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5.4k · Jul 2018
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
The past is buried in an unmarked grave

infinity x people lie amongst the mathematicians

the bankers, the capitalists, the communists,

nuns and priests from long forgotten orders

writers, poets, madmen

believers in Dostoevsky

politicians and soldiers lying side by side

Guevara and Kennedys

reeking of decomposed causes

their headstones inhabit this planet

struggles, dreams, poverty, indifference

Only the living remain to frighten young children

in gardens of festering weeds

Amongst the survivors walks the big ******* war

whose parentage dresses in many flags

holding hands with the spectres of illusion

in this calamitous circus of humanity

the past is buried in an unmarked grave

and still it is hunted

it's rotten body and brittle bones

clutching it's precious treasure

the future carrying a ***** and death still the scythe

eager for the digging

anxious to turn the soil

the past is buried in an unmarked grave

leave it alone

let it rest in peace
Harriet Cleve Aug 2018
...the threshold of a borrowed day stood before him mocking his manhood. He had refused to die when the levers of death were unleashed.A scorched black skull betrayed the ineptitude of mechanics. Yes, he had tremored and shook violently when the surge of electricity flowed throughout his flesh and veins. The vividness of the images projected from his memory onto his brains widescreen
horrified the very mind which had committed the atrocity of ******.

It was his hand he saw brandishing the footstool and crashing it into the terrified head of his neighbour. The frenzied last minute pathetic attempt of his victim to defend the most vicious injury inflicted with severe hostility. He heard once again the anguished brief scream screeching in the last desperate utterance of his victim. The pulped brain tissue seemed to spatter in microseconds and with it every thought and memory once possessed by this desecrated being
sprayed his face and accused him of wanton cruelty.

The eyes too accused him and stared with bitter intensity until their life force blinkered out and suddenly it was dark.

One brief instant caused him to bite on his tongue and split it in two as the electricity claimed justice shaking his conscience with bitter recrimination, defying him to live and yet live he did.

An unexpected power cut severed the link between life and death.
He was only aware of the eyes of the living in the death cell looking on incredulously at this unwanted twist of fate. The smell of burning flesh was like a taste of the fires of hell and damnation.
He knew too he had survived and took a callous satisfaction in his phyric victory,

As they warden unstrapped the clamps from his wrists and legs he felt a tangible relief. Fate had intervened and taken his side.

Suddenly through the door came a family member of his victim brandishing a wooden footstool as if he had suspected justice would take an absence of leave. Holding it high above his arms he swung it down on the head of the murderer and smashed his brains to a pulp.
A ****** had claimed a murderer and in that moment of terror the air was permeated with the fragrance of rough justice.

Silence settled on the scene and the tragic realisation that violence lay within the grasp of every man who chose to act on mindless impulse.

The power suddenly returned and an arc of electricity flashed in the air. It came too late for all who had come to see righteousness

Tomorrow another man would await the threshold of a borrowed
3.6k · Oct 2016
Shoe shine boy
Harriet Cleve Oct 2016
The shoe shine boy was eighty two
the wino was thirty one
London streets would be polished this night
with the rub of a scumbag's gun

The Shoe shine boy was hard as a bull
the Wino was out of his class
he thought he could scare with his horrible stare
and his face like a rhinos ***

"C'mon you Buzzard! the wino snarled
"let me see what you've got!"
though  brave with his gun, pardon the pun
he then got a dig in the snot

'You *******!' he cried -now losing his pride
he then fired off a warning shot
though  grazed in the eye, just off the fly
the shoe shine boy hit him again in the snot

Again and again the wino was punched
his  nose was a ****** red tap
he threw down his gun and started to run
shouting  ' this is a load of crap!

The New York boy was eighty two
the scene was a curious farce
he picked up the gun,said 'Go on ya ***!'
then shot the wino clean in the ***

The wino lay cryin' and knew he was dying
the ol' boy walked off in the night
his shoes were a shining as the wino lay whining
It sure was a curious sight!
3.3k · Jul 2018
The girl in the moon
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
It didn't start good for the girl in the moon

it went very well for her brother

He grew up to be the man in the moon

She went in search of their mother

'Tell her I love her!' the little boy said

'Say there is nothing between us!'

The little girl hugged him and then ran away

She ended up living on Venus

Amongst all the stars and the red planet Mars

they looked out and saw one another

this beautiful girl hotter than hell

the Sun, high in the sky, was her mother

There they both glowed and the Heavens bestowed

pure love in the arms of each other

The man in the moon, well you'd hear him croon

'Mother there's nothing between us!'

'I hold you all dear, thank God you are near"

'I love you and the woman in Venus!'
3.2k · Jul 2018
Strange bedfellows
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
you didn't deserve the poems you wrote

born of your suffering

dragged from fractured yesterdays

nor did they deserve you

letting you down on the cold dank streets

refusing to warm your cold blue blood

borrowing words you never paid back

you owed each other nothing

except companionship for what it was worth

For what you were worth

There you were, an odd pair

two legs on an upturned stool


rummaging this life for a good line

you could have done without the dereliction

the destruction of the foundation of youth

dodging wrecking ***** aimed at your head

the head wreckers and headhunters

the scalp wreckers and scalp hunters

a bottle of ruby down a parched throat

a smoke to fill the grateful lungs

women to wash your long nights down

they were your proudest boast

You didn't deserve the poems you wrote

Nor did they deserve you

Yet such is companionship

strange bedfellows

slipping between the sheets and a good line
A tribute to Charles Bukowski
2.9k · Jul 2018
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
This world can not be saved

not from us

not from the murderers

not from the writers or poets

nor the political promise of the buried dead

it must suffer at our hand

our cowardly calloused hand

the gibbet of history looming large

we, the scaffold in it's treacherous shadow

this world can not be saved

not from us

not from the proliferation of the atom

not from the genius of a Nobel mind

nor the terror of a hungry belly

it must suffer at our disgression

at a choosing of our time

it is not safe

from the madman or the sane man

who share a common lodging

nor will it find shelter in its own harbours

refuge in its oceans

oxygen in its air

it is not safe

not from us

it must bear the weight of our footprint

it must suffer the wounds of destruction

the infrastructure of abhorrence

it is not safe for the lungs of life

it can not breathe our poisoned fumes

it must suffer in our orbit

perish in our banality

clothed in ill fitting rags of indifference

this world can not be saved

it is not safe

Not from us
2.7k · Jul 2018
Dancing with a flower
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
the butterfly lives and takes each day

they know not of tomorrow

each moves their *** and sits on grass

for them there is no sorrow

Amongst the trees and earthy bees

they exercise no power

content, no rent and time well spent

dancing with a flower

they flitter and they flutter by on dainty gentle wings

care not about or think about what the next life brings

it's enough to live and breathe the air and savour every hour

How I 'd love to be like them and dance with every flower
2.5k · May 2017
Firing Squad
Harriet Cleve May 2017
no two firing squads are the same

dripping rain flowing down your collar

on a  sour shelterless street

will finish you off

on a callous cold night

in a warm translucent city

the stagnant light from a rancid computer

under the glare of the office police

for eight endless hours

sitting in a spineless chair

till your brain melts like crippled ice cream

your pre frontal cortex dripping

through wasted eye sockets

will finish you off

the sandbags piled up

behind your back

a wasted muttered prayer

offered up for your soul

no two firing squads are the same

only the dying is constant
2.4k · Jan 2019
The Sacred Gun of Abe
Harriet Cleve Jan 2019

A Skeleton gunslinger, takes on the Unholy of Hell and wages war against his nemesis Hatchet, as a portal to Hell threatens to unleash the putrid, rancid, Unholy hordes onto a desolate planet. "

The bringer of Death arrived in Dakota. Custer's Seventh lay dying on the Powder river and the Ancients had sent him to walk the Earth and help the Ghost-walkers to hold their land. In his mortal days, he carried a torch for Serela, an outcast from the Mind seekers.That's what got him killed in the first place. The saloon was full that night, and he was called out.
He pulled his gun first and knew he would die. His death was foretold in the ancient scriptures of truth. 'The bone that liveth shall slay the flesh and the flesh will become liveth bone'.
Justice will walk the plains and avenge the truth'.
Serela had looked on as a bullet pierced the gunslinger's skull.The spirit of the ancients swept through her soul then, as she watch his head explode, filtering its entrance into the new receptacle of justice.

