A Camel through the eye of a needle

The news spread through the

wards like arterial pumped blood

 

With first hemorages of news feeds

Flashed on iPhones until it seeped

Through on to national tv

 

Was it him... really was it Gagan

 

The bipolar millionaire...

 

That night wind spat  its needles

Of rain Into our faces

 

Smoke ur ciggerette lads it’s soon time

To come in.

 

We, in our sodden clothes sat bent 

Huddled around the communal screen

 

As if some how it’s rays would dry out our bones.

 

Lift the air of dispondancy...fill the empty

Chair at the head of the semi circle

 

Off his tits he was, been slipping

His meds under his tongue 

then into an empty crumpled plastic

Bottle of strawberry yazoo for months

 

Alway kept his German

Urban wear army parker on

As to conceal the evidence.

 

 

He must have belted it up-to

The half flooded Knighton park

Confused by traffic and onlookers. drowned out by sirens, 

Paralysed by voices

Screaming In his head.

 

When he got there he simply picked

The lowest hanging branch

Of the furthest oak...

 

And like bird in a trap...snap, a

moment of twitching and then he was

Gone...

 

At his ecumenical burial

The priest read the last lines

Of a half ink bled note tucked away in 

His inside suit jacket pocket. 

The morning a dog Walker found him.

 

Always liked to look his Sunday best

Especially for special occasions.

 

Writing in 3rd Person was his

Prefered style even in his journal.

As he said the voices were always sure of

What to say. Even when he was

Limp tongued and lost for words.

 

He was a deeply religious man converted

From Hinduism to Buddhist neo Christianity. So why didn’t God answer his prayers

 

Or was his prayer simply to swing

Like a Chinese lantern for days without 

End in The basking light of an unforgiving son.