Hapusrwydd ar goll
Hiraethu dros ben
Dwi'n gwbod y ffordd nol, ond hefyd methu weld hi
Does na dim hyffordiant am hyn
Ac y dyddiau dywyll yn barhau
Fydd na obaith
Dwi'n gwbod hyn
Ond ar hyn o bryd mae'n annodd i coelio hi
Does na dim unrhuwpeth alla i wneud
Ond edrych i fyny o waelod yr dwll
Rhywle, yn sicr, mae yna ganu morfil'n dwfn
Ag yn nofio drwy'r mor du a hen:
Yn y cyfamser, wna i trio beidio a thrio;
Ond nid mae na donnau o heddwch eto
I syrffio - nag i boddi.
O this game is rigged against itself and
everyone is always playing and
the rules change and
then everybody loses
and
this is a bad game.
I do not like this game.
I don't want to play this game anymore.
Can we agree to wipe the slate clean?
Come back and we can play a better game?
The game is up. The game has gone.
Are you game? Am I game?
game is squawking alive
life seeping away under squalls of rat laughter and gunshot
this game is a bad game
this game is a bad game
this game is a bad game
this game
Being the youngest - at the time, and at the time four years was centuries – I was always Fritz.
“You vill pay, Englischer pig dog!!!” I’d say, in my very best Commando Comics impression. Then dffdfdfdfddffff you and M would serve up a salvo of mouth-machine-gun fire and I’d clutch my chest dramatically with both hands and shout
AIEEEEEEE
Because it was the end of the war for me, Fritz Old Chum.
Then you and M would go around the corner into the car park, and when you came back you’d say, “Did you see Fritz? He was here just now but we bally well showed him a lesson.” And I would shake my head and say “No, I missed him,” and so the game continued until you or me or M got bored and went looking for conkers or just crawling through the trees trying to avoid dogshit, but inevitably one of us would – oh god, I can feel it still, and smell it, sticky, sweet, foul – put our hand straight into a fresh one and puke.
You didn’t remember any of this when I asked you about it last year, and I won’t be able to jog your memory now with the other thing I remembered, which was that – being the youngest, at the time – I could fit into the coal hole thing by the Big Red House where the Whispering Lady lived, and I could come up again with a few nuggets of smokeless posh fuel and bring them home to put on the fire.
“We found them near the coal hole,” I’d squeak uncertainly. “The coalman dropped a few.”
Of course, we all knew that was false, but we were quite skint and a couple of hours’ free heat was fine indeed. Mum and Dad didn’t approve really. We always got by without shonky fooling like that, and we always had warmth and always had food no matter what, and the roof above our heads was always – somehow, just about – paid for.
Funny isn’t it, how these little vignettes crop up when you’re not expecting it. There were holly trees and ivy crawling up old stone, and hundreds of skittish little squirrels, but most of all I remember three brothers – at the time – playing together and really, really believing in the tableau.
Fritz got the bad deal in all this. He was only there so we could win. Or, so you and M could win. I always seemed to be just a minute too late to fully appreciate the power of our unity.
And the future seemed endless.
I tried, really tried, to talk to Christ who had conquered death.
It was a bit selfish of Him not to share the trick. But He remained silent.
Consolation, comfort, all that craic.
I wanted to ask Him what the big deal was anyway. Why bother
saving us from our sins? Redeeming us? To what end? Heaven?
Crass cravings, at best, cock.
What’s the point, I wanted to know, of Earth and life? You know,
Heaven being the ultimate goal. Why not cut out the middleman?
Course, so far, no contact.
I know it’s a cliché but fair play to Him, crucifixion is a terrible way to go.
I mean, it’s a crowdpleaser and a pretty dramatic tactic, I confess.
Confess? I take my own fall.
I wanted Christ to tell me that the death of a good man must be celebrated,
because that man has taken his place in eternal bliss, for evermore, and all that...
...Christ alive it’s total bullcrap isn't it. An insult.
Never mind your so-called eternal bliss, mate, we’re fucking crying here and now.
…
…
Nope, still nowt.
Oh well.
Cheers now, mind how you go.
There is an alpha et of missing letters lurking in my head.
May e y the time I get to Z I will process that he’s.
ut I can’t make that rhyme,
Certainly not yet:
There is too much missing. And I know, and I’ve said
it myself: it’s OK and natural to e ereft -
ut I don’t think I elieve my
Unrelia le reath.
And the guilt of that is poison uilt on longing left to rot.
A centre fails; a structure crum les, anchors dust and lost,
ut may e time will race itself;
Could I place one final et?
ecause linguists point to history: in any alpha et
Letters are orn, and letters die, and language keeps its strength.
I must complete my sentence:
lood urn and oil red.
