Haut de la Garenne on the telly again, not for Bergerac
though this time. On my knees in front of the BBC,
new carpet but and a crawling drooly infant.
I felt my hand still gripped rock hard until I opened it
and saw those bloody broken roots in my small palm,
dark dampness and a violent face.
They didn’t dig up much, just words scrawled in cellar,
a concrete bath, ashes in an improvised fireplace
and lots of teeth. Your not a bad boy.
But you left more in the damp earth, concrete pits, lakes
and spreadsheets we screamed in. Something still burning
when those that ate the evidence are getting promoted
and buying bigger houses. Something permanent
and recoverable in the meticulously crafted torture tools, tarpaulins
and fallacies of ritual abuse: the dark energy of the human sciences.
Definitions: exclude human foot soup or marinating foetuses
minorities and neighbours crushed under crosses
and put through the mincer.