No one saw the killer shadow draw or witnessed it's departure but John Bitumen's body lay dead, the blood flowing from a hole in his forehead. Even as he died, he was reborn.
The Skull of Death in search of a gunfight, Deathbringer, Cleanser of Evil.

Hatchet looked at his mangy horse, a wasted beast worn out and at the end of it's road.Two years it carried his weight and the saddle dug deep.Whippings were constant and the calloused cruel fists of Hatchet rained down on it's neck if it slowed any.The nearest town was a mile down the road and it was late in the day.
That was all it took to set the anger in motion.Hatchet took five paces away from his horse and hurled his razor sharp hatchet with violence. The horse's head was split in two.
He hauled his saddle, and wrestled his ****** weapon from the dead horse, then walked into the dusk. All the time, Serela had observed from the Spirit's eye, an artefact of the Ancients, entrusted to the Mind Seekers. Hatchet would pay for his offence against Nature's pure beast, for it was written' All Creatures will walk the Earth and all will be held Holy.Swift will be Divine retribution against those who slay the pure beast'.
Hatchet wasn't one to read the ancient scriptures and could not know that the Skull of Death would search him out in the next town.The Ancients had called forth their Gunslinger and a skeletal hand rested on the sacred Gun of Abe. Hatchet would be called out and a Gunfight would settle scores. A chill in the air unnerved him and he took comfort in carresing his ivory handled pistols.

Darkness fell on the land and the half moon shone on the dead horse.The night crawlers made to cut it's remains and scavenge it's carcass. Two hands were raised to the sky, pleading for forgiveness. Horsemeat was forbidden and a desecration of sacred laws.
A knife was produced and held to the beast's throat. In that moment, all became aware of the onlooker.A tall figure in a drab grey longcoat, black spurred boots, an old black stetson. The Sacred Gun of Abe was in his hands. The Skull of Death, the Ancients Gunslinger, walked the Plains once more.
All seven night crawlers stared in disbelief. Their last minutes of life ebbing from them as the eyes of the Ancients warrior scanned their souls and cremated their bodies.Seven figures suddenly engulfed in flames under the incessant stare of the Skull's empty sockets. Amongst the embers, the Gunslinger knelt beside the horse. In his mortal days, this beast was his closest companion.Hatchet had stolen his possession and the sight of it's remains stirred an anguished scream for the horrific end which befell his steed.

Gently the Gun of Abe was placed on the horse's neck. A small bottle of holy oil was rubbed in it's wounds.' Though death may stalk the pure, truly I say to you that righteousness will prevail and the dead will rise'. Even as the words were uttered, a ball of blue flame enveloped the horse. The light illuminated the darkness and from the light the skeleton of a horse emerged, raising itself up on its hind legs, in defiance of death. Approaching the Gunslinger, it nuzzled it's head to his skull, the brilliance of it's chalk white bones radiating a supernatural hue. Mounting his steed, he galloped into the night.Vengeance was coming.Death on a horse was looking for Hatchet!

Raihna woke suddenly and locked eyes withHatchet. She had been ordered to sleep with him, against her wishes. 'Something wrong with me, *****? Hatchet snarled when he'd paid his ten dollars to the House Madam.
'You better be worth it *****! He had roughed her up before falling into a drunken slumber. Now he was standing in his ragged long johns, at the end of the four poster bed.
A manic look was in his beady eyes, as he swigged his liquor jar. Unkempt rank hair covered his weasel like features. Reeking of horse and trail sweat, an ugly belly adorning his uglier frame, he leered for the longest time.Raihna took it all in, especially the hatchet in his right hand. 'Think you're mighty purdy, don't ya! he sneered. ' Let's see what you look like with a hair cut'!
Raihna noticed then that he had pinned her pigtails to the wooden headboard. Realising a scream would be the end of her, she stared back and waited. Hatchet hurled his weapon and it sliced into the headboard, shorning her hair.From the table, he grabbed his bowie knife and aimed for the other pigtail, slicing it off and nicking her neck. 'Well lookee now' he laughed as a trace of blood ran down her neck. 'Ain't you gonna scream, *****?

An eerie blue glow filtered into the room just then and the whinny and snortin' of a horse filled the air. 'What in Hell's name? muttered Hatchet. Looking out of the curtains, he saw the chalk white Skeleton of a horse and a skeleton rider brandishing a pistol. A fiery blue-red low glow radiated from their eyes and it seemed both rider and steed were on fire. Hatchet shouted out ' You one of them Resurrectionists?!' suddenly remembering the old shaman he had killed back in Piebald.
Hatchet had stolen his runes and kept them for trading with the Mindseekers. He thought now that maybe this was him come looking for him from the afterworld. Hot ***** trickled down his leg and he felt scared and sick to his stomach.

The gallows await !' It was almost a whisper as the ancients gunslinger raised his head towards the window. Hatchet grabbed Raihna and tried to shield himself from the spectre below. His mind raced as he hesitated, panic flooding his brain. 'Take them! We be even! he gambled as he threw the runes at the gunslinger. Even as he did so, they were grabbed instantaneously by a skeletal hand and placed around the gunslinger's neck. For these were the runes of time and in the coming trials would decide the balance of power between the Unholy and the Just.

Hatchet had thrown away his trump card and even as he loaded his gun, he was destined to die. 'Pearls before swine' whispered into the room and Hatchet descended the stairs, with Raihna in front. His pistol was cocked and he would shoot it out. If Hell was waiting, he wasn't going on his own. His hatchet lay in his side belt and he made his way onto the street.
The hallway was pitch black and Hatchet cautiously approached the parlour door hoping to get out the back street. He held a vice-like grip on Raihna's arm as he pushed her along. 'You keep your mouth shut ***** and open that door easy' he whispered, his voice betraying his inner terror. Suddenly and unexpectedly, he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed hard to the back of his head. 'You take your claws offa my girl, Hatchet 'less you wants your **** brains spilled where you stand!
Hatchet knew Charlotte, the House madam, wasn't bluffing. He'd seen her do it too, back in Abilene, when China Jack beat up one of her girls. She'd shot him straight through his throat and followed up with a clean shot to his manhood. It hurt Hatchet even now just thinking about it'. Jesus! he thought as he cursed his situation. Things were moving too fast and nothing was going his way.
Hatchet loosened his grip, carefully holstering his gun.As she moved away, Raihna spat on his face and kneed him in the groin. ****! he bellowed and went to strike Raihna. His hearing saved her, as Charlotte cocked the gun and stopped him where he stood. 'Think I'd sleep easy with you on the premises, Hatchet? Take me for a fool? I don't know what the Hell is out on that street but it wants you!' By Christ, you're going out the front door to face it too!. 'Always were a cowardly *******, now move you lousy **** head!
Raihna had gotten hold of a shotgun and had it trained on Hatchet. 'Drop that hatchet right now, she said. ' You're facing that creature with your gun and nothing else! God knows you don't deserve even that much. Hatchet dropped his hatchet. 'Now kick it over here!' He did so and as Raihna picked it up, she hurled it back immediately into his right thigh, gashing him like a pig for the slaughter. Hatchet screamed in agony and Charlotte pulled it out of his thigh as the room sprayed with the red bloom of imminent death. Now move you *******!

Charlotte and Raihna ushered him towards the front door and kicked him into the dark dusty side street. 'You got it coming, Hatchet!, they shouted and there waiting for him was the Ancients Gunslinger. He had dismounted from his steed and now faced Hatchet.The look of death was in the Skull's eerie sockets and it was all Hatchet could do to stop his hands shaking. He threw up and finally faced the spectre before him.

