As part of my online archiving this is the first time I have typed up "Portrait of Society". I've corrected several spelling errors, formatting remains the same, as do footnotes. Without wanting to analyse my own work - that's the readers job after-all! - I would like to pass-on some feedback I have received over the past few years.
"Moving and frankly too close to home." D. Picklesworth
"... this man speaks truths!" E. Sedgwick
"For all those who argue one must have a passion for reading before picking up the pen to write: explain Rory McButt's talent; he detests reading yet writes with the insight, grace and subtlety of Paul the Apostle himself. Take that atheists." R. Parsley
The End Of The Album Is Here
The end, a bullet of pain.
Can pierce the heart with one shot
Like a flaming burst of passion.
Scolded in the fire of doom
Men and beasts have been to show
Hell hath no fury
Calling, an electronic lathe.
Metal on metal.
Biscuits and cheese.
Decomposing bodies call me,
Flash back: school dinner, argh! Killed!
Death in one black image of a swan.
Birds. Animals. Biscuits and cheese.
The end.
How we feel. Called upon the cross
Of whom hath died before me.
When they nailed my pimpelled ass
to the cross. They got the wrong man.
Jesus goes not by the belovéd name
But by Jésūs – hey dude can I borrow
your crowbar? He's a thief.
A beggar. A stealer of the poor.
Crucified - been there done that.
Got the blood stained T-shirt.
At least in the 'book', He died.
Whilst the World breeded, I suffered.
A lamb to the slaughter.
Hailed as one who did not do.
A sinner. Failure. Bloody bathtime –
For babies. Mwahahah.
My only friend was on the screen.
A girl of twelve who turned out to be
A man.
Grey hair. Wrinkles. Evil glare.
I wasn't expecting this to be my
Birthday present. Scorned.
Hands – ow! Not there! It burns.
A hole where once my glands did sit.
The end.
Falling down a well.
Alice. That was her name.
She was a he. He was not a she.
The she she promised to be,
Was not a she but a he.
A he – she? What? She is no she.
A decrepit old man –
Where did the 40 years come from.
Bulging veins. Repulsing. Vomit.
The end.
Would it come? Something was coming
And it wasn't the end.
The man was off me. A night of red.
Blood stains the white sheets.
No longer pure, no longer innocent.
Church closing soon. Ask the priest.
The same priest who was my Alice?
I burned the priest.
Look where that got me.
Up here on this oh-so sacred cross.
A sheep to the alter.
Stuff this hoof down your Jewish throat!
Call me an antichrist?
I am the anti-antichrist. Christ?
Me? A sermon. Probably.
The end.
An afterlife? I pray not.
I want to die. Be it painful.
So it be. A punishment for my sins.
I was me who dived into Alice's well.
One long night. Dirty hands.
Stained bedsheets. Red, black, red!
My priest Alice lay there kissing
The pentagram of my chest.
'Go home'
But mother will see.
'So it be.'
And that's when Lucifer came.
The end.
Mocked on my cross. Stoned.
The devil has no part in this.
What I did was worse.
Blasphemy, heresy, sodomy
Jesus Christ? No aunties here!
Nazi! Crawling from cell.
People worship. My only pain is not dying.
So let the people worship!
I own the church!
What remains of it. As sinned as hell.
They fear themselves and blame me.
A civil servant to Satan and the Pope.
I was there. I saw it all.
Intercourse between the pope and Beelzebub.
A hole in the statue of St. Lucifer?
Yep. The Pope.
The end.
Condemned for my beliefs.
In the Popes private chapel,
It's me on the crucifix.
Bleeding sin on all the desk.
Shut up! Stop! No! This is my turn.
Two minds. Me. The Messiah.
The real me comes out now.
No!
Stop? Why?
Spread the word through force.
A Nazi angel? More like:
An Angel Called Lucifer.
That's me. I'm that Angel.
I'm that Messiah. I'm the one who
Causes wars. Fire. Death.
Words spread about me,
But the word is false.
A traitor. Sins of the fathers.
They who taught me, now teach you.
Go forth. Plunge into the well.
The end.
No it isn't, there never will be
Until one day the World realises
One thing.
One thing to prove religions false,
One thing to condemn the priests
And politics of this World.
One thing to make me like you,
You like him. A pawn.
Wars aren't about enemies,
They're about religion.
Until now. At the end.
This is the thing that will change.
All that has gone before is...
Rory McButt – Portrait of Society.
(Please don't steal my poem, it took months to write and is special to me)
