'Hum V' Jesus

photography by
Joel Clements,
Brainstorm Studio







Your 'Hum V' Jesus don’t cut it with me.
Your tear stained prayer books,
pious acts and sideways looks don’t touch my pain.
The demon in me plays addictions winning game.

And while you dine with your lunch bunch,
sip chardonnay and plan a warm beach holiday,
I sit inside the bus stop, waiting for the rain to stop,
dying for my next hit, and feeling like a piece of shit.

So when I show up, you gonna grow up,
walk up, cough up some loose change
and be Jesus in a real way? Let me eat and drink today?
Or will you just drive by while I’m contemplating suicide?

‘cause Jesus was a walking man.
He walked and talked and sat down
by the side of the road, in the ditch. That man wasn’t rich.
Jesus handed out life and fish.

That’s the Jesus I wanna know
that’s the one you gotta show me
If you wanna reach me, teach me,
then you gotta touch me where it hurts.

And if my next score is what makes me tick
it might make you sick, but it
might take me through another night.
Yeah, it ain't right, I ain't a pretty sight
but this is real life, so you gonna get real?

The good news, the upside
is that the will to survive
could arrive in your shaking hand,
slow steps, down-turned eyes.
Your spare change; my fish and life.

Lesley-Anne Evans
February 2008

Walking wounded

photography by Joel Clements







Here’s to the walking wounded --

The ones who continue to stand upright,
mortal wounds hidden from public sight,
bleeding relentless, internal blight,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Hearts ripped beating from red blossomed chests,
fermented promises long time suppressed,
still hoping while hope dies a prolong-ed death,

…Here’s to the walking wounded.

Half awake players of first dance wedding nights,
catatonic creatures with complacent lives,
silent screams in pissing down rain endless nights,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Red letter leaders turned concrete grey,
futures tainted by moral and economic decay,
as pink slips beget need for food stamps today,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

The smelly man hunched on the bus shelter floor,
the starving children of front page tabloids galore,
the haunted eyed stranger I’ve learned to ignore,

… Here’s to the walking wounded.

Lesley-Anne Evans
October 2009