Voices from the Past:
Two women once upon
on their way from
Deptford to Charlton
Honestly, that Defoe and Evelyn and Pepys - what do they know
about the likes of us. They say we have foul language and
stinking clothes and talk about us, although we
try to lead a holy life in the midst of this filth and grime,
and stay out of every single crime they treat us like spiritual pus.
And then, don't even mention that we are Catholic or even turn up
in a CoE pew - neither wants us poor women in their precious
house and disturb their party or ball, as every time I try to enter
there seems to be some evil witch chasing me out already from
the church hall - well, for poor people that kind of hell was
already in Jesus' time nothing new, only that now they leave
us outside, as only for rich people, who can pay
a gigantic membership fee, the so-called socially acceptable,
is an invitation to the table extended at the sound of the church bell.
I mean, what do they take me for - some of them might dress up like a nun
or as a priest or as a pompous knight or dame
in the latest fashion but they fake their pious facial expression
and, as we do not gossip, as MY middle name is certainly
not Dame Mad Jo Jossip or Mistress Baylonian Whore Demoness Throwing Stones
honestly the names people have these days under Victoria -
I myself heard the priest and even a bishop not only on one occasion
saying they have seen their worshippers in the strangest places from God straying
and even in some strange places in Brighton or Westminster before, where they
cover up under big hoods their faces – seems like the Thames has seen it all
before!
Honestly – when you see, what kind of strange people from these murky
waters drink and of sulphur stink, then you think
that you are somewhere
at the Nile, and in some abracadabra or Roman bath exile as what comes
out that river seems mainly evermore deeply into their own brine to sink
as these socialites and ever so charitable hypocrits make only use of their wits
to own as much as they possibly can of the earth grits, including every possible
cult line that they can mess with to corrupt the church whilst they spit in the mass
wine like a common swine, and, that they have been
handing out all along their eon old poison they most
certainly never ever confess and they can only keep up their show
in smoke and mirror and glow only in neon -
only simpletons like us grows in prayer strong.
Those greedy and secretly seedy philantropists, on the other hand, who
are really only ancient most moody and never in holy matrimony
legitimately broody misanthropists, want it all, and no less, and buy
themselves even a place in Westminster Abbey, well, good luck to them,
I would not want to lie in state anyway next to souls that are really
inside utmost shabby. And what these days has to witness and endure
from those so-called fine people of sold-out nobility has even a cabby -
honestly, is nobody out there anymore in the slightest pure and aims
at having a nice loving family?! Seems like from what I heard of the Romans
that they still rather toughen up their kids from baby age, and if they don't like
them subject them to the kill, and steel them
with utmost cruelty and all sorts of meanest rage and keep them even
hidden in their more or less golden cage, if they are the gift of the master
to the maid as her life-long illegitimate wage.
But, of course, in our downstairs that does not even exist as that provision
of housing and servants' care is not exactly a high priority on that particular
nobility's list these things of delicate nature are taboo as much as forbidden
for the poor is also a simple loo, as that is also only for the rich
and famous, who only ever wear for fun and not out of love and with
a heartfelt vow their wedding rings but take them bands off, as if
holy matrimony stings but, fortunately, in green pastures most lovingly
sings to me my hubby Seamous.
O, I can just hear them say – o, those Irish Catholics, o, dear, I think I faint,
as if we are the ones, who make the foggy sky over London gray!
Never mind that out of our midst comes many a finest saint but isn't it
interesting that some of the deemed Christian Nobility of
the church of hypocrisy are actually quite drawn secretly- in my
eyes sadly! - to pagan witchcraft and druidry of the Irish lore and
buy and sell their mythology and pick and mix it with all sorts of
heresy against Jesus and His holy family en galore.
Recently, I heard that they also had a go at the Jews and the gypsies -
and that from the mouth of these demoness typsies – that is really rich,
buying some bells for St Paul's or another church of Wren but crowing
as a traitor's hen at a secret society's gathering in a bloody ceremony
making a church into a den – o, you wouldn't believe, what the poor
priests, who are more or less one of us as they have been 'saved' from
the gallows in the street only to be toys for the self-appointed roys
from when they were little innocent boys, who had to endure at the hands of their
'saviours' the most unutterable rape and abuse of a whole disguised
society's hierarchy's fleet, still have to put up with from their old
oppressors, many of whom still act as confessors;
one told me in confidence that he was in utter despair at
that church leaders could even rip out what is left of a child's holy hair
that God counted even before he entered his mother's womb
and how they have no shame at all to make as many souls as they
can from holiness fall and through rape and unimaginable
manipulation also destroy a holy wife and mother and make
her heart and soul and body a tomb, instead of breathing into man
the holy spirit and nourish everybody with the living word.
Since I was little, and I am really lucky, I heard this voice in me
saying: 'Whatever somebody says to you, if you do, what they
tell you to, although I tell you it is wrong, then you will be in
the greatest ever trouble.' And I believed it without a doubt,
as that voice was so kind and did never at me shout.
But it had the utmost authority and I never questioned
its authenticity. As it was always, always right, although
I sometimes dreaded, what would come through the hand of man
as I would have to say something that would immediately
cause the greatest stir and started amongst man but only because
they tried to corrupt or conceal the truth – a mighty fight.
But at least, with Jesus' help I can sleep like a baby even in
this stinking smell and often unfriendly church bell and
living hell every single night. And I sing with my heart
and soul 'Thanks be to God and Jesus' and I have no shame
in me as they took after every confession the blame off me,
and I do not care about any Thames or other places' riches,
and I leave out of my house any druids and witches, and
am most grateful of not having to live a life of fame as
tarred and barred from a life in decency and free of sin
in her own court on earth every holy queen and dame,
as most of her next of kin want to be bad, and spread
only lies and deceit and let with numerous silent eyes
poke their noses into other people's holy family's affairs
many spies, who are full of flaws themselves and whose
only goal is to ignore God's laws and to keep out Jesus'
holy truth and that of His holy family out of the bookshelves.
