turning stones

"halt ... who goes there?

death

approach ... friend"

(excerpt from "forgotten sons" by Marillion)

For the time being, I am burying the more overtly creative writings I've been doing on this site and will devote any or all such future writings to the site I share with my brother Daniel at www.thejesuitsieve.blogspot.com This will enable me to try and expand and diversify things here at the Whorehouse, if, when and as I have the time. In the midst of the multi-faceted issues ensuing my father's death as well as my son Adrien avidly learning to be potty-trained at this time there is still a world going on outside my window, as if I really needed to be reminded of that. I remember in December asking my dad, just after the tsunami hit in Asia, how he felt about the inevitability that he would soon (we had no idea how soon) be missing out on such future happenings. He just shook his head and mustered a half-smile, as he was wont to do. "These are bad times, Paul." Getting worse....

"son watches father scan obituary columns in search of absent school friends

while a generation digests high fibre ignorance

cowering behind curtains and the taped up, painted windows,

decriminalised genocide, provided door to door belsens

pandora's box of holocausts gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens,

waiting, the season of the button, the penultimate migration,

radioactive perfumes, for the fashionably, for the terminally insane

do you realise ... this world is totally fugazi

where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets,

to breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary"

(excerpt from "fugazi" by Marillion)