A wee taster…
Words from a quiet corner
And there it was.
Terrifyingly brash, built high on bad taste and over-production. The X-Factor American Edition.
Despite my misgivings and it being my Saturday brunch break, I just let it run and let the feature group sound bites wash over me. Fortunately, those and the inane, repetitive judges’ comments vanished down the drains of time, along with the rest of the massively overproduced, over-hyped, re-cycled, talent-deficient rubbish vying for the five-million-dollar contract supposedly up for grabs at the end of it all.
They will kill children if it suits them.
Mothers, fathers and brothers too.
They will hide behind their gold-encrusted palaces
As the children gasp for air, for life itself.
And they will sneer at the words of justice
Which threaten their evil lust.
They will shop in the streets of London and New York
As servants bow and scrape.
And mark my words they will fall and burn in my time
And be flushed away by those they would rape.
For just as the ways of any godless world are theirs,
So are mine.
And they will know justice in my time.
How a bullet feels.
How terror is the only partner towards
The shores of timeless godless eternity.
How useless are their towers of gold and marble
And friends in power.
For they shall perish too.
Hung drawn quartered and flushed from history.
Like the scum they are.
Because it is right.
And he was the finest wordsmith
Because he was so honest
And perfectly educated by the
Breathe of peat and heather
And wild Atlantic winds
He had do other purpose than
To discover, to fabricate to engineer
The countless joys of how words can combine
To stop you in your tracks
And trigger pleasure of an unknown
Kind. And kind he was too
In his glory mixing and matching
The language he was born within
Careful concoctions of literary perfection
To be judged by any open mind who understood
The times, the timbre the tempo
And the depth of his airy artful skills
His choice of words, his subjects his reasoning
All took us up there with him
Floating, high above the mundane
And back again
To where the children play
And the cattle groan
Heavy with milk
To that place where simple coalmen
Once were men.
T’was his sod
He our gold.
(c) Alexander John Pithie