My trip to the Holy City … (Or, How I learned to stop worrying about the middle-east.)

Jerusalem. The Holy City.

The moral compass of three Abrahamic based Religions; Christianity, Islam and Judaism. The subscribers of each are recognisable and equally distinguishable from each other. The old city is a walled mosaic metropolis that has easily housed the most contestable spiritual landmarks in the world.

Each of the faiths have their own shrines, to be guarded and adored by easily distinguishable tribes of follower, often travelling in masses.

In the east, the Dome of the Rock shines in the sun, lined with the enchanting sound of calls to prayer, towering over the quaint, narrow streets crammed with the traffic of tourists and commerce. At the bottom the first stone in existence where God created Adam. The same rock that Abraham offered to sacrifice his son on, as a demonstration of loyalty to God. Also, the location that the Prophet Muhammed left the earth and ascended to heaven, only to return back there.

Now there lies a temple, restricted for only those with the Muslim faith, we can at least conclude the holy sphere is still held sacred from the tourism that has grown over the city since the times of the barbaric Crusades. The Crusading Knights brought religious real and primitive European butchery to arguably peaceful shores but they also brought their own ways of trade and tourism. Growing even further from the sacred and shaping this quarter of the city to resemble a medieval amusement park.

To the west the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which holds the shrine of the Christian messiah, Jesus. Pilgrims of nationalities from all corners of the earth travel to see their saviour but are greeted by a museum of medieval antiquity in one of the oldest shopping malls in the world.

The image of zealous tourists rubbing their hands on Simon of Cyrene’s door says all it needed about this place. The practicality of going about everyday living, diving in and out of the thin streets crowded with ‘spiritual tourists’, real tourists and bartering shopkeepers.

Christ may have risen but he is certainly not here. Western tourists locked in prayer or simply reaching out for a cheap souvenir of their dying faith to return home with.

There are no Jesus shaped Ghosts haunting the footsteps of the Via DelaRosa.

Many do not notice or simply do not acknowledge, as they tug and scrape at symbolic relics to try and gain some physical bearing on the spiritual. Is this because in Western  Christendom, the commodity is now our cherished saviour?  Would they even recognise their messiah has returned without the appropriate branding?

At the bottom of all this pageantry, modestly tucked away at the back is the oldest historical card Jerusalem has left to play. The surviving part of the most quintessential building of the city: The Temple of Solomon predates all else in Jerusalem. It would not be unreasonable to say it is the soul of the city.

This is was my chosen priority of destination. Remembering tails from here my father had been following in the footsteps of his lifelong friend since passed. I openly held preconceived ideals about the true importance of this site.  An importance based more on historical accuracy than anything else.

As I touched the Wailing Wall, I felt the cool shape of the stone before it reached me. As I leaned forward, my senses were absorbed into the fabric of the wall and what soon felt like the fabric of the very universe. I closed my eyes and awoke in a small sealed chamber of tightly compressed molecules that instantaneously grew at light speed into the momentous size to planets and stars that bound the universe together.  The very same universe somehow compressed into this cold stone I laid my hand on moments ago.

I felt at the centre of existence.

Eventually the vision eroded as time came to an end and there was only the wall left.

The world had been and gone over billions- trillions of  years and I can confirm the it outlasted the trivial bickering of human tribal territory. I have no idea if there is to be a third temple but I know this wall will survive all odds. More than likely because it was built as a loadbearing wall in an impressive feat of civic engineering that holds cramped city dwelling together.

Metaphorically , it was the weight of the world on its shoulders/

Mine may be an overactive imagination but it is as valid and relative as any other theological experience.

Whilst suspended in this realm of concentration, personal issues surfaced from my subconscious storage and cathartic baggage stowed itself away safely for the trip home.

The obligatory concerns of mortality filed themselves away in the most ordinary feat of spiritual.

At the end of this life-affirming journey words made themselves known to me:

“Every story has a middle, a beginning and an end.”

