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George Anderson |
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Chopper On the North Mountain his incinerated Harley leans against a spruce tree close to his red cedar cabin ten years after the event a charred monument to an unpredictable speed wobble throttling up Aylesford Road at 130 the handle bars wildly flopping, the decision to fling his bike forwards to leap off the bike backwards in the dark his wistful attempt to cradle his hands together/ back straight & then to slide like a missile along the rough asphalt road- without leathers- his skin peeling off in slabs- until hitting a bump & then sent screaming into a ditch, rolling into barbed wire; knocked unconscious. Of the searing, mind needling pain/ his back and legs and ass ground into the pavement like raw meat St Peter's Basilica 1 As I press the remote button on the TV the Pope is propped up by pall bearers to face the unending multitude- believers, hangers on, those clinging onto the dustbin of history- The Pontiff Santa Claus like in his red & white vestments and shiny black boots appearing in death more impressive than in life; his divine repose & white cheese face notwithstanding 2 The aging celebrity correspondent wears a mask of reverence & recites a rosary of statistics- .20 faithful abreast .18,000 per hour .waiting 7-8 hours .the line 2 kilometers as far as the Tiber River. 3 I turn off the sound and examine the 'reporter' & his phony haircut his immaculate suit unwrinkable silk shirt & white bow tie- not a thread out of place his eyes intense, burning like paschal candles; a smouldering light of certitude 4 As the Vatican crowd jostle with flashing mobile phones to take photos of the holy corpse- the rich imagery of the Swiss Guards the Baroque frescoes the make shift shrines the daggy purple mourning robes- get me thinking- thinking about my own pilgrimage to the Vatican last year 5 Outside the Basilica I line up behind the gentle flock I'm keen to witness for myself the splendour & awe of the Vatican's opulence- I want to feel through its golden relics & magnificent architecture & inflated pageantry- its deceit its lies its manipulation of the common worker its plundering of riches from other lands 6 They x-ray my hand bag for explosives & sniff my halter top & hot pants for drugs the Vatican Police wild-eyed point to a sign which explains pictorially the commandments of the dress code for entering the holy building: You must wear shoes Cover your shoulders/breasts Shorts must be ankle level 7 The cops rent me a shiny puffy over sized black pair of pantaloons (one Euro) to cover my legs. They laugh as they see me patting down the pants I approach the main entrance Two clean-cut African heavies guard the gate There is that same sign again- cover your feet/ shoulders/ knees/ tits/ cunt etc The Vatican Dress Code Gestapo blokes glance down my top & usher me to the side pointing to the sign I lift my pantaloons suggesting compliance They shake their heads sadly 8 I sit seething on the blue cobblestones on the eastern side of the square & note the continuous flow of astonished grimaces of the unwary middle-aged tourists as they are denied access to the great works of art of the Basilica because their knee or breast was showing 'Fucken hypocrites', a bus driver mumbles beside me as he expels a torrent of tobacco smoke. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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