Victorian Dreams

In the middle of a 
Cold, January, Night
The front doors of a 
steel-rimmed carriage
Flung open
And thrust him out
on the stone-cold sidewalk
Shimmering in foggy moonlight
in a neighbourhood of
Thugs and God Killers.

With no one to
make him or break
him, picking up his
luggage was hard. The

weight of memories, obliterated
a long time ago
was heavier than the
sidewalk and lazier than
the fleetingly, flimsy fog.

Moving on he peered through
the windows of this squalid
hellhole, smelling of dead whales.

A gossamer, almost transparent
curtain divided the Universe
into two parts. Him
being the spectator. They

being the performers. In
imminent schadenfreude his opaque
eyes dared to violate
the privy privacy of 

His new home. God 
was being cut up
in all homes into
four parts with knives

longer than those dead
whales. God was being
cut up and served
in plates, the colour 

of books that once
adorned his walls. This
crude and curt ceremony
weaved its way around

his head and all
he could see was 
families feeding on all
that was ugly in

the universe. He picked 
up his own knife
and went away in
silence, back to the

sidewalk where the carriage
had halted, and waited
to board the next 
one and ride into

the pantheons of the
world and carve out
a piece for himself
all roasted, burnt and red
with not his knife
but pen instead
and proclaim aloud
that God is Dead.