Time is a half-forgotten song.
Each softly sung,
then,
disappearing
note;
is an alarming, eternal reminder
of being secondary
to a larger symphony.
Errors made in haste
din short like catchy,
hooking choruses.
Whilst unmade amends
become musical lessons
that echo;
lengthy, lecturing, lifelong – laments.
Yes, time is a half-f…
When dodecahedron bombs fall;
will you be my buried and sturdy shelter?
When cohesion is trodden to asphalt;
would you wage pitched and bloody welter?
Breakfast,
served at his majesty’s pleasure, often ladles out food for thought…
The menu – provides;
convicts, politicians, businesspeople, and, royalty,
with plenty to discuss…
Such as, ‘do the high and mighty ever dream of tasting prison porridge, as they commit high crimes, whilst they starve and cull the poor?’
And, ‘can beggared worms chew through royal lead-lined coffins from a dead beggar’s ulcered stomach sores?’ Yet, what lies in the unasked? The public inquiry into corrupt power, like lunch, awaits.
Relief without a branch
to cling to. Bare, shaken,
but, also, beyond agonising
disbelief. Avalanche met Alpine
Firs; a collage of bitter viridescence – often mistaken,
as, not life, but, death, imitating art.
What a relief!!
That’s the “good stuff”;
the pinprick and the poison-pill…
The Medicine Men have long traded in shady deals,
of jabs and hooks,
wearing labcoats lined with vaccined, pain-killing schemes.
Patiently making case studies of us all,
all the while,
toasting, our declining health,
along with silent, complicit and sickly governments.
Sláinte!
Encrypted night;
puzzling and studious, awaits
us all,
along with an unshrinking denial,
a half-blinked eye,
a non-thinked; why?
And, a nihilistic sigh. It is all, so…
insalubrious.
Awaited relief of a final breath when no more lies can be proferred no more lines can be crossed or excuses offered no more questions unanswered no more victims no more cancers no more derision and pain due to another’s conceited vision and gain no more losers no more winners no more abusers or willers of forgiveness.
Just peace; unreplicated.
And, relief, no longer, awaited.
When dodecahedron bombs fall;
will you be my buried and sturdy shelter?
When cohesion is trodden to asphalt;
would you wage pitched and bloody welter?
Another
night lost –
to this infernal game
of sleep. Another light lost –
to this internal
flaming
heap.
Another day, found; wanting,
ever-seeking, left
behind. Suffer
darkness;
unfounded: daunting,
ever-creeping, when in mind.
Another time or another place,
Another line on another face,
Another calm before the storm,
Another baby to be born.
Another life is another death,
Another fight for another breath,
Another want, another need,
Another plot – for which to bleed.
Another jab, another hook,
Another play – not by the book,
Another lie becomes the truth,
Another, “why?” crushed under boot.
Another step in lands of Hinter,
Yet, another long, bleak winter,
One more liberty carelessly lost,
Bitterly frozen by piercing frost.
Another
toll cost – to
the extending tarmac
adam. Another soul lost – to
the never-ending
blackened
chasm.
Another scarlet debtor, found;
humanity is justly,
repossessed.
Smothered faces
turn raging red, thrusting,
brutality; into Robin’s breast.
Saturated emptiness;
oozing – pickled defeat. Dripping in lamentation.
The brain became an anciently soiled kitchen sponge,
bedecked in grimy morose, and, greased dismay,
each hollow ostia – a den of distress,
forgotten chutes, where legends and ideas should spark creation.
Instead, the tale of the springy, squashing grapple with grunge;
grew into asphyxiation, at the dirt encrusted hands of Grey.
Sucking joy, from every cushioned orifice, until the overflowing
bowl became, just, dregs of despairing.
And, the dried dregs turned to a black, tarry residue; unknowing,
they are scraped – into the brimming kegs of uncaring.
But, don’t mind me;
I am the disappearing, desolate dishwater;
uncontrollably cascading down the punishing plughole of inhumanity.
And,
I was almost, nearly…
never, really…
here.
Flagellated unfriendliness;
kind words are pushed down, beaten back, whipped away.
Each harshly inspected smile – considered a smirk of contempt,
enamelled grins of violence, lipped beams of ill-will.
Wishing nothing but dental uncleanliness,
to every lip, tongue, jaw and fang on demonic display,
and, all the pains of brutal, bruising discontent
to be swallowed – by their owners, in a tiny, bitter pill.
Crushing victory in the maws of defeat; crunched bliss
is chewed and broken – into meaty, cakey pieces; devoured.
Each digested morsel a reminder of a sweet, yet, deadly kiss
from the lips and teeth of a cloying, carnivorous coward.
No, don’t mind me;
I am the forsaken crumbs; wiped away.
Wiped away from a mouth that relishes consuming the hearts and souls of those unseen, unacceptable, unfortunate ones.
And,
I was almost, nearly…
never, really…
there.
He removed the toque
and bowed his head,
shamefully,
as though every secret,
lie and misdeed were
engraved
upon his mottled cranial tablet;
‘the writing is on the bald,
auld Apache.’
I think she meant ‘alopecia’.