The was tag line from the last Star Wars movie trailer and it verbalised the moment perfectly.  The Star Wars world had long been enough of a spiritual narrative to keep my soul occupied in my life so far.

I returned to the wall later in the cool evening and instantly felt at peace staring at this blank wall. As I stepped onto the tiled floor I felt instantly transported to the patio of my back garden at home. The same space that had occupied moments with both alive and long gone.

My visit had made me realise that a lifetime encapsulates all that is best in life. That a life is a blink in the eye of eternal time but is eventually destined to end. Even if it is the singular circumstances of your own life, or the Sun burning out in the universe.

All that I best in life, is life. (There was Ruah everywhere).

After a day visit, I was convinced of my perception. Here is how I saw the old city of Jerusalem.

The Glorious Prophet (Peace be upon him) reached the heavens and back only for his feet to return to soil as he continued his journey elsewhere.*

Jesus Christ (the self-proclaimed son of God) had left our mortal realm, from here long ago, leaving only promise of return one day.

There is so much left in the air around these parts. Structures built for Schools of faith lasting on promise and prophecy but the only physical presence left was the surviving wall of the Temple pressed against me. Presumably with God tucked inside it somewhere. You don’t have to be a Priest, Rabbi, Imam or Scientist to know when there is something solid in front of you.

What else is there to hold onto? I can see the Sun, the moon and the stars all clearly from my garden back home every night.

 

Plus, the birds really seemed to enjoy it.

 

 

*Jerusalem used to be the holy city that Muslims prayed towards before the Prophet redirected it to Mecca. Whilst I was there I had an epiphany. Perhaps this change of sacred location for the Muslim faith was a decision based on a truly prophetic vision of the troublesome nature of the middle-eastern territorial disputes to come.  Such wisdom would be within the understanding of a true prophet.

Obituary of Iain Duncan Smith

Iain Duncan Smith won’t be missed. When he dies,

You will see at his state-funded funeral, all the snivelling bankers, say; ‘Thank ya’.

To this utterly evil wanker.

All those on benefits, scraping by, might raise their glasses.

Well, those that are still alive.

If you are late to his funeral, by even a few minutes, then you will probably be fined

We should make a list, of all those families on jobcentre sanctions.

So THEY can say their last goodbyes.

Take a piss on his cold dead hide.

Ian Duncan Smith you won’t be missed.

Every drop of urine will splash in your cold dead eyes.

 

.

Death is the real life

Death is the real life.

Finally some peace and quiet.

No more last orders or missing the last train home.

No more hangovers!

No more rushing to work.

It is official: You are late.

 

If Death is not the real life

If there is a God, a holy father (or mother) looking over the children of the earth.

Then surely by now they have long abandoned trying to reason with their unruly children.

If they were good parents then why would they take the side of one child over another?

Why would they protect spoilt children from harm, when it is better to let them learn from pain, as perhaps they once did.

 

Is death the real life?

I will be quiet far longer on this earth than when I am making noise

In the entire history of the earth, there is certainly more quiet than noise,

Everyone you know has been dead longer than they have been alive.

True that open mind and endless possibility has no bounds but death is at least certain.

In my mind, I still intend to go on.

When and where is perhaps to be decided .. at a later date.

Diss Track.

 

This is a diss track,

I’ve taken a lot and now I’m giving it back

In small incremental doses cos, I care about my carbon footprint, n’that.

I’m not a hip-hop gangsta,

But I’ve done my time on the streets.

I’ve been down and out, waiting in the gutter, trying to make ends meet.

(When I was twelve, I had to wait outside school for a few hours once, when my mum was late to pick me up. It was vile, fam I can’t never go back to that life.)

 

This is a diss track.

Bruv, I ain’t sleeping.

Every time the postman comes creeping, the garden gate keeps creaking.

I can’t get enough rest as it is, with my chest infection and aching ribs.

 

This is a diss track.

I’m calling out my neighbour’s cat.

When I walk out my front door, my sneakers all covered in shat.

