The Easiest of Parts

For Jim Schembri and Paul Harris.

Flaring up and fading like a spliff
being smoked by the Almighty,
it has performed a solar cycle,
the sun, since two broadcasters
viciously ridiculed my madness on air
without saying the name “Michael”,
and eleven years have passed
since I was first deemed paranoid
in relation to the cowardly attack
by a shrink trained to typecast
every angry schizophrenic male
as “just another violent menace
so deeply removed from reality
he can’t be re-educated in jail”,
and here I am, still being drugged
because my ire is deemed sick,
still hoping you’ll mercifully employ
your vast cinematic knowledge
and not only advance the fine arts
by defending what’s individualistic
in many a madman, the true rebel
the psychiatrist seeks to diminish,
but give the story of the cinéastes -
who were given the easiest of parts 
as witnesses to evil and shrugged -
the sheen of a restorative finish.