'For those who have suffered, shall be avenged. The Righteous Light will shine on the Unholy and all dark souls shall be driven from the Plains. Fear will walk amongst them and even the shadows shall despise their ways.'
Thus it had been written and now was coming to pass.

Hatchet went for his gun, and time slowed down as his eyes scanned the scene. A chalk, pure white, skeletal hand reached for a gun and the fluid movement captured his attention. Hatchet knew he had been outdrawn and could see the gunslinger's bullet leave the smoking barrell, pristine, crafted by a master gunsmith. He noticed the leather holster, worn and faded, almost an antiquity, strapped to a dark trousered leg.
The long coat, ghastly grey, adorning the bones of the undead. Empty eyes stared him down, as he heard his own gun's sharp report and watched his bullet sail towards the spectre. Just before the gunslingers bullet blew his brains out, he finally noticed the spectre of the horse and instinctively knew this was the brutalised beast he had so callously slain. Blood and bone exploded violently and the mortal remains of Hatchet dropped to the ground.
Hatchet didn't know it then but he too was about to be reborn; for the Unholy were about to unleash the Scourge of Hossana and the Ancients Gunslinger stood in their way. Hatchet would be forged in the cauldron of Hell and in the coming trials would once again face the Sacred Gun of Abe.

Hatchet became conscious, and felt as ill as a cow in a slaughter house. The smell of death was rancid and his vision seemed out of focus. A nauseating, sickly stench permeated his nostrils and he winced as the pungent odour inflated his lungs. He was aware his whole body was bitter cold and he shivered uncontrollably. If this was a hangover, then it was the worst he'd ever been. Terrifyingly, he noticed that he was manacled, face down, to a massive ice block.
Encased within the block was a dead horse, it's head split in two, exposing brain matter, decayed pulped flesh, and grizzled bone. It's mouth was fixed in a ghastly grimace with it's eyes looking back into Hatchet's, it's gory mane matted in dirt.
His screams were hideous to hear and were lost in the din of the thousands of screams echoing within the air.The sound was deafening and burst his ears as the terror built up within him. Hatchet knew then he was in Hell, amongst the thousands of fallen souls now in the possesion of the Unholy.
His whole being was perished with unbearable, intense cold yet he could see flames, blazing blue and orange, feet away from him taunting him with intense glow.
Still the shrieks and squeals of thousands around him assailed his ears! The amplified volume resonated in his brain as his own screams built to a crescendo!
Yet, no light radiated from the flames and the pitch black illuminated only the horse within the ice block and the grimace which would be eternal. Still Hatchet screamed till he felt his throat would explode and his mind begged for deliverance! It was then that his shoulders and back ignited with agonising pain as he felt the sting of a whip.
Again and again the whip found it's mark and his flesh was pulverised. He cried out for forgiveness and begged to be spared and still he was lashed.He prayed to pass out and knew he never would ! For he was in Hell and the blackest deeds were now held to account.
A voice bellowed at him'Welcome Brother Hatchet! We will have a purpose for you soon! Enjoy the interim! Many more punishments await you yet until you are ready'. The eerie voice trailed off as Hatchet continued to be whipped. His agonising screams drowned the air and was unheard amongst the thousand others. Still the horse fixed it's empty eyes and stared at Hatchet and its grimace took pleasure in his suffering.

Seven days passed since Hatchet was despatched to Hell, and darkness fell on the Plains like a widows veil. No light illuminated the Earth and the Lakota knew this was the sign of the coming trials. The Ghost-walkers had appealed to the Great Spirit and no one who witnessed their victory at the Powder River could deny their courage.Truly this was evidence of the Spirit's intervention in their way of life. Reports had come in to Chief Red Cloud of a figure of flame riding amongst the Buffalo. A Skeleton on fire, riding the Skeleton of a horse at full charge. It seemed the very ground they rode upon was a torch of lightning, and the figure was at one with the Buffalo. Red Cloud rode out to witness it himself and noticed the blue-orange glow, like an aura of defiance, surrounding the figure. In it's hand was a gun, and Red Cloud recognised it as the Sacred Gun of Abe.
Many tales had been passed down from his ancestors, and Red Cloud knew this figure was sacred to his tribe.The Ancients Gunslinger would play a role in the destiny of his People.The Whiteman would pay a heavy price for the desecration of the traditions and way of life of those under the protection of the Great Spirit. He knew too that an enemy would arise which would destroy the Whiteman, and all the Earth's inhabitants. Only the Native American would take the battle to the Enemy, aided by the Ancients and the Mind Seekers.
Red Cloud knew his people looked to him for leadership, and he would provide it.They would hear how Red Cloud rode with the Ghost Rider and take pride in his courage. His fate was tied to the Ancients Gunslinger, and this had been preordained in the ancient Scriptures. Red Cloud looked down at the flaming figure and dug his knees into his horse. Charging down the hill, he shouted out a proud battle cry, and rode like the wind to the side of the Ghost Rider.In their trail the Buffalo followed.The trials ahead would be met and the Unholy would do battle with their most dangerous enemy.

**** it Charlotte! 'It don't make sense!
Hatchet weren't killed by no ghost, for Christ sake! Marshall John Lancaster was tired and couldn't believe the events which occurred in his absence. He had just brought in Ned Marlow.Got two of his men killed doing it, and suffered a leg wound himself in the shoot out. Marlow had been holed up in Tinkers Creek and came out unexpectedly with his guns blazing as the posse approached the log cabin. It had suddenly turned pitch dark, and all the horses got spooked, causing confusion amongst the lawman's officers.
Ned Marlow knew Hatchet; had lost an eye in a bar brawl to him once.It was said Hatchet carried the eye around with him ever since.
Ned was closing in on Hatchet, bent on revenge, and swore he'd see him dead. Suddenly a shot rang out, and startled Lancaster.
Ned had headbutted the Marshall's deputy as he was being placed in the holding cell.He had grabbed the deputy's gun then and blown a hole clean through him. Carelessness, or tiredness, maybe both, had cost him his life. Ned didn't give no quarter when his own life was on the line. He weren't going to no hangman's noose neither. He burst into the Marshall's office then and fired off two shots catching Lancaster in the left arm wounding him badly. The Marshall got off one reactive shot catching Ned's left ear.The sound deafened him and he put a slug through the Marshall's head.The fragrance of gunpowder filled the room and Charlotte could only look on.'You're coming with me, Honey!'bellowed Marlow as he grabbed her hair, pulling her close, and made his way onto the streets. A gun was held to Charlotte's head and Ned was figuring his next move.

He was too busy watching the streets but if he'd looked up, he would have seen a hatchet hurtling towards him with violent intent. The hatchet caught his gun hand and severed it clean off his wrist. Ned now had the indignity of losing his right hand.He screamed in agony as blood squirted from his severed wrist, spraying Charlotte in a plume of lifes red wine. Ned looked to the ground and his own hand lay there, holding his pistol, it's finger still on the trigger. Legend would record the severed hand fired off a shot moments after it's horrific amputation. Ned Marlow didn't know it then, but he too would play a role in the coming trials. The Unholy knew it only too well for it had been written 'The Deaf shall hear, the Blind shall see, and the hand of the sinner will turn on the Unholy'.

There the severed hand lay. A ghastly, grotesque, weather worn obscenity.
The gun had been removed from it's grasp since it's horrific amputatation from Ned Marlow. Three days had passed since the incident and no one dared to remove it from the street.cOminously, no decay had festered to spoil that monstrosity;for life still lingered within it's ghoulish flesh. Mangy street dogs looked at it with curiosity, yet kept a tentative distance. The little finger still wore a silver ring, set with a black stone. Once it had belonged to an ancient Pagan High King, who had been slaughtered in battle. An artefact from a distant time, carried across Europe into the America's. Evil had tainted it's properties and the Sons of the Unholy had sought it since. The ring now sought a new owner as the severed hand, an abomination of creation, crawled, like a filthy worm in the dirt. Slowly, laboriously, with uncanny certainty, the wretched hand made it's way towards the room of the one who had hurled the hatchet.

