A boy called Brad

A boy called Brad
was my first best mate
in high school.
We were inseparable.
It was year one of our teens,
we had each other
and the world
was going on summer.

At the start of the following year,
a boy the kids called Ruddy
- a fat little fuck -
claimed
to my face
that Brad and I were bumbuds.

It was the turn of the century,
it was an all-boys school
and for Ruddy, the ass,
to claim that Brad and I were lovers
was trauma
I couldn't process.

So I never did.

Instead,
I spent the year ignoring Brad.
I treated him like shit,
like we'd never been a pair.
He didn't understand.
Neither did I,
in truth.

I think this was
the crucial episode
of my life.

The subsequent twenty years,
with their porn addiction,
obsessive compulsions
and constant cheating

should be credited
to the way I handled
Ruddy and Brad.

Brad was a great friend
but life is like death:
you can't go back on it.

I hope that Brad
is doin' alright.
I hope that Ruddy is too

for we're all the wounds of an innocence
that never keeps its feet.

The great horror
is innocence dies
before the flesh departs.

So here's to Ruddy
- the thorn of my life.
Here's to me
though I didn't have the guts to pull it out.

And here's to Brad
- my best friend in Year 8.

We'd be close to halfway through our lives.

Perhaps,
going forward,
the pain will be smothered
now that the innocence
is too.

In order to live

I think
in order to live
you must learn to hate on life.

This is the crucifixion

or annihilation
of the Buddha.

The Whitsundays:
the islands,
the sun
- the world a crystal

bar the stings

for the world
yet knows
torture.

Campfires
- mates and stories and love -
are crystals too

but they blight
as we rot then die then rot.

It's not that love ain't a thing.
It's that love
ain't found in life
but despite it

by the naked nothingness
that's you

on that cross,
in that cave

with no one left to blame.

Our ancestors blamed The Spirits,
our grandfolk blamed The Jew,
we blame Trump;
bogeymen everywhere.
You've held your breath
for campfires
and islands in the sun.

But hanging off that crucifix,
it all seems such a farce;
you begin to hate on life

and breathe a bit
and feel
a little
free.