She exuded smoke,
he cowed, coughed and left,
painfully,
it was the first time she’d cut
him to the core, yet, deeper,
impaled
by barbed words from her palate,
a mouth aghast, appalled,
alas, he,
never intended to aggrieve her.
Words can be weaponry, inflicting damage lasting eons.
Words can be incendiary, turning cherubs into demons.
His body, indiscreet,
every scar, mark and blemish
obtained from this unwanted life,
were, classified documents; leaked,
Sorrow’s woodpecker had been peckish,
boring holes deep, into his desperate skin of strife.
The story finished in defeat,
soliloquy culled, forced to perish,
machete thrust, from tonguing knife,
made edgy points; too sharp for cheeks,
an empty vessel, bereft, unable to replenish,
no sleep, nor soul to keep, ‘This is the end’, spoke his eyes.
Happiness is a forbidden fruit
when your soul consumes such grief,
the smiling, juicy, joyous flesh
makes Temptation a willing thief,
it’s often sought in seas of excess
leaving wrecks at Dependence Reef,
it can turn the sinning, wicked brutes
into patron saints of belief.
The taste of Happiness is absolute
without eating branch and leaf,
and, a tangle with despair’s wiry mesh
makes the taste that much more sweet.
Wisdom is an unwanted gift
when you think you know it all,
it hides in spirit’s plane of sight
foreseen under Sage’s shawl,
it can make ignorance feel like bliss
and, learning truth – a bloody brawl,
but, nevertheless, a worthy fight,
one worth every scarring maul.
Humility provides the lift
when pride tumbles as it falls,
and compassion reconstructs might
building bridges from crumbled walls.
This experience of all, which pervades us,
from cradle to grave and beyond,
can be unremarkable, perplexing and outrageous
once spawned in primordial pond,
this human condition exists to enslave us,
catching feelings that try to abscond,
a state which makes fallen angels our saviours,
and, breaks the chains of sacred bonds.
So, until selfish, greedy, loathsome behaviours
become unworthy, unkept, unfond,
there’ll be no happiness found in wisdom’s favours
while foolish tragédies eclipse le monde.
Staring out into naked abyss,
optics wander in twilight’s wonder,
stardust gleaning sacred bliss,
vision listens to silent thunder.
The universal rains lash down;
they make vast waterfalls among the heavens.
Open tear ducts; eternal, splashing down,
closed lids crashing…
down, still, always – Catch; fifteen. Then, adding seven.
The black cascade envelops all it touches,
no matter the presentation,
the make-up plumes from scarlet brushes,
have a bird’s eye view; their final destination.
This pupil set within the storm of I,
is not enlightened nor insightful.
It couldn’t see the worlds bore inside,
it’s maker, yet, remained open minded.
Until, a benevolent outlook was razored,
gouged, clawed, blinded,
at the hands of human-nature.
Behold, this glaringly undelightful,
this epidemic Myopia,
deceptive, cruel and spiteful,
this future unforeseen,
presently; apathetic and obscene,
this, ‘Forlornucopia’,
held aloft for all to see;
perpetually consuming glee;
consuming all… of you, and them, and me.
If I dissolved the universe
for a cup of joy,
or, a sip of worth,
would your own thirst; desert, destroy?
Waive away wet debtor’s curse?
If I had wings; angelic and divine,
to float across
this great divide,
would the final approach be a gainful loss?
Pinion clipped and cropped;
by fortune’s perennial pain inside.
If I weaved you fabric journeys
from my textile dreams,
could you knit me back together?
Fix these broken seams?
If those silk and satin sojourns
of vivid;
reds, blues, yellows, greens,
became moth eaten
by their endeavour,
or, no longer serene,
could you fill the gaps
of what goes in between?
Or, would you crumble and crack,
like my fantasies of “soundly asleep”?
Living through a nightmare’s lens;
of perpetual black,
soundtrack; my innermost screams.
Cheesy moon at midnight pings
it’s beams down
upon a colourful commonplace town
pavement shimmering with blood and teeth
policemen oinking hearty.
Slipping
upon ripe banana skin
the fall – opens the flesh
fracturing bone
but, also, opening minds
coincidentally
courage
could never before
see our age
unified and advantageous.
– black and yellow meets red and white –
A wasp with great insight stings
a shrieking clown
his big lipstick smile made into a deathly frown
pass the parcel and the EpiPen, please,
at a child’s birthday party.
Foraging the dark arts
bold and free; golden,
exiting the mental metal cage
with toughened knuckles
and white-hot sharpened senses
ready to redden
Babylonian cheeks
angrily
in a manner
most outrageous.
With uppercut and jab and hook,
a heavy wait, a title took,
each ring-ed bell
the blows were struck,
the nip and tuck, each step and duck…
Deeper and deeper into Hell.
Valiant defeat makes prideful gain
when they bayed for blood,
bawled and cried his name.
And on the spot the gladiator stood,
unsteady to decide again…
A moment wished it stayed for good
to cut the loss and shy the shame.
For, a panderer’s box once opened
leaves the politicians all unscathed
and the pugilist a hero; lonesome –
our punching bag, body, face.
Yes, a panderer’s box once opened
leaves the one percent much richer
and the common man – betokened –
with recipes for ailing, bitter.
poorman'sdreams 