Look at the Thames, so many monasteries it once held,
but did they all obey God and who is today speaking out
aloud for Jesus and is defending His spiritual church
against those from the lurch, and the latest I heard is
that they sell out even all what is left of the so-called
Holy See as all want to have their greedy share in the membership
fee. I always thought that the church should be anyway free?!
I pray that Jesus walks soon over the Thames, that'll be the day,
when He skates from Charlton to Deptford and throws
out all the traitors from His church, who wine and dine
and whore in the establishments of Maldorf-Trattoria,
Spitz-Charlton and the likes at the poorest of the poorest' cost
and bargain on enterprises that see numerous lives and souls in the
process all over the world lost, as for my liking they have been
far too long and once to often sabotaging Him even in His name
without shame from the lurch with many an unholy knight
and dame and when it went all wrong, they put even falsely
on Him also the blame.
Nah, I am happy to be in my own little world with the voice
of old that has only ever been loving and kind and led me
even in utter darkness to the Infinite light,
and God says to me: 'Be patient and persevere, as that
is a must, and be ready for my Son's return as only He brought peace
to your Father before he died and after his ashes were kept
in the urn and in Him you did always anyway trust as He showers
upon you wherever He is His truth's ray, so that it becomes
your sword of might, and you know that He is always,
always right. And you might have to put on at times
on our behalf an almighty verbal fight but it is free of violence
but full of the purple fragrance of the Violet and is full of beautiful
as well as razorsharp rhymes. But that ensures that only ever
in holy truth and peace and in dignity for all the faithful humanity
ever so sweet every consecrated by Frere Jacques church bell
chimes, and claims 'Gloria, Victoria' over every single enemy,
and so we can unite as one big family on earth from your tiny
little humble kitchen hearth and that for eternity.'
What can I say, I have all these words coming out of me, and
all my neighbours think I am mad, but at least I am not the one,
who is perpetually sad as I live in the finest company of heaven and
earth and I honoured by all saints and share gladly their every memory
in chosen anonymity as we enjoy true happiness and give thanks
to God and praise Him and Jesus in all their glory, and raise our children
as holy and bring to a good end always a by man purposefully twisted
bad story.
See, even my language that is supposed to be foul accordingly to Defoe
that ol' fool, has been made pure in my heart and soul – must be the effect
of Mary Magdalene's footstool, as she shares all her therapies for free
but stays out of the murky waters of the Thames until Jesus has made it again
clean, and meanwhile she heals all old wounds in a by Jesus personally
made bath in form of a little paddling pool. Don't know, what this really means,
but it seems there is no more left of spills of beans on those preferring to the true
spiritual church of Christ only their own frills with expensive thrills.
So, don't be surprised, if you do not see me anymore at any place of the
babylonian whore's world, as even her every dentist only ever for bloody money
into healthy teeth drills and her doctors have healthy bodies on special
money order demised – and I only ever sing for free to God's glory
with my gift of voice as I have given up for the purity and sanctity
of the Holy Eucharistic Cup any ambition to be a Queen of the Night,
which I never had anyway, I just wanted to be able to sing effortlessly
for heaven the trills. So, time is up for whatever heaven holds, if God so wills.
And only in His hands my soul to its ultimate destiny rightfully moulds, as with
a self-forged fate one's heart only ever scoulds and any once sweet love
transforms into tins of worms and bitter and foul moulds.
Only God can heal all wounds and Jesus is from now on busy consecrating
everywhere anew holy grounds, as He keeps them free from any treasure
hunting greyhounds.
A Woman on the way from Charlton to Deptford
All ye anonymous true saints:
RIP
I pray for all of thee,
and I do so for free
and refuse to pay to a desecrated house of a bat
a membership fee
Anno Domini 1st November MMX
Deptford (pronounced /ˈdɛptfɚd/[1]) is an area on the south bank of the River Thames in south-east London. It is named after a ford of the River Ravensbourne, and from the mid 16th century to the late 19th was home to Deptford Dockyard, the first of the Royal Dockyards. This was a major shipbuilding dock and attracted Peter the Great to come and study shipbuilding. Deptford and the docks are associated with the knighting of Sir Francis Drake by Queen Elizabeth I aboard the Golden Hind,[2] the legend of Sir Walter Raleigh laying down his cape for Elizabeth,[3] Captain James Cook's third voyage aboard Resolution,[4] and the mysterious murder of Christopher Marlowe in a house along Deptford Strand.[5]
Though Deptford began as two small communities, one at the ford, and the other a fishing village on The Thames, Deptford's history and population has been mainly associated with the docks established by Henry VIII. The two communities grew together and flourished while the docks were the main administrative centre of the British Navy, and a few grand houses like Sayes Court, home to diarist John Evelyn, and Stone House on Lewisham Way were erected.
In the early 18th century, Charlton was described by Daniel Defoe as:
a village famous, or rather infamous for the yearly collected rabble of mad-people, at Horn-Fair; the rudeness of which I cannot but think, is such as ought to be suppressed, and indeed in a civiliz'd well govern'd nation, it may well be said to be unsufferable. The mob indeed at that time take all kinds of liberties, and the women are especially impudent for that day; as if it was a day that justify'd the giving themselves a loose to all manner of indecency and immodesty, without any reproach, or without suffering the censure which such behaviour would deserve at another time. (from A Tour through Great Britain)
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