Friday, June 29, 2007

The price of idealism.....

Sometimes you sit, wondering to yourself, if there is any kind of hope, for this world, for what people call home, for what people call a place to live. You wonder if God, wherever he may be, whoever he may be, whatever he may believe or choose to say, will forgive people for what they do to each other, but as you think this you just wonder whether or not God left this planet, this pathetic excuse for a world, a long time ago.

You stood there, by the water, looking across, and waiting. You know she’s usually late, you haven’t known her for long, but its one thing she’s always been honest about, she leaves the house the minute she is supposed to be at her destination, the mark of a young woman who is responsible for her own destiny, who makes her mark without effort. As you turn around it hits your senses, not with a tap, but with explosions of colour, of expression.

She’s walking towards you, her thumbs in her pockets, long flowing hair, a smile so bright, glowing with such delight, it could light up a runway in the dead of night, you can see her from afar, and you know, that as she get’s closer, the view will become even more special, even more extraordinary. To your amazement, your prediction of scenery unbeknownst to beauty, is false, she waves at you, as she does you notice that the view is far more fantastic, far more stunning, far more unbelievable, than imagination could ever hope to depict.

When you remember things like this, you think to yourself, that maybe God is still here, maybe he didn’t give up, and maybe he didn’t leave this world having failed in his purpose, to create beauty, beyond what optimism can astonish.

'Show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy.'

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Friday, June 22, 2007

Playing roulette, without a ball?

She thinks she’s going to meet friends, she thinks she’s going out to have a good time; she’s young, naïve, innocent, not ready for the world outside. She want’s a friend so much, that when two appear out of thin air, two appear from the shadows, she’s so eager to believe, so desperate for companionship, that she let’s her guard down, she believes that people aren’t only out for themselves, that maybe someone cares.

What she doesn’t know, is that the friends she is going to meet, are luring her into a trap, luring her to humiliation, to degradation, to harm. Over three miles from home, she meets them, but it’s not two, it’s three. As she realises she has been set up, it’s too late, she’s taken by surprise, one of the three jumps on her, and holds her down, another starts to hit and scratch her, not playfully, but with such force that her nose breaks, that her lips splits in half, that her forehead and cheeks start to bleed, while the other, the third, films the act, on a mobile telephone.

What could have got to you, what could have made your blood boil, if you cared, was not the act of violence, of senseless behaviour, but the way in which three girls, of such a young age, of what should be such an innocent time of their lives, could plan an act of betrayal so meticulously, with such precision, vindictiveness and hatred, and then sit in custody and be amused by it.

‘It is the failing of youth not to be able to restrain its own violence.’ Seneca

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

21 minutes.........

'And I never passed a cry for help,
though at times I shook with fear,
and sometimes, God, forgive me,
i've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place
among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
except to calm their fear.'

'There was silence all around the throne
where saints had often trod,
as the policeman waited quietly,
for the judgement of his God,
"Step forward now Policeman.
You've bourne your burdens well.
Come walk a beat on heaven's streets,
you've done your time in hell.'

Monday, June 11, 2007

Idol swine?

Police Officers are lazy, idol and of course, they don't care. Because when they go home at night, usually in the dark, they just switch off, all the things they have seen, heard and felt during the hours that fell before them, are gone, they will never remember them, they will never lay awake at night seeing the faces, the crying, the weeping of the children who can't take it anymore, the destroyed lives, the children who have no hope for the future, because their parents have destined it to be, the sloth that some live in, the greed that influences so many actions, that cause such wrath, the lack of humanity that seems to plague the God forsaken streets of this country.

It really is time that all Police Constables were made redundant, that all Special Constables were told their services are no longer required and that all members of Police Management were flogged for their services to the community. Because after all, Police Officers only hand out speeding fines and arrest innocent people, they only sit in the station and eat food, they only watch Television when they should be out on the beat.

They never die for what they believe to be right, they never brave fire and certain death when people might be in danger, they don't care about people they don't know who are standing in a pool of petrol trying to end it all, they most certainly don't risk serious personal harm on routine calls and they are always backed up by their common sense driven and forward thinking Police force.

'You want to trust me. I know that. But you're holding back that little bit. Tell me what happened. I'm not going to write it down or anything. I'm going to sit right here. You see no...I have no pen in my hand. Nothing up my sleeve. Please, don't look at me as a cop. Look at me as a friend. Look at me as a friend.'

Detective Frank Pembleton, Homicide: Life on the Street.

Thursday, June 07, 2007

Least of all you.......

You walk to the locker room, take off your jacket,
put on your tie and sigh, it's another shift in the life,
you take your seat, body armour on the chair,
coffee infront of you, you pray for your collegues to be safe and protected.

They know you're a volunteer, so they wonder why you do it,
you won't ever tell them, because it's what you keep inside,
two hours in you go to a call, it's not a lovely sight,
people could have been hurt, it's one in the tank.

On the way to the custody suite, you ask the man why,
why he had to do what he did, why he didn't just move on by,
the man doesn't answer, he just mumbles under his breath,
that it's life in general, it delt him a bad hand.

Three hours later, another two calls,
one of assistance required, another to the drunken halls,
then it's the interview, this man is not a bad man,
he has two kids, a heart that's grown cold.

He's declined a solicitor, a very big mistake,
but what you find hard to believe, he doesn't know it,
twenty minutes later, it's another life destroyed,
a moment of madness, that even you can't resolve.

You walk to the police car again wondering why, a few pints at the wrong time, if he hadn't been standing near the car,
it would have been a different ending, but in the dark and the cold,
you walk to your car, ice on the windows, a stench in the air.

You sit at the wheel turning the radio on,
suite No3 by John Sabastian Bach, sitting there thanking your Lord God, for keeping it all being safe and sound,
praising him for seeing justice done, even in this warped way of society, but most of all thanking him that you're not full time,
that fact with gratitude most of all.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007


Posters advertising a vacancy in the force diversity unit are not met with suprise, but with concern and admiration......