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'What are you going to do with him, Cardinal?
My stomach crawls when I'm near him.
My duty must be - in some way - to forgive him.
But his new defiance...he speaks, now, against remorse.

Now, the very words I use to shepherd me back -
where I may err - he twists back on us,
like they mean something different. He's lost his shame in his acts-'
'This vase - whose is it, father?' 'Yours.'

'Correct. Now - smashed here on the ground -
whose is it, now?' 'Still yours.' 'Look,
the floor's now covered in ornamented glass.
Cracked glyphs, shards of patterns - look -

with edges that could slit your neck
as quietly lacerate your palms as
you stoop and gather them. Correct -
it's still all my glass. You should know my metaphor

by now - my answer. I've smashed
a lot on this floor to show you - repeating it.
Shattering things I can't then unbreak,
then stooping and cutting my hands on it.'



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Language of Prairie Dogs Manchester, UK

If music journalists are failed musicians, then what does that make us? We are failed musicians AND failed music journalists:


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