Outcast in gloom convulsing

One of the recurring thoughts that I find ghosting in my mind, is the horror of what, ‘Education’ meant to so many innocent souls in the 1950’s.
That time cannot be imagined by the youth of today. This poem is an attempt to keep their memories alive. I solemnly assure you their hell was real and the brokenness they live with terminal.

Chris Pitts

Long forgotten roads where we escaped from secondary school tyrannies, the thicko’s spewed out like some leaking bowel onto the landscape of 1962.
Minds that didn’t work for bodies hopeless.

Cast away into the pervert’s homeland, no words can do justice to that Hell. We wanted to be patriots but, we were hated dead meat in England’s Steak house.
I would have gladly hung for murder in 1959 if I thought I could stop it all.
Where have all the children gone? What happened to the child who had ‘Dunce Dunce Double D’ beaten into his buttocks? And where are the perpetrators of that vile inhuman zoo?

Education? No! Claustrophobic hell rooms for a Bedlam of tortured innocence, cold blood fear, without a hint of human pity.
Walk on my friends wherever you are, don’t let the bastards get you down.
Will the chaos of damnations time one-day settle into a kaleidoscope pattern of redemption, or will the frost of the unloved forever bite at indifference.

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