I'm In Love With A Man: Strike The Prose

The World's Greatest Typographical
Error: Spike Milligna.

Unto Us

Somewhere at some time
They committed themselves to me
And so, I was!
Small, but I WAS!
Tiny, in shape
Lusting to live
I hung in my pulsing cave.
Soon they knew of me
My mother --my father.
I had no say in my being
I lived on trust
And love
Tho' I couldn't think
Each part of me was saying
A silent 'Wait for me
I will bring you love!
'I was taken
Blind, naked, defenseless
By the hand of one
Whose good name
Was graven on a brass plate
in Wimpole Street,
and dropped on the sterile floor
of a foot operated plastic waste
bucket.
There was no Queens Counsel
To take my brief.
The cot I might have warmed
Stood in Harrod's shop window.
When my passing was told
My father smiled.
No grief filled my empty space.
My death was celebrated
With tickets to see Danny la Rue
Who was pretending to be a woman
Like my mother was.

Spike Milligan

the Hammer!

Dear Spike,

I owe you an incalculable debt.

I'm a Scot, who grew up watching "The Goon Show" on BBC; the puppet version.

Later on in life, I discovered your radio show whilst I was a disturbed teen.

I laughed at, and loved, Eccles. I felt so sad for him because he was (in my young eyes)

a chided, but dearly loved pariah. The best thing anyone could give me, was the gift

of Eccles coming home to play with me, and sleeping over. In my room... He's a tender soul.

I'd kill to defend him...

My Mother tried to murder me when I was 6 years old, and nine. I was saved

by my Father, who tossed her across the house - then held me.

But he could not hold my soul, although he valiantly worked to keep it buoyant.

Later in life, as a consequentially troubled teen, you literally kept me alive

by paroxyms of laughter, feeding me from what was the radio version of "The Goon Show".

A pearl of great price, found without seeking.

It was a rare gift from God:

He granted me the privilege to glisten in the light of your torrid flame, and you nurtured me.

I dearly love you, Spike; and to this day, the thought of your passing hurts like a bastard.

Faith, the essence of things not seen, gives me hope that I can say this to your face one

fine day - when this mess is an old nightmare.

Thank you for such a rich gift; endurance in the

face of despair, and such joy in unchained laughter.

Rest in Peace; you were a marvel of your Maker's joy.

J.