I see that evil kitty.  It’s at the bottom of my garden, giving it ‘hiiiissss.’

It’s still there blocking the gate, so I’ll give it a miss.

It knows its got them claws that can bare scratch.

It puffs up its back and gives it all that

I am just out here acting all smooth.

I’ve been here since lunch and it hasn’t moved.

I wish I could pop a cap in its ass.

I will probably wait until it rains and then dash.

 

This is a diss track.

Hayfever getting all up on my back.

The queues at the council tax office are horrendous.

You queue for hours with a debit card but they only accept legal tenders.

What’s all that about?!

The system’s broken. We need change.

 

This is a diss track.

Blud, your taste in cereal is WACK.

I would try and disrespect those low-quality brand trainers you’re wearing but you might come from a broken home with a single parent family.  It’s hard enough to get through life without being a single mum, raising kids alone with no help, marginalised by a judgemental society. Trying to work all hours heaven sends on minimum wage, just in order to keep a roof over you’re children’s heads.

Respect.

 

My holiday in Jordan

I just come back from the most amazing holiday.

I experienced another foreign land, far away.

A culture considered uncivilised by ‘some’ ( usually those on the right).

This crystallised media-fed trend of the moment, the epitome of the stranger:

As freedom hating, woman hating, rapist-danger.

Yet I saw women confidently walking alone at night?

Their religion is supposedly corrupt even though prayer is 5 times a day?

“They bring drugs and crime” (whoever ‘they’ are)

We arrived at a local shop, to see nobody there.

The shop keeper shut up shop for evening prayer.

The drinks in the coolers remain unlocked and unguarded.

I can’t walk past my home co-op without seeing without a window smashed or tardy!

I told our tour guide and he seemed unsurprised.

This seems standard for a culture that is civilised.

It seems that crime goes disregarded here.

In fact, I didn’t see anyone induced with fear.

He reminded us; Jordan is not without its problems.

But after watching a game in a bar, I saw no football hooligans causing problems.

Jordan is truly a dry-country in more ways than one. Even in its dampest parts, miles away from the desert.

Jordan welcomes everyone, from immigrants to tourists, even refugees and strays.

With a broken Isis rising and many rural villages falling below the poverty line. They are far from the sight of the king who flies over them in his helicopter, doing good charitable deeds within the public gaze.

Far inland, a man was arrested for criticising the king, a bit strong for probably the smallest, harmless little thing.

Maybe the king rules from high and cannot see the hypocrisy that I witness from the coach passing by.

It is not my country or even my place to say especially assessing from the testimony of another.

My tourist holiday experience may just be all a show, but it is a nice show and I wish everyone could see it.

After feasting on a rich multi-cultural stew of Greek, Roman, Christian and Muslim tastes. I wearily return to my own country, from the gateway to the east and resume my own diet of pipe-fed fear and bitter media stew.

It is true that here, I cannot get arrested for slagging off the Queen but she still sits back while the government try to round up ‘economic tourists’.

Or even if they attempt to throw ‘foreigners’ out. Sorry? Did I say, foreigners? I meant people who have lived here for decades, raising children whose parents were invited here to work years ago when Britain was actually great.

Both Jordan and England were ruled by the Romans.

Both Jordan and England have native-born terrorists.

Both Jordan and England open their borders to immigrants, fleeing war-torn countries.

Oh, wait, no, we used to. They still do.

Well, their economy is going to shit anyway and our is …..Come to think of it, I didn’t see ANY beggars in my trip from the north to the south and back. I even tried to give a trader a Dinar to leave me alone but they were too proud to accept it.

Empires are tricky I guess.

Maybe the kings and queens of the world are truly descended from Gods.

As they all seem to be asleep or oblivious to people’s suffering.

Poo dat!

When I was hungover, did some research on constipation and found some interesting data that led me to write a lovely little poem about poo . .(research reference points below)

___ ___ ___ ___ ____ ___ ___ ____ ___ ___ ____

 

“Nobody likes to talk Poo,

that laborious, mundane thing that we do.

It is considered remarkably crude.

It’s squelchy, foul smelling and rude.

It makes you feel better, ’tis true

but something we all need to do.

 

It’s covered with a veil,

of social regale.

It can live in your gut,

curled up like a snail.

It comes in all colours,

all shapes,

taking as long as it takes.

 

It is nutty and solid, or runny and horrid.

Beige, brown or yellow, it depends on which fellow.

It’s the last ever thing we ever do,

….yet we STILL aren’t allowed to talk about Poo.”

___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ __ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

Biological FACT: Some poo can stay in your digestive tracts for your entire life without ever leaving!

Historical FACT: Martin Luther the German priest who inspired the Protestant reformation suffered from constipation his entire life, probably why he was so studious and pissed off!

 

Bourgeoisie Ben

Did I ever tell you about my mate; Bourgeoisie Ben?

He don’t do euros, he don’t do yen.

He don’t do politics but he voted for Brexit.

Cos his grandad fought the Nazis for this kind of shit.

Fact check: 

All of his grandparents were all born in 1939 and his great-granddad was born in Italy.

 

I have a mate I call Bourgeoisie Ben,

Now to be fair, he reads both the Sun AND the Daily Mail,

Although, only the headlines, from what I can tell.

He says what he’s thinking, no dramas, and no fuss.

So what? If it’s written on the side of a Bus?

He tells me time and time again:

‘eee wants ‘is country back’.

But he can’t get back from Spain cos he owes too much tax.

 

He thinks Nigel Farage should be prime minister,

Without even sounding remotely sinister!

A self-made man, rich from nothing but zero.

Selling off toxic debts cheap; He’s a real working class hero.

He don’t carry cash, he’s a bit like the queen,

He’s never been back to the council estate he left as a teen.

He always complains about the noise the Spanish make,

IN the Spanish town where he lives.

 

I have a mate called bourgeoisie Ben;

Who can’t even pronounce, the name of the town he’s living in.

Now I’ve got mates who voted Brexit and I will leave it at that.

But no one else did it draped in a union Jack.

He’s got a mate he calls Brexit Dave.

Who sounds like he still lives in a cave.

He wants out of Europe but voted Farage as his M.E.P.

I haven’t even got the time to start explaining the depth of this irony.

Did I ever tell you about my mate; Bourgeoisie Ben?

NO idea what planet he is living in.

Now, I made him up, he’s not real anymore,

But how many of you feel like you’ve met him before?

Waiting

Life is waiting, on people or for people it makes no difference until eventually, you can wait no longer

Once I spent a Sunday afternoon with the Christians in church.

We all sat quietly each individual waiting for something, from out of nothing it seems.

The way they were going I half expected Jesus to turn up right there.

And sit down in front of me in the empty chair.

We could even be waiting for Ezekiel this far,

Or the mountain to come to Mohammed.

 

I sat with Marxists in a solidarity meeting.

As we discussed the days when the reign of capitalism is fleeting.

Kind hearted people with the sincerest of intentions.

Waiting on Marx’s prophecy in suspension.

 

So I drink at the bar, and watch the drunks and the heartbroken drink their life away.

Slowly waiting for death and they may even realise one day.

I sit at my desk in the office, waiting for Friday night so I can join them at the pub.

I wait all year for my holiday and wait to return home.

Society seems to be built on waiting,

Waiting for something that never comes.

A false promise or a promise, of the promise of death.

Nothing is certain if we are totally honest.

A list of the things I am

I am too blind, to see how great things could be.

I am too short, for you to lean on me.

I am too poor to make your feel rich.

I am too insecure, to grant your wish.

I am too old , to sweep you off your feet.

I am too polite , to steal your kiss.

I am too hurt, to let you know im on my own

But I am too nice, to let you walk home alone

I am too drunk, to chase you up the street.

I am too shy, to stop you when you leave.

I am what I am, its a cliché i hate.

So whatever happens now, its all down to fate.

There is nothing left on this page . .