Month: Dec 2014

The Hidden Effects of being a Whistleblower

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I’m just having an interesting correspondence with a highly-respected clinical psychologist I worked with more than 30 years ago and haven’t had contact with since. We were both involved in whistleblowing an exposé of sustained physical abuse as part of the treatment system in a showcase children’s assessment centre. I’m speaking about aggressive power-games by staff on children, beatings-up, threatenings, subtle and outright cruelty of many kinds — even forcing children as young as five years old to eat their own vomit. I had worked closely undercover with an investigative journalist on The Guardian newspaper; and after a couple of months of evidence-gathering the story broke on the front page of the paper. As you can imagine, all hell broke loose as the local authority council and department of social work set about covering their asses. Shortly after, a Public Inquiry, presided over by a judge, was held during which potential witnesses were plainly bribed or threatened and mass betrayals took place by people who had promised to testify against the centre. My legal representative at the Inquiry (who was actually a lawyer for the National Council for Civil Liberties — what a joke!) behaved like an imbecile. (I later discovered he was in the same Freemason’s lodge as the Director of Social Services 😉 ). The police had also aggressively tried to threaten me to drop my witness-stance (they had been involved in the abuse too, beating kids up, covering up, etc.). Needless to say, the directors of the childen’s centre were eventually declared to be the innocent victims of a smear campaign. It was a total debacle.

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Limited Edition [poem]

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A myriad vermillion stripey smears
smash into skyly overdriven bluefulness
while the drooping setting sun apologises
quietly on a bleak horizon narrowed by
the rueful season’s finely bitter triumph

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Ignoramus Protocol [poem]

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We think we know so very much
but truly we know next to nothing.
For every new discovery made
will at some later [higher] stage
be overturned or altered by another.

The smallest particle in this wondrous world
is only that which so far has been seen;
(microscopic limitations standing in-between).
There must be even smaller ones to know
within this effervescent sparkle show.

Perhaps the universe in which we dwell
is oh-so-delicately held within a tiny droplet
of some alien rain which dribbles in another
huger universe which dangles in a particle
in yet another even vaster world
and on and on and on the cadence swirls…
Now think of it the other way…
Thus, in a quark within an atom in a microbe
in a particle of dirt stuck to a flea upon a dog
outside your house there is a vast array
of smaller worlds within yet other worlds
and maybe even worlds beyond those too:
A hyper-cosmic reproducted Russian Doll
with each one thinking it’s the only one;
enveloped in an ignoramus protocol.

I bow before the magic of the interface I see;
this hologrammic white-lie surface world
where light and darkness emanating from beyond
have been for longsome battling for supremacy
(though all the spoilers clearly demonstrate just how
the ending [next beginning] here will culminate).

For only when we climb upon the back
of each new learned digested fact
can we then see the next and then
the next one after that. For it is only
in this way we grow; and thus we must
not think that what we nowly know
is wholly or completely where it’s at.

Everything we witness with
our eyes is kind of bluffing.
We think we know so much
but truly

© Alan Morrison, 2014

A Single Thread [sonnet]

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So many years since perfume graced my nose;
I’ve now forgotten how to bathe in skin.
No fecund business in that garden grows;
no longer would I know where to begin.

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We have no Home [poem]

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Loneliness increases exponentially
according to the vastness of the crowd
which is surrounding me.
A cast of thousands
sends me underground
while being with a carefully chosen few
still means that I with graciousness withdrew
to lick my wounds
(which were extensive
it may seem like nought to you
but my threshold for withstanding
seepage not appropriate to
[as it may well be judged by you]
the social situation’s light demands
is lower than my friends can understand).

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The Folded Napkin [poem]

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There’s a man in the moon
who lives in my mirror like
a folded napkin in a drawer
(or tightly rolled up in a ring
of hallmarked tarnished silver)
and I’ve seen him there at least
ten thousand times before —
his mouth like a startled lunar
landscape cratered in the shape
of a breath-holding diver
breaking open every gately
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Rust [sonnet]

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Although I clearly feel how breath decays,
bright sparkles in my soul stave off the rust.
Yet while my bladelike mind is all ablaze
my ageing body crumbles down to dust.
Compare me to a sinking drowning b[u]oy
whose fingers grasp at air and light above.
The only comfort he can now enjoy
is his unwaned ability to love.
But though the clock ticks greyly into dusk
and episodic curtains will be drawn
this heap of cells is more than just a husk
for still in every moment I’m reborn!
The paradox I live defies belief;
my heart bursts to the full (though time’s a thief).

© Alan Morrison, 2014