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A crust o’ bread. Pastries o’ lead. Any’hin’, tae line the coffin; I call’t a stomach. Fae a brimmin’, ale-filled tankard cup. And, nae longer cawin’ crows in me hands be worth twa, and, sixpence, flush.

Eatin’ sins, before the Lord,
frae a sinist’r, smorgasbord.
Me gnashin’ gams, offer, bless’d relief.
Tae the dearly, and, sometimes,
nearly, depart’d. Distasteful reminders, o’ the ugliest natures, we be seldom confessin’, tae tak part in.

It’s a piece o’ cakie!

Ev’ry morsel, I have nestled,
in me decayin’ spaghetti-faced beard,
is givin’ solace, to the pious, and, unholy,
the kind-heart’d, and, fear’d.

Fae each, flagon o’ hate, I imbibe,
each, transgression, I consume,
a burden rises, like a baker’s loaf, frae inside, them. And, descends deep in tae me graveyard guts; a Hadean plume.

Shunned, and, sheemed, by those bitin’ begrudg’rs, sco’ned, and, defamed. Doon, Hansel, and, Gretel Lane, I’m trudgin’. Followin’ that doomed crumb-age. Me heart’s in me mooth, each mournin’, bludgeon’d, as I chews the fat o’ those snarlin’ judges.

Ye tho’ I warks, and, stalks,
ca’ throu’ the valley,
o’ the scarrow o’ death.
Youse ken the smell,
o’ each fall, frae grace,
ev’ry vice, on me rott’n,
rank, reekin’ vagabond breath.

© poormansdreams

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The rough, and, scarring,
bodily scourges,
are no comparison,
to being forever burdened,
by the torment of,
a scabrous, jagged mind.
That’s the living abstraction;
of being; a callus’t one.
Knowing the thin,
and, fickle nature of life,
whilst, saying, “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Holding on, to a grip of things,
in the present,
juxtaposed,
with, sharp memories; incessant,
cuts deep, into physical,
and, metaphysical flesh.
That’s the piercing knife;
you wield; as a callus’t one.
Keeping wounds open enough,
to prise, pain; permanent, and, fresh.

Broken-ringed, vows, and, promises,
littering the circular streets,
I’ve walked around, alone,
in annular defeat.
Unable to cry; blue-discs,
of rotating grief.
That’s the circus clown smile;
you show; as a callus’t one.
Hoping a risen moon, soon,
opens a gloomy throat;
in the ground; swallowing…
mortal relief.

That’s what it takes; to be forgiven;
and, finally;
a callus’t none.

© poormansdreams

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Do the feelings;
born of frustration;
conceive,
of their eventual,
mortality?

Do the pontificating,
hypocrites,
suppress,
their wicked tears,
when, laughing,
at, someone else’s;
tragedy?

Does the crooked judge,
have any right,
to, condemn the criminal;
on questions,
of morality?

Does the man of the hour;
know –
when his time;
is up,
whilst he’s counting,
down;
every, eventuality?

Doesn’t it torment, and, pain,
the young, fit, and, healthy,
to, disregard,
the older, wiser sage;
in, favour of; virtual vitality?

Doesn’t the universe,
relish, heartily,
the unmerciless irony,
of existing, black, tubular;
non-existence,
at the epicentre,
of, every galaxy?

Do you care? Does it matter??

No. It doesn’t.

It never did.

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The procession,
following…
after;
the hearse,
are, previous sins;
absolved,
by – chapter,
and, verse.

They each,
mourn;
loss, and, gain,
by – affirmation.

And, have,
won,
their likeness,
via turned creation.

Proverbially speaking,
they each talk,
of lives well,
and, poorly lived.

Of good,
and, bad times;
the taken, and, mistaken,
sorely gives.

The bereft,
cling on;
to memories,
whilst the sinners;
let sin go.

All, are; in need;
of remedies,
their condition; purely human;
wrings eternal…

When letting go.

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The dying embers,
of the summer-sun,
lay, like barbecue coals,
underfoot.
It’s been one hell – of a season,
peppered;
with grief-stricken – condiments,
and, gruesome – herbs.
Parties, and, meetings,
where sapient meat,
became disturbed.
Flame flashes rashers,
shanks, loins, and, many rarer cuts.
Heart-shaped burgers;
bitten, burning, and, dripping.
Blaze-shaped feelings;
all sweating;
profusely, and, perturbed.

But, now, the cold sets in.
The rotten flesh,
is covered in flies.
Larvae absorb,
and, consume the sin.
As the lambs blood,
cools and dries.
Landfill sites fester,
– ever fuller.
Teen suicides, and, stabbings,
on the up.
The brightest futures,
growing duller,
by social media’s; poisoned;
overflowing cup.

A forgetful fable,
soon emerges;
of a summer; subjugated,
by sentimentality – so weak.

But, what lay beyond,
the sunny, grassy verges.
Is the glacial-hard-truth…

One frozen hell.

An infernal blizzard of a life;
blackly frosted;
burning, berserk, and, bleak.

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Cast out,
into the caliginous;
gloaming.

To the snarly,
towering street lamps.

Stationary,
and, flickering;
eyes of yellow,
that turn,
the night-sky, into,
a den of wolves.

Howling,
yowling comets,
and, stalking stars,
creep surreptitiously,
lifting, south-facing,
neck hairs.

In a desperate, despairing
Lupine dance,
of; torrential raindrop tears,
and, tumid, cloudy faced,
embarrassment.

The wolfpack claws
at worn, and, torn,
thoughts.
Making;
a moonlit meal,
of an already,
full-
plate.

And, in the midnight witching hour,
the only solace, to be found,
is in, an; outcasted;
lone-wolf.

Alone, yet, bravely; scintillated, by lunar luminescence.

Casting prophetic, portented; shadows, anew.

Without; a family, a care, or, a past.

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Where, have all, the heroes, gone?

A sniveling thought,
of a hero’s;
destruction,
comforts;
a cowardly mind,
defect, and, fraught,
in design,
and, made fairytale
endings,
begin to malfunction.

Yet, the heroes –
stretch past,
future manifestation,
as the snakes,
in the grass,
lay,
to measure their size,
presenting, rattle tailed;
lies,
and, parodied exuviations.

Why, do heroes, only exist, in books, films, and, song?

The true-self, is;
heroic,
and, wholesome action;
sublime,
steadfast belief,
becomes stoic,
when soul, and, spirit;
combine.

So, ready;
your righteous,
take aim;
your ambition,
fire at all;
with your kindness,
create;
a virtued tradition.

When, will heroes; number, one million, strong?

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