Squadrons of humour; soldiers of pain; again and again … AND AGAIN!

Behind your joint backs we slowly begin to

congregate, and aggregate,

and assimilate, and

resume and summarise and bring together the lifetimes of

pain, again and again, that each of us, solely, has

suffered as soldier of raining intelligence

and ingenuity: the intelligence of the frankly, truly, really

intelligent: the intelligence of the resiliently

non-conforming who –

despite multiple rules

and tools in their terrible against,

and their terrible examples of fathers of violent training,

and their terrifying parent-

ages, and those behaviours which they in turn,

quite unwillingly

but even when unwillingly

also knowingly, did choose to or

did choose not to transmit – even here, we are still striving to be

precise the joyful

our childhoods did not permit.


And in such soldiering on, and in such battling

squadrons, and in the flights as high as infant kites we do plane

over your dreadful legacies which attach like cases of

illegal diplomatic bent, and which shine like pinpricks in the

darks of long memories – those pricks yous are,

in fact, who stick pins in all our darks … and in this soldiering on

and in these squadrons who do now fly, we try and we strive

and we battle on fiercely, and to date we’ve each done this

alone, and on our lonesome, and in the solitary

mindscapes of the young who still feel guilt,

because the cages

yous gilded were gilded with the gold

of hateful rank fools, and fools above all know

how to fool those in authority,

those authority figures who might one

day have protected the children we’ve all been: the children

of laughter and after and before; the children of kindnesses

in face of cruelties

galore; the children who’ve even gone and fought each

other silly; the children who now slowly, ever slowly

begin to laugh at yous: laugh at yous behind

your backs: laugh at yous creepingly; laugh

at yous in ways you do detect but simply cannot begin to

properly understand; laugh at yous in the only

manner that your joint lack of

manners will fear most grand of all; laugh at yous


of the gathering storm; laugh at yous

from the standpoint of stand-

piped humour: the humour which raises its cup to the skies

and proclaims its shared righteousness: the right of the

guilty and punished and battered, and the mentally

torn, and the physical brawn yous applied

quite sanctimoniously to the generation we were …


… the generation we are: a generation of such good: a generation

which generates the better of this humanity …


… a humanity yous never exhibited yourselves: and oh yes,

it’s what they’ve all been whispering,


all this bloody goddamn time;

what we’ve all

been whispering for longer than we’ve known how

to explain or disdain or retract or retreat: and whilst yous

still kinda believe the power lies in your seat,

there is something amiss, something you miss, something

yous can’t quite perceive: and whilst yous begin

yourselves to wonder

and wander down the routes and paths of paranoia

which so cleverly yous used to spin

for the rest of us children,

and cousins

and siblings,

and maybe even second

cousins too, and maybe it’s true, and

maybe even that,

we no longer need at all,



whether or not, to

doff our caps to your privileges of pain.


Again and again … and

again we do rise: we rise simply by humouring the

violence of your stakes, and your rakes and you

prissy pussy-loving waitings, and your talkings and your

stalkings, like evil old Frankenstein-



anally and heavily,


precision and pedantry.


And it is precisely here where precisely we do win:

our humour, above all, our capacity to laugh

at yous, our desire to use now as evermore

shared tools the wisdom of smiles,

and guiles and nods and

winks, and the blinking of eyes which suddenly do see

and the sinking feelings which suddenly do be

around and about the yous which yous are: for these soldiers of pain,

these beautiful

minds yous attempted to break, have recovered

their entreaties,

their treaties,

their entireties, all told and all bold and all packed up to sell,

and in the making and remaking of your violence and your crime

yous have slowly to recognise your loss is our gain:

where the humour of you both is bitterly cruel and divisive,

we are showing yous,

little by

little, how we’re learning that humour can also

beat the violent back, without your bruising or

your wounding: without the abusive natures that

made of our childlikenesses environments of permanent refrain …


… so beat the violent back only by undermining their power.

Beat the violent back with

the humour of

the grand survivors.

Beat the violent back with

the right and

the might of

those of us who do remember.

Beat the violent back with

the love and

the life and

the thriving we now feel.

Beat the violent back with

the power of art and

the strength and will of heart and

the depth of our souls, now truly shared

and understood.


And if any of my family ever reads the words above,

and wishes to declaim

and wishes to proclaim

and wishes to sign in the blood and tears

I’ve written

the truth of what I write, of what for

so long a time I have doubted,

do sign below in the comments for all: for here

we are factually community.


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