Saturday, February 3, 2018

Murder, He Wrote

A throw-back title to one of my favourite shows from years ago.  However...
Warning. Bad poetry ahead. Proceed at your own risk.

Truth is dead, evidently.
It’s passing unremarked.
No longer useful for the loud narratives 
Sucking up all the air in the room.
Control. And power.
Bending sight and sound
And memory into easy slavery. 
My own anger burns, 
Fanned by gusts of pain 
Ignited by memories I cannot suppress.
But, surprise, I become the problem, 
Funny how that works.
Unwilling to sing from the provided score,
Upsetting the carefully crafted veneer of pleasantness.
The abuser controls the pulpit, the wounded blamed to scorn.
We are all about appearances here.  
Nobody cares if there’s more than what’s on offer.
Nobody wants to know.
The truth might complicate matters, make things difficult,
Make us reevaluate, and open doors nailed shut 
For reasons we would rather not know.
Truth is dead,
But not some nursing home pneumonia 
Wracking a worn out body.
It’s murder,
And evidence leads every which a way,
Too many suspects to arrest.
But only one side is allowed in this court.
No one asks why. 
Move along. Nothing happened here.
A victim victimised.  An abuser abuses.
Coyly covered by a conspiracy of co-opted religious folk 
Complicit in an ongoing crime
Who see what they want to see,
Straining out a gnat, while the camel is swallowed with ease.
It happens all the time.
But is no less destructive, no less painful,
No less real. 
Caustic judgment a-plenty is
Levelled against the one who disturbs our peace, 
Who interrupts our Wheel of Fortune, 
Our Jeopardy of good feelings.
Don’t confuse us with the truth, we know what we believe!
The blows to my face are not physical, 
The kicks to the groin not with booted feet.  
But words lay me open, and abandonment leaves me to die.
I wish I could just get over it it 
And get on with my life as if it didn’t happen, 
As if it isn’t happening.  
But it did, and it is.
My life was wrecked, my family destroyed,
(And not for darkly whispered reasons)
And that’s ok? 
Forgiveness fixes nothing. The wound still weeps.
While she is enabled by family, by friends, 
By colleagues and churches full of good people,
Who fawn and refuse to believe nothing but the best, 
None of whom thought to question the version they were fed,
Or to consider that it was in fact just a story
Posing as reality.
But a half truth masquerading as the whole truth 
Is but an untruth.
And if the actual truth itself ran free, 
A darker story would crawl out of the swamp,
And force us all to get the help we need.
But today, nobody needs help, thank you.
Nobody wants help.

And we are all content to step over 
The corpse that’s in our midst.

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