Even a shadow casts some light, somehow


Is it true to say
That darkness brings light to light
Or is it that darkness feeds on light
All the more to deepen the darkness?

Humans grasp at shards of happiness
Patches of pleasure
Never free of the misery of work
Or the surfeit of leisure

‘Darkness is overcome by light’
We stare into blackholes wondering,
Wondering, wondering:
What happens to that light?

Extract from The Threadneedle St. Gang

The Threadneedle St. Gang also known as The Fartyland Affair by K Kishmot

The upcoming novel by K Kishmot

His Business
Phil Larken

His is the business of being wreathed
In underpants around his neck
The heady odours seduce his braincells
With the emphasis on usura
His songwords are impoverished by his riches
And the little insects that give him itches

What are his songs for?
They play and annoy us time and time again
But he is a hero
To the populace who have a reading age of ten

Extract from Pope Benedict XVI’s lecture ‘Conscience in Its Time’

The destruction of the conscience is the real prerequisite for totalitarian followers and totalitarian rule. Where conscience prevails, there is a limit to the dominion of human common and human choice, something sacred that must remain inviolate and that in its ultimate sovereignty eludes all control, whether someone else’s or one’s own. Only…the recognition that conscience is sacrosanct protects man from man’s inhumanity and from himself; only its rule guarantees freedom. (Church, Ecumenism, and Politics, Ignatius Press, 2008)

Hiroshima – John Hersey’s book is essential reading

On his way back with the water, he got lost on a detour around a fallen tree, and as he looked for his way through the woods, he heard a voice ask from the underbrush, ‘Have you anything to drink?’ He saw a uniform. Thinking there was just one soldier, he approached with the water. When he had penetrated the bushes, he saw there were about twenty men, and they were all in exactly the same nightmarish state: their faces were wholly burned, their melted eyesockets were hollow, the fluid from their melted eyes had run down their cheeks. (They must have had their faces upturned when the bomb went off; perhaps they were anti-aircraft personnel.) Their mouths were mere swollen, pus-covered wounds, which they could not bear to stretch enough to admit the spout of the teapot. So Father Kleinsorge got a large piece of grass and drew out the stem so as to make a straw, and gave them all water to drink that way. One of them said, ‘I can’t see anything.’ Father Kleinsorge answered as cheerfully as he could. ‘There’s a doctor at the entrance to the park. He’s busy now, but he’ll come soon and fix your eyes, I hope.’