to me,

When it sees I am just

A child – when it remembers

I am harmless and fragile.

But I am still strong. I am as strong

As a wave that, after it crashes, always

Regroups again. So, one of my best friends

Regales me with outlandish tales of

Prostitutes and brothels; whilst I nauseate

Him equally by drinking menstrual blood,

As easily as cognac, right in front of his face –

It improves my creative functions, I like to tell him –

And he ran away, screaming and laughing, as

We danced and sang at a three day festival,

Littered with High Tragedy and Drama –

Where my heart took a holiday from its

Perpetual sickness, to be wound and strung

Around a belated Maypole, of crying children,

And domestic abuse – of friendships regained;

New ones claimed, as I strove to keep peace,

Between titanic beasts, who hurled mountain

Ranges, beer cans, and thunder – I made no

Blunder: I was the soother of Hearts;

The tyrant of love – the terroriser of

Unfinished blows – but I kept on my clothes,

Even as I dressed as a prophet, bathed in fast

Food, and knelt before the anti-nutritional

Goddess, who can eject condiments from her

Breasts; English Mustard from the right; French

From her left – in the equator of her sternum,

Her mammalian Mercator map, we danced

And sang again – I burrowed myself in hair

That curled itself in sacred wefts; a brief

Beacon of comfort, in an ocean of touch.

I enjoyed the butterfly farm – my hole in

One – knocking satellites out of the sky,

So that my signal’s kingdom would




But, stranger symptoms still

Persist. When caught in the potholes

Of life’s road, and blessed with the gifts

Of self-loathing and disrepair – in the

Coliseum of my brain, I can hear people

Chanting my name, in frantic throngs; and

I know not whence they come – what is this

Transmitted felicity? Are you trying to praise

Me? – Or are you trying to kill me?

Could it be that I am not as bereft as

I think, and that my name is as much a

Mantra to you, as I have made yours


Then let us praise this plain-

Chant of name! Let’s form a choir

Of love for one another, with whips,

And chains, and bones.



So, friends beguiled – I

Will remain your child –

You can hold my hand, and

Look on me as an object of

Innocent beauty; while other

Adults fuck and fight and commit

Crimes against the light of their

Immortal natures; that pushes pins

Into the eyes, unsinned, of their unspoilt,

Incorruptible children.

I have been corrupted many times –

Mostly by fears and fashionable ideas –

And yet, I always come back to snow –

I always return to the purest of centres,

That longs to heal and hug every hurting


I saw my anxious friend –

I held his chest in the palm of my

Hand, and brought his racing heart

Beat, down to a mellower speed;

To another, I offered the lifeboat of

My arms, and gave her the buoyancy

Of my stoic good cheer, so that she wouldn’t

Sink into




And now, after taking off my

Liquor-soaked clothes, and

Spending the night snuggled

Between a goddess, and a holier

God than I – I really felt like I

Had shaved my blues away.

Am I, again, that sweet child?

That bride of life I used to be?

I wear the world on the crown

Of my smile,

And am grateful,



That there are


Who want to




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