Raihna sat alone in her bedroom.The hatchet lay across her lap and it was emitting a low hum, almost inaudible, but she had heard it. At first she thought madness was setting in, but she realised that the voices communicating with her were real; the Mind Seekers had chosen her.
Her mind and body became a telepathic conduit and she was absorbed in receiving the messages. The Ancients were channelling through her and a deep trance held her almost comatose.
Slowly, sickening slow, the hand crawled it's way towards her., Grubby, thick, fingers inching themselves stealthily, dangerously close, while Raihna was immersed in the communication.
Her eyes were closed in the deep state between the conscious and the unconscious, so she could not witness the fingers wrap themselves around the handle of the Hatchet. Both hand and clasped hatchet lifted silently from her lap. As the hand moved to distance the weapon from her, the ring glowed a greenish hue, emanating the presence of the Unholy. Suddenly the hand lunged at Raihna's throat!
Raihna's life was ebbing into eternity.The possessed, filthy, unholy amputation squeezed her windpipe with the vengence of perpetual hostility. The ring on the severed hand's finger glowed brighter, as her life force lay on the threshold of destruction. It seemed as though the light of a thousand burning suns illuminated that room. A portal to Hell had been created and Raihna was pulled into that abyss. She was neither dead nor alive, for the Unholy had need of a pawn.The hatchet too was ****** into that void as it was destined to be reunited with Hatchet.The light was blinding and it seemed the very Earth could have been swallowed; as though the Gods had abandoned all of Creation!
Yet there he stood! A blazing figure astride a blazing horse.The chalk white bones of a skeleton horse carrying the Ancients Gunslinger towards the entrance to Hell! The ancient scriptures had written ' The Liveth Bone shall ride into Hell, and the Unholy shall cower'.
The Sacred Gun of Abe shall wield the vengeance of the Ages and the Earth and Heavens shall shake'. Thus it had been written and was now coming to pass.
A portal to Hell had opened and the Gunslinger charged into that cesspool of abomination. No Horse ever galloped with such energy and the Unholy prepared for the skirmish.The Gunslinger was possessed with a relentless rage for Justice. Hell quaked as both rider and horse fearlessly charged into the bowels of Evil's pestilent abode.
Furious at this brazen affront, the Unholy now made to close that portal. Even as they did so, Hatchet was resurrected from his tormented existence. His hatchet was reunited with him as he prepared to once again face the Gunslinger.Raihna must be rescued; for her destiny was tied to the Earth's salvation. For now, she lay in a corner of Hell watched over by a severed hand. The screams and anguished cries of all the lost souls in Hell echoed in the stagnant air. Still the Rider charged furiously as he sought to gather Raihna to his arms. A ****** hatchet sailed towards him and Hell looked on.

Hatchet charged from the cage of demons, his face etched with the pain of perpetual torment. His emaciated form like a malignant Phoenix rising from the ashes of Hell. The pitiful creature carrying his burden reared from his weight. A wretched carcass of a decayed horse which had been ressurected for battle. That same horse which had been encased within the ice block;whose ****** head Hatchet had split open when both were mortals on the Earth. Man and beast now tools for the Unholy; possessed by the collective evil of all who now suffered in Hell.cTheir dark energy would now be harnessed for the coming trials. A gruesome grimace was fixed on the horse's face and it's empty eyes stared ahead as Hatchet charged towards the Gunslinger. His violent countenace expressed the deadly intentions which would be borne down upon his enemy.
He had hurled his weapon and watched as it made it's deadly trajectory towards the Gunslinger. As the hatchet spun and revolved through the air, Hatchet emmitted the scream of the demented. The Gunslinger had lowered in his saddle and the hatchet narrowly missed it's target. Continuing on it's course, it landed in the back of one of the screaming forgotten whose souls were doomed to eternal agony.
Both riders now crashed headlong into one another and Hatchet fell from his horse. The Sacred Gun of Abe was now in the Gunslinger's hand and a skeletal finger pulled the trigger.
Once again, Hatchet would witness a bullet discharge from it's revolving chamber. His head exploded as the bullet entered his brain, exiting in one piece and landing in the dank soil of Hell.The blessed relic purified the soil and the Unholy recoiled with revulsion.
The dead cannot die and Hatchet struggled back to his feet. Grabbing the Gunslinger's reins, he attempted to pull him down. It was then that the runes around the Gunslinger's neck pierced the air with a deafening incantation.
The Unholy screamed as the Holy words of the Ancient Scriptures filtered into the bowels of iniquity and shook the foundations of Hell.
Hatchet reeled back and grabbed his hatchet from the spine of the forgotten sinner. He looked up then and witnessed a warrior's lance sail through the air.It violently struck and impaled the severed hand guarding Raihna.
Red Cloud had accompanied the Gunslinger in his charge into Hell!
Harriet Cleve Jan 2019
"The exploits of Sir Harry Flashman VC as he tries to outwit Michael Collins, assist the notorious Cairo gang, avoid ****** Sunday,charm the Irish ladies, and escape with his skin intact.

A nod to George M Fraser!

Old Harry Flashman stood in Dublin Castle as a monocled spiv eyed him cautiously.' You'll do your duty, sir, by God you will ! or you'll be handed to Collins and his murderous crew of ignorant paddies. His Majesties Government will disown you and abandon you to your fate, if you betray your colours and turn Turk. It will be the gallows for you, as it was for Casement, if a treacherous bone in your miserable hide breaks bread with the enemy. I can reveal to you that one of our agents, Jameson, has just met his maker in Glasnevin Cemetry. Too close to Collins, **** it!, he must have dropped his guard. That won't happen you though, Flashman! You are going undercover, and you'll have an excellent cover story too. Lloyd George wants that despised Irish Organisation infiltrated and destroyed. You will be watched closely by my dear friend Hoppy Hardy. A finer fellow you won't meet. He has kicked some green arses I can tell you, and would we had more of his kind! ****** fine fellow indeed.

I could only stand there, blanching, and my guts turning sour listening to that drivel. I was no spy and those ****** potato eaters were on the warpath! Give them the ****** Country, I thought to myself. Old Harry couldn't give a **** if they flew a Green Flag over Buckingham palace or paraded their colours in Winsor Castle! The Irish had their Irish up and had the Country in a state of terror, and Flashy was to be a go between for King and Country?
I wanted to retch and felt nauseous at the thought. Even as I stood there nodding as my cover was being presented and my arrangement to meet Michael Collins outlined, I could only think of that poor deluded fool Jameson.Lying in the damp soil of Glasnevin Cemetry, of all places!
A bullet in his head and chest for his troubles. Flashman, my boy thinks I, you will shake hands with the Devil and won't be leaving Ireland in a wooden overcoat. Even as that idiotic spiv spoke from his safe leather chair, I was working out my departure plans and Collins could go to Hell. As usual though, it never goes to plan for Old Flashy. I stepped out into a cold November chilled night air as Christ Church cathedral rang its bells. A gun was cocked and an Irish brogue said' Into the side street, nice and easy friend and we'll have a little chat, won't we? My innards churned and I looked for an out but I could see I was well accompanied.

Now Gentlemen, what will we talk about? said I as my mind raced to collect my thoughts. I felt I could brazen it out and was ready to blow my cover if I could save my skin. 'We'll do the talking, friend!' were the last words I heard before I was violently coshed on the head and relieved of my wallet.

When I awoke Hoppy Hardy stood over me and I was safely quartered in the Royal Barracks. My head pulsed with pain and Hardy was rabbiting on. 'Well done Flashman, you held your nerve old son. We had our eye on you all the time old boy! I wanted a taste of your mettle although i didn't expect a blatant attempt on you so soon.Our sources tell me you enjoy a violent engagement with the enemy. Good news for you, the paddy who coshed you is in the next room.'

'We know he's an agent for Collins and you missed all the fun of the shootout when you were unconscious. Come on and have a look at how we run things here'.

As we entered the isolation room, I saw they had given the prisoner a good dose of the discipline stick and the blood trickled from a severe head ****. At least the ******* had a headache to match my own I thought. He was in a bad way and Hoppy gave him an unmerciful boot to the nether regions and let out a scream, which put the fear of God in me immediately. 'Once again you Irish *******! What were you doing breaking curfew with an unauthorised weapon! Who gave you that weapon? This was followed by a stinging slap to the prisoners face. This was pointless in my view as the fellow was clearly incapable of response after the boot he received. It made me think I was in for the same treatment if the Irish boys adopt the same was all I could do not to flinch as Hardy unleashed a flurry of blows on the unconscious rebel.


Charlie Dalton was in a rage as he spoke to his brother Emmet. ' One of our lads, Frank Fagan, was taken last night! We were following an English lad, and his bearing was suspicious. A right cocky one parading the streets like a Lord of the manor. We had just coshed him and were about to take him to Crow street when Hoppy Hardy and his thugs made an appearance. We had to shoot it out but Fagan was captured.
Emmet listened and stunned Charlie with his response. 'Fagan's a traitor and has served his purpose for Hardy. Wouldn't surprise me if Hardy kills him with his own hand and dumps him in the Park.
' What are you talking about? Emmet! Would you listen to yourself! How the hell do you make that out ?
' Because I told him ' said a voice and in walked the Big Fellow himself with the bearing of a bull and the shock black hair combed to the side. Michael Collins stood in front of the brothers.
' The Brits are playing silly buggers again and a new agent is in town! I want all our boys to keep a close eye on him and no one harms a hair on his head till we find out more about him. Let's play along with the ruse. I understand his real name is Flashman. The pride of the British Empire. A British Lion is it? We'll make that boy roar when we know more.

Fla­shman was handed a Brandy and Hardy toasted ' Your good health old Boy! and broke into a big guffaw of laughter. Flashman didn't like the black humour and swallowed hard and racked his brains for his next move.

The Cairo cafe on Grafton Street was my meeting place with Captain Gunnery who was instructed to walk me around Dublin and introduce me to the City. I could see his nerves were shot and he had the fear of the demented in his eyes.'Welcome to Ireland, sir, he whispered. Watch your back at all cost, trust no one, and treat every approach from any of the natives as a potential threat to your life. 'The Irish are a shrewd lot,as dangerous as a cornered rat.They are also experts at holding a grudge. The mood is treacherous since that failed insurgency in '16.We made a ***** of it executing the ring leaders.The massacre on North King Street is still sour in their mouths.
Cozying up to the Germans after all we did for'em. What did they expect?

I could only nod and wonder if I wasn't already marked for a ticket to the next world. '

'Anyway, we're going hunting now, Gunnery said then, and you and me will be dressing up for the party.'That's right, he whispered with a haunted look in his eyes. 'We're donning the Black and Tan gear and raiding the Mansion House tonight.'

' Are you having a laugh? I blurted and looking every bit as startled as a nun inadvertently walking into the gents. 'We'll be well numbered, said he, and give those green ******* a taste of hardship. I gave him my best manly look ' Do me a favour old boy, walk me to this building, on Dawson Street you say, and let me have a look at the battlefield beforehand eh?

I needn't tell you, dear reader, that I wanted to examine the terrain and take a mental note of my escape routes while I still had my faculties.
Just as we were leaving, a good looking middle aged woman, who I thought was giving me the glad eye, bumped into Gunnery and pulled a gun on him.
No words were uttered as a loud bang floored him immediately and he was on the ground with a gaping hole in his chest. She gave me a look and pointed the gun at my manhood then suddenly redirected it to Gunnery's head and blew it to kingdom come! As cool as you like, out she walked.
I made a run for it and the stupid ***** thought I was trying to get a hold of her. I could se she pulled the gun again and aimed to take a shot at me. ' Sweet Jesus ! I cried and as I made a dive for it, I felt a God Almighty sting in my ****.' You ****** *****! I passed out, as you can imagine with a bullet in your rear flank and still I knew I would be seeing that little ***** again.

A passing patrol of Auxillaries marched down Harcourt Street on their way towards St. Stephens Green. Looking down, from number 6, Michael Collins observed them closely. He knew two of them by sight and smiled to himself.
' Go back to Blighty lads, while ye still can'. Across from him were three members of the Squad; his chosen gunmen for assassinations. Three of his twelve disciples, although he had many more in reserve. **** McKee, looking every bit the revolutionary, with his long leather coat, heavy moustache and proud bearing stood facing the men. He was a Finglas man from North Dublin and Commander of the Dublin Brigade.

' Well ****, said Collins, who took out Gunnery? Who put a gun in that lady's hand?, God bless her! There's not a man here with the nerve to pull off a stunt like that. Find out who the officer was who chased after her and got a bullet in the **** for his troubles.We believe it was Flashman'. A burst of laughter broke out among the men.' Well we may laugh lads, but I believe that gun-woman is an agent for the Brits.Gunnery was a becoming a loose cannon.He couldn't keep his mouth shut.' Didn't we know a raid was imminent on the Mansion House because of him!' 'His own mouth sealed his fate. Let that be a lesson to ye! '

'Now, he said to Liam Tobin, get cracking and find out who that woman is. We could do a girl like that ourselves and if she's still in the Country then I want to meet her.' Yes ****, we'll get the background. I am off to Crow Street now to check our intelligence.

'Intelligence is it ? said **** What about that officer Flashman? Who the hell is he? Why was he with Gunnery. The word is he's no weasel. He took after that Gun-woman quick enough. Flashman, what kind of a name is that? 'The Brits must think we're right gobshites altogether naming an officer Flashman. Let's keep our eye on him closely! He's in the infirmary in Kilmainham. Maybe we can pay him a kindly visit and see he's settling in. Another laugh broke out amongst them.

Right **** said Collins. ' Let me see the list of names we need to eliminate and take out that picture of the Cairo gang. 'Take a good look at lads, we'll be sorting those boys out soon enough. If Lyoyd George wants Ireland that bad then let him see the price he's going to pay! Ireland's not for sale and we won't be tenants in our own ****** Country!


' I was lying comfortable, all things considered, in my hospital bed with the nurses swooning over me. Incredibly that ***** did me a favour. Witnesses reported how I gallantly chased after the assassin without a thought for my safety. Even Hoppy Hardy had called to my bedside and said as much!
'Well done, old chap! Another feather in your cap eh! A pity about the location of the wound though. Don't fret, the official report says wounded while pursuing the enemy.This means you will have to lie low for a month at least. Did Gunnery, the poor *******, mention the Black & Tan uniform to you? He did eh! Jolly Good!

Now Flashman, you are going on vacation to the Rebel County Cork! I knew a chap like you would dive on an opportunity like that. The Irish have formed ' flying columns' and are taking the fight to us in that treacherous City. We'll teach them about ambushes, by Christ, and you Flashman will be right in the thick of it.

I smiled faintly and looked at Hardy with an anguished expression.
'If you don't mind Sir, I'm feeling a bit drained and your news is most welcome. Do you mind If I close my eyes and rest a bit?
' Forgive me Flashman, I've been inconsiderate old chap! You take a rest and have a speedy recovery. You'll need your energy for the Cork campaign!

' **** it already! I thought to myself.I don't need this reckless boys own mentality and nuts like Hardy putting me in the front line. For God's sake, I've never even been to Cork! What did Hardy say? Rebel County!
I felt sick to my stomach and turned over in my bed. I litteraly had a pain in my ****.

Down in Kilmichael, Co. Cork, a young man named Tom Barry was putting his men through their paces.
A nod to George McDonald Fraser creator of the wonderful Flashman books.
2.2k · Sep 2016
Passing time
Harriet Cleve Sep 2016
your rusty powdered chains dug deep
anchoring your bones to lanky long keys
resting in tormented locks
melted in the heat of hell
as the screams marked the passage of time
not your screams though
your bony white jaw long decayed
so you stare down the centuries
through empty sockets
in the pitch black dark
alone in the company of others
their bony thin fingers
pointing at your soul
crushed beneath the weight of time
whispering 'it's him! it's him!
whimpering in fear
condemned to share these cursed years
in white heat infernos
forged to your bones
forged to your terror
time passing slowly
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
Courage and his old friend Coward

hand in hand felt quite empowered

off they went from tower to steeple

amongst the land of broken people

they climbed amongst the highest fears

sailed the deepest darkest tears

weaved amongst the dreadest schemes

faced down nightmares, took on dreams

Coward hoped they'd do some good

in the land of flesh and blood

He didn't feel so terrified

now that Courage was by his side

they walked in wars and abject terror

hoped the world would see its error

Sometimes they got a glimpse of peace

yet many times that too would cease

Centuries passed and Courage cried

'You can't say we haven't tried!'

Then Coward's knobbly knees would settle

deep inside he'd find his mettle

In the land of broken people

beneath the towers and lofty steeple

Hope came home, it may seem absurd

holding hands with his old pal Word

Off they went to home sweet homes

Writing letters, posting poems

Off they went from tower to steeple

holding hands and healing people

Courage and his old friend Coward

hand in hand felt quite empowered

off they went from tower to steeple

with Hope and Word to heal the people
2.0k · Mar 2019
Mad crows disease
Harriet Cleve Mar 2019
At  pychiatrists Christmas party

everyone left their heads at the front door

left their white coats at home

hanging on the line

like abandoned ghosts up for adoption

no one mentioned schizos' or psychos

avoided comments on weirdos or whackos

disdained any attempt to converse on madmen

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which meant they had nothing to talk about

except how scarecrows are tragic figures

misunderstood by society and crows

'True! True! they all muttered after the wine flowed

in red rivulets down their analytic necks

and caused their grey matter to ponder

on the merits of their profession

before waving goodbye to one another

collecting their heads on the way out the front door

not knowing the scarecrows had stolen their white coats

and were dispensing good advice to worried crows everywhere

watched by sobbing farmers who never knew their travails

It would bring a tear to a glass eye listening to their stories

a bale of straw looking on swearing

' when I grow up to be a scarecrow I will be a pyschriatric one'

only taking days off on Christmas'

'where at the parties  I will not discuss schizoids or psychos

avoid comments on weirdos or whackos

disdain any attempt to converse on mad crows

lunatic's, headcases, nut jobs, sad cases, lost cases,

bad pills, sickos, paranoids or alien abductees

which means we will have nothing  to talk about

except the poor humans and their miserable lot
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Tommy Smartarse hated smart arses . Especially intelligent smart arses. More specifically he despised the smart arses on the payroll of Narcissist Corp.

He loved to hear the sound of his own voice over the intercom.
'Mr. Tommy Smartarse will commence this afternoons meeting at three o'clock'.

If you weren't paying attention then you didn't get a second chance.
He had formally announced his agenda. End of.

No one though could miss that horrible whiny, nasal, asinine inflected,grating tone of voice.

His demeanour was reminiscent of a disgruntled hangman who had been informed of the abolishment of capital punishment.
The chalk white of his teeth were razor sharp and the gates that held back the venomous bile that swirled from his voluminous bowls.
A real nasty *******.

A swagger in his **** portending the arrival of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
His office was a cesspool of debauchery and smelled like the disinfected wing of a fever hospital.

His eyes gleaned with the glint of a thousand mad *******.
A small weedy specimen with a comb over from hell.
'Satan's representative on Earth' he liked to refer to himself.
Foul over-tanned wrinkled skin hung from his face.
A flaccid face like a rhinoceros' **** on a sick day.

Abandoned by his mother, it was rumoured, in the back streets of
Peckham; adjacent to 'Nancy's bordello'.

No one dared mention his parentage or the orphanage which spat him out at fifteen years of age.

Yes, Tommy Smartarse came up the hard way and his brain was all he had going for him.

A cunning, devious, three faced pile of ****. All five foot four of him. His vocabulary was borrowed from old footage of Winston  Churchill and he fancied the British Bull Dog was a secret relative.
Tommy Smartarse was a fantasist  to match the best of them.
Delusions of world ******* percolated in his grey matter and instilled a false sense of unbridled confidence in his own abilities.

Some said Tommy Smartarse was devoid of any decent qualities and this was evident in his deplorable character.
A bully amongst bullies. A prize swine amongst pigs.
The slurs and slanders that rolled off his reptilian-like tongue were legendary.

Today though Tommy Smartarse would meet his nemesis.
A new recruit would attend the meeting.
A suave young man with an Oxford education and the artillery of a thousand cerebral Einsteins. A brilliant young man named Martin Christopher Savant.

Tommy Smartarse's life was about to be dismembered.
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
'Where is he now?'

'Room 35'

'His age?'

'Twenty 29'

'Has he spilled any brain fluid from the eye sockets?"

'He has not yet been placed on the neural cell divider'

'We were instructed to wait upon your arrival'

The two men faced one another. Equal in stature and authority.
Both were ghastly in their features. Sunken eyes that contained the
weary load of a harrowing existence. Intelligent though ravaged eyes that penetrated into the deepest recesses of the psyches of those quarantined in room 35.

Berdensharder walked past Halden.

Will you induce the full cerebral breakdown? said Halden

'I have not yet decided'

'Let me see him first.

Room 35 was secured and access permitted to Berdensharder.

He walked in and breathed the formaldehyde humidity.
His nasal passages recoiled in revulsion at the pungent sting of miserable brain fluid filters in suspension.

Facing him was the sample. A young man with a look of terror in his eyes.

He had been placed in a cranial clamp and was rigid in an upright steel frame. Electrodes hung like tentacles from a deformed squid.
Clouds of medicated bacteria floated in a transparent tube connected to the frame. The tubes had not yet been put in place.

'Your name?' said Berdensharder

'The young man was clamped by the wrists and ankles; naked and ashamed of his fear. His forehead was scarred and an incision led into his prefrontal cortex.

'Radsler Duriyima' came the reply

The voice was broken and clung to a false hope of salvation.
He had awoken in room 35 and had no knowledge of his previous weeks or months. His brain struggled to function.

'Your name! Berdensharder screamed is Gunther Strausse!

Tears flowed freely down Duriyima's face.

'No. My name is Radsler Duriyima'

This was the only lucid thought in his mind. He was sure of it. His life depended on this name.
Instinct was heightened as he said it again.

'Radsler Duriyima!'

Berdensharder switched on the cranium synaptic fluid uptake. He set it for distillation level four. This was normal and a precautionary first step in the cerebral breakdown initiation.

Duriyima's body convulsed and a screen in the room displayed his thought process and an image appeared on a screen.

The synaptic  responder projected the dulled translucent pictures of a face in a mirror. It was Duriyima's and he was shaving in an apartment. A grainy distorted vision interspersed with the sounds of a woman screaming. A gun blasted and then grey dull plastered walls rushing by. More screams. More walls. Blood splashed. Then black.

Suddenly Duriyima's eyes opened and Berdensharder sprayed a saline solution on the eyeballs which kept the eyelids from closing.
He took a surgical precision scalpel handed to him by Halden.
Slowly he slit the eyeball and removed a trace of fluid. Inserting a tube into the eye, his hand was a precision instrument and he gently placed it deeper into the back passage of Duriyima's eye.

Duriyima wanted to scream but was prohibited by a mouth gag soaked in a medicated solution.

His body shook the entire time in rapid convulsions. Only his head remained unmoved.

Tears flowed freely the entire time and the tear duct of the severed eye was gradually made redundant by Berdensharder.

Stepping back from his helpless sample Berdensharder looked upon the apparatus. He removed the gag.

'Now Mr Gunther Strausse!
'Your name!'

'Duriyima wanted to respond but only an animal like sound emitted from his throat.

A scream so horrific it would unnerve the servants of Satan

Halden looked at Berdensharder.

'Well, are you going to induce the full cerebral breakdown?'

'No. We will first get this sample to state his name.
'When Gunther  Strausse is ready to state his name then I shall do so'

Duriyima looked at the pair of them. What was going on?
Where was he? What did they want? His mind couldn't function.

The door of room 35 was closed and he was alone

One thought began to emerge. His name he now felt was Gunther Strausse.

He could not be sure. His thoughts ebbed into insanity.

Berdensharder would induce the full cerebral overload the following day.


Duriyima succumbed to massive shock, severe trauma, and paranoia.

He remained plugged into the filtration system for two hours in a semi conscious state. His brain ebbed with seismic brain wave cycles that sheared the integral subconscious of his existence.

One name repeatedly came to his mind, 'Gunther Strausse'
He tried to make sense of all that had happened as the fragility of his sanity took its toll. The face of Berdensharder took on a form in his thoughts. He felt nauseous and violently ill. His eye ached with an unbearable pain; his vision horribly strained and blurred.
The sound of a gunshot deafened his ears. His forehead was an explosion of activity and excruciating pain. Tears flowed from one of his eyes and this confused him. He sobbed and in a gibberish howl begged for deliverance.

He had this stomach churning sense he was in Hell and the torments he had endured were God's retribution.

He found his voice then.

'Sweet Jesus!' he screamed

'Not this! Not this!

'Son of God! Forgive! Forgive!

He begged till his bowels emptied and the stench of anonymity
reeked from his flesh.

Duriyima was very much still a part of the living; in a ghoulish grotesque quarter of a savage place reserved for aggressive science.

His screams and outbursts of terror had triggered an audio camera.

Berdensharder looked at the desperate features of Duriyima.

'No! Gunther Strausse' he said to himself.

'There is no God here'. 'Not for you nor any of us'

'God, Gunther Strausse, you will find has never heard of you'
'Not here'

'For you, only I control your emotions'
'I determine your quality of life'

'Yes! You will find out that betrayal is rewarded with surrealism!'

'I am your God!, Gunther Strausse'

Reaching his hand to a calibrated dial he adjusted the volume of the sound chamber to it's maximum decibel rating.

Duriyima's screams were relayed back to him and his ears bled with the intensity of the sound.

His mind collapsed in the wall of sound as his heart pulsed in rapid sickening beat patterns and it overtook the sound of his own screams.

'Yes!', Gunther Strausse, scream!  It will help you to realise it is all you have left.

Duriyima's body convulsed like a lightning rod for terror.
His brain burst with demented anguish and he collapsed into a nauseating nightmare.

Even in this state, Berdensharder followed him and the labyrinth
of Duriyima's mind became a battle ground for sanity.

Berdensharder's hand reached for the distillation filter system.
He employed the backwash switch and watched as the fluid of Duriyima's brain was circulated into the three micron carbon elements.

Halden looked on and met Berdensharder's eyes.

'It will be of no use' he said

'His mind can not cope with insurgent cells'

'He will never state he is Gunther Strausse'

A third figure looked on as Duriyima's face erupted in an explosion of hideous expressions.

'We shall see' said Gunther Strausse
'We shall see'

Room 35 crashed into an uncanny silence for three minutes'

Then a cacophany of sound hit Duriyims's ears

'Gunther Strausse' it wailed

'You are Gunther Strausse'

The cells in Duriyima's brain formed new synaptic networks forging in clusters around his prefrontal cortex.

Brain fluid started weeping from his sockets.

It was beginning to happen. His memories were being replaced.
His mind reborn. It was excruciating and still the wall of sound echoed and resounded in room 35

Gunther Strausse

Gunther Strausse

Gunther Strausse

Duriyima's eyes stared into an abyss of madness.

His tethered hands could not reach out to touch the face of sanity.
Deep inside his pysche he knew his ordeal was just beginning.

You took note of the cry for salvation?' Halden said to Berdensharder

'Of course, it is natural in the sample. The Amygdala reflex'

'He still retains a sense of deliverance. His amygdala is primitive and
primed for a search; a Saviour who will redeem him'

'There is no scapegoat here he will find. No burning bush.
No Good News from Christ'

'Still it is a sign of deep resistance' replied Halden

'It is a trivial issue and will be resolved'

'We will remove this superstition and replace it.

'He will question his sense of identity'

'He will becomre as Gunther Strausse and he will witness his own transformation.'

'Has the synopial fluid vat been prepared?


'I will inject his neo-cortex with an anti-aneurism sedation'

'He will beg for death soon but it will be denied'

'Nor shall he fully recover from the full cerebral breakdown'

'We are taking it to level six distillation tonight'

'Has the cryogenic vat been prepared for the body'


Duriyima will soon pray to be Gunther Strausse but prayer will abandon his faculties'

'He will endure and witness the five hour transcendence of terror'

Halden and Berdenschrader looked at one another knowingly.

'Has there been any further visuals  from the synaptic cells of Duriyima'

'Yes, a woman's face made a lucid and highly resonated image on the cerebral scanner last night'

'Only high resolution visuals are deemed important due to the high emotional energy associated with them'

' She has been identified?

'Even now she is being prepared for Room 35'

'Good, good. This will please Gunther Strausse'

'Now, let us immerse Duriyima into his new reality'

Halden and Berdensharder dressed into the rubber robes and secured the brain aprons in place.

Entering Room 35 they looked at the sample. He was under a deep induced coma. Berdensharder took a scalpel to his forehead.
A vacuum switch was enabled and a surgical cutting tool prepared to remove Duriyima's brain for temporary relocation.

Halden and Berdensharder looked at the clock on the clean-room walls. They had a five hour window to take Duriyima into a purged state of cerebral surveillance.


Hald­un rolled his sleeve up as Berdensharder prepared injection 19 and prepared to administer the dose.

'You have no need to worry Halden'

'It is routine now at this stage especially for you'

'This will be your seventh full cerebral surveillance of a sample'

'I have brought you back every time'

'You are safe with me. Your brain, your body will be unscathed'

'I hear a citation of merit will soon be yours'

'Gunther Strausse will award it to you personally'

'You are a loyal servant Halden, I will see you in five hours'

Halden looked at Berdensharder. Each man had suffered in their own way since 'the shutdown' took place.
Only their intelligence and guile had ensured their survival.

'Yes, Berdensharder, I know it. You will bring me back.

Then Halden passed into an induced coma.

The rig was in place and Berdensharder lifted Haldens skull like a door on a hinge. The titantium bolts were embedded deep into his skull. Delicately and with great precision twenty five electrodes were inserted into Haldens brain.

Berdensharder switched the spinal column reverse chamber.
A two way valve tripped the automatic pulmonary Gemini blood cell network. Haldens body remained in live peaceful repose.

The clock ticked in time with his heart and his brain was placed into the electrolytic vat.

In the same way and with the same urgency and diligence the brain of Radsler Duriyima was placed along side Haldens.

Level six distillation was in progress. Berdensharder now set about
the procedure which would take Duriyima to the verge of a mental breakdown.
In room 35 a young woman aged twenty four stared back at her tormentor.

Her hands and feet were restrained in an upright frame.

A cranial brace secured and held her head rigid.

On the screen facing her was an image of Berdensharder

'Your name?'

Hannah Prestovsky's mind was confused. She had no recollection of the last hours or days. Her mind struggled to function.

Only her name surfaced to her mind. The only lucid thought she had. Her name was Hannah Prestovsky. She knew her life depended on this name.

'My name', she stuttered, 'is Hannah Prestovsky'

'No! Your name is Gunther Strausse!

Tears flowed down her face. She was naked and ashamed of her fear.

'No, she said. My name is Hannah Prestovsky!"

She sobbed and emptied her bowls as the stench of terror rose from her body.

'I am a diplomat!' she cried

'I demand immunity! In the name of God who are you?'

'Silence settled broken finally by the image on the screen.
The voice of Berdensharder boomed from the speaker.

' No, you are no longer represented by any government authority'

'God is no longer here to deliver you into his protection'

' Now, your name?'

Hannah Prestovsky screamed till her lungs exploded with exhaustion.
In an area of this room sealed from her screams, the brain of Radsler Duriyima was about to undergo full cerebral surveillance.

­Duriyima's brain lay pulsating in the neural vat. The electrodes in his brain were connected to those in the brain of Halden.
Berdensharder was engaged in the system flowpath direction.
When he tripped the one -way valves it was essential Halden's brain fluid flowed into Duriyima's.

In this 'full wash surveillance' Halden's consciousness would merge with Duriyima's. If the process was successful then those thoughts held in the synaptic network of Duriyima's would be an open book to Halden. His brain would retain all that was contained within Duriyima's. It was unprecedented technology and had not yet failed.
Each time on relocation of Halden's brain, he was able to give a full account of the life of the sample. It was as if he was the sample.

Every fear, every concern or hope was disclosed to Halden.
No one else in the facility was capable of undergoing a surveillance of this nature. Others had tried it but in all cases both the sample and the invasive consciousness died within minutes.

Halden and Berdensharder were the only team to ever secure consistent trials to unheard of 'five hour' deep cerebral surveillance
and succeed in securing the neural data of the sample. Their method became known as the 'five hour transcendence of terror'.

Berdensharder looked at Halden. His admiration for his associate was deep and he envied him his courage. He was ruthless of course but he had an air of dignity about him. Berdensharder thought too that Halden would escape one day. If that ever happened he shuddered to think of the repercussions.

All these thoughts were fleeting and the flashing instruments alerted him to his first function. He would light up the prefrontal cortex of Duriyima first.

He looked at the calibration settings on the visual imaging screen.
Then  he stared at the live body of Duriyima. The body was an empty vessel although every spinal output was connected to the remote brain of Duriyima. Audio and visual scanners would enable Duriyima to witness his own detachment.

This was the reason for anti-aneurysm injections into the new-cortex of the sample. It always freaked them out.

The worst was the brains response to it's isolation from the body.
The 'language to vocal' response was recorded and displayed to a digital readout. The voice was an algorithm. The screams became white noise.

When the sample recovered from the shock it was then the voice became an artificial sound emanating from the instrumentation panel.

Before Halden could immerse into Duriyima an interrogation was initiated.

Berdensharder turned on the system to awaken Duriyima.
Slowly Duriyima responded. His body responded in simultaneous response to his brain.

He could see the set up on the screen. It dawned on him that he had become an abomination.

Then he went into a full mental breakdown that created a white noise explosion that lasted for ten hideous minute.

'Yes! Scream. It is all you have left. Shortly your mind will open its gates to Halden'.

'Gunther Strausse will be planted in your brain'

'You will soon need your Saviour'

Duriyima knew it then. He must be in Hell. It could not be real.

None of this could be happening.

He didn't know what to do so he screamed.

The scream of the demented.

A smile traced the face of Berdensharder.

Berdensharder waited till the white noise finally stabilised.
He knew the sample was in deep pyschological  trauma.
This was a natural part of the procedure.
Duriyima's brain waves alternated between gamma and alpha rhythms.

A voice suddenly emanated from the speaker. It was monotone and the pitch was low. The sample was ready to communicate.

'Am I in purgatory?'

Berdensharder did not respond. He reached forward and opened an anthrax aerosol.

Reaching into the vat he opened a microscopic funnel into Duriyima's occipital lobe. He squeezed the aerosol which contained enough anthrax to poison a minuscule area of the brain. It went black immediately and the whole brain seemed to shrink in a futile sense of survival.

The white noise monitor went into a frenzy of sound.
It lasted for fifteen minutes. Duriyima was in agony.

When the noise subsided the brain was lifted from the vat.
Berdensharder removed the black tissue for sample analysis.

He watched the screen as he cauterised the area.
Duriyima's body was writhing in intensified terror.
He knew the whole procedure was witnessed by Duriyima as though he were a third party.

The body was in convulsions; at times seemed as though it might break free of it's restraints.

'No, Gunther Strausse, you are going nowhere'
'Now let us listen to some classical music shall we?'

A beautiful piano concerto filled  the air and the vibrations settled into the brain vat. Berdensharder looked at Halden's face as a smile broke out on his features.

This pleased him to see his associate receive some pleasure.
The music always worked. The brain always responded.
He looked then to Duriyima's face. It was contorted in a ghoulish grimace. Even so, the brain wave activity settled to level fifteen.

The body slumped now and the eyes were catatonic.
Berdensharder needed to leave the sample undisturbed for fifteen minutes. If it went into cerbral flatline then he would administer sedative eighty four. This always brought the sample back from the corridors of death.

From experience he expected the sample's next words would be 'my name is Gunther Strausse'

This had to be the way. The brain needed to survive. This was the name it must give. It must give it in no uncertain terms.

It feared the anthrax. The unknown. It feared the interference of nature. It must be placed back in its body. It must co-operate.
It must state 'my name is Gunther Strausse'

Berdensharder was patient. Thirty minutes passed and once again the white noise subsided.

The brain was in active mode once again. The samples vital statistics were stable.

The music was discontinued.

'Now, Gunther Strausse, what is your name?'

The sound monitor responded in a hesitant slow manner.

'My name is Gunther Strausse'

'Did you not tell me your name was Radsler Duriyima?' Berdensharder replied

'My name is Gunther Strausse'

Berdensharder was in full control and raised the terror level.

'No! Your name is Radsler Duriyima!'

'You have never heard of Gunther Strausse'

The White noise from the sound monitor went catastrophic.
Duriyima's brain screamed in agony. Had it not been for the anti-aneurysm injected previously it would have phyically exploded.
The body went into convulsions.

'Who are you?' screamed Duriyima

'Who are you?!'

Berdensharder smiled and replied 'It is who you will be that is the question'

'It is who you shall be!'

It was time now to open the non-return valve and allow Halden to enter the consciousness of Duriyima.

The White noise on the screen indicated that Duriyima was on the verge of the full cerebral breakdown'

'Soon it will be over' said Berdersharder and reached to turn on the valve. Halden would now perform the full wash surveillance.


It was always a beautiful experience. Halden felt as if he were reborn and the world was an unexplored discovery. Here in the neural ocean of Duriyima's synaptic network of young cells he immersed himself deep in the private psyche of another human.
He searched the entire brain map of Duriyima and came to know that neural landscape as though it were his own.

Duriyima resisted of course and became aware of the invasion.
His screams were a peak of White noise on the visual audio scanner.

Berdensharder watched carefully. Halden would soon know every thought and experience that Duriyima ever possessed.
He cared not for the fate of Duriyima once they were finished with the sample. All that mattered was the complete subjugation of a private mind. The private would become public. This forced confession would become the norm. It was exhilarating to be a part of the destruction of the individual. Halden had shown remarkable courage and took great personal risk to achieve this break through in mind control. He had shown it was possible to inhabit another's brain. Once this was done it was a step away from world *******.
Those who control the mind control the future. The secrets of enemy States would be unlocked. One had only to capture the intelligentsia and key figures in an administration. Their minds would be ransacked. Berdensharder turned suddenly as footsteps unexpectedly approached.

It was Dr. Xuaguang Lee from sector 84.
Behind him was a young woman holding a syringe to his throat.

'What the hell is going on!' screamed Berdensharder

'Hannah Prestovsky was sick to the pit of her stomach at the sight she beheld.

'You are going to release Radsler Duriyima' she said venomously

Dr. Lee looked on with rising terror in his eyes.

'She is holding a lethal dose of injection 19!'  he screamed

'Do you think I give a **** about him?!' said Berdersharder

Shoving Dr. Lee away from her