Last night I dreamt I went to Bethlehem again, it said.
A rough spectre at the head of an empty table talking to itself.
As usual, the same this year as last, alone, moaning about finding the inn
Closed up, the stable ruined and full of shit. It had climbed a gutted tower block to
Admire its empire of vast unfeeling, pockets of the mediocre affluent,
Occasional vivid punctures of fanaticism, and, contented with an art subsidised by hospitals
And flophouses, put down its emptied sacks of useless masks for another year.
And then the birds kicked off, wheeling and screaming like a black crown
Of crows with white magpie spikes, encircling the roof. A noose of smoke,
They threatened to fill the sky with life, wild carols and mutant incanting.
The weary spectre dragged its red cap over its skull and dropped to the ground;
It found the falconer in the gutted stable, eyes a one-way glass, god knows
What he’s watching inside his head, it thought, but knew god did not know,
Since the gullible stopped listening to sermons repetition had replaced belief,
And those birds kept screaming and circling, defiantly decentred,
Wires strewn from the explosions, the images had escaped the mobile,
Mere mutation was loose upon the earth, and from the teeth of a mouth
Without a voice, something with nothing human or godly, was pulling itself up,
More flower than king, a wild snake as fabulous as anything in straw.
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Phil Smith
Picture Nick Victor
Phil Smith is a writer, researcher, performance-maker, a member of Crab & Bee and Wrights & Sites, and company dramaturg for TNT Theatre (Munich).
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