Unholy Ghosts

David KeenanDavid Keenan 

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David Keenan

David Keenan (born April 1971) is a Scottish author, critic and musician. He is the author of England's Hidden Reverse, a biography of Coil, Current 93 and Nurse with Wound, a regular contributor to The Wire since 1995. He used to run Volcanic Tongue. His novel For the Good Times won the 2019 Gordon Burn Prize. more »

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I was gifted a book by somebody who loved me about a man who got even with God. Sat in hyperactive London's cold central station the city began sleeping like a dog. Then a tramp with one eye placed his hand on my thigh. I said hold it, pick a window you're leaving. Oh do forgive me he sighed, I was a fan in my prime. He must've thought I was somebody else. Here's to the fathers of the lost sons and the unholy ghosts. It's the ones who seem destined to get left behind interest me the most. I am the prodigal son, resting his head on the drum that was carried through the welcoming parade. And I'd give all I have, I would give all I have strip me bare, let me wash in the rains. On a street you've never heard of there's a wooden piano on its last legs in a last chance saloon. It is manned by a drunkard who is dripping with poetry, sitting stupefied nailed to the stool. The man catches my gaze then produces this page from his waistcoat with a slip disk smile. Look boy, here is my last correspondence with Christ. I tried to read it, but my glasses were filthy. Here's to the fathers of the lost sons and the unholy ghosts. It's the ones who seem destined to get left behind interest me the most. I am the prodigal son, resting his head on the drum that was carried through the welcoming parade. And I'd give all I have, I would give all I have strip me bare, let me wash in the rains. Past the government housing, right off Donaldson road. Open collars and open hearts they swap anorexic lyrics with pyrotechnic rhymes as car lights knife their way through the dark. Then this feeling persists, we as people exist in a state of anticipation. You know it comes at a cost, or so the great unwashed have informed me and I tend to believe them these days.Here's 
to the fathers of the lost sons and the unholy ghosts. It's the ones who seem destined to get left behind interest me the most. I am the prodigal son, resting his head on the drum that was carried through the welcoming parade. And I'd give all I have, I would give all I have strip me bare, let me wash in the rains. I was gifted a book by somebody who loved me about a man who got even with God.

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