The class of 61

Memories are sometimes like machine gun bullets, I hear them fire as I recall those days, when we longed for our gentle evenings, far away from the pervert’s idol and the classroom prison.

Born to the simple folk on the hill whose trusting hearts were totally betrayed by the teacher’s shining smiles.

Jimmy Jones my classmate shaking with fear, we shared the same desk in that purgatories playground. Fear stinks, I can still smell it after all these years, the whirling screams in red flame human-less slag, and in sight of God’s vomit.

There is now nothing to mark the secret things, hid in that torturous shadowlands, where no compassion came, to those who had to cease feeling and survive. And now as I reach the door of old man road, I am still alive in the blood eye visions of 57 years ago, can it really be that long? A Rats breath still hating, a judgement still waiting. They took us out of the ‘C stream’ and put as in ‘Lower Remove’ and launched us into the Bedlam of the day helpless, totally helpless.

When the bell rings for the class of 61, will it ring to screaming silence, or to all the world’s cathedral bells, and a million Quasimodo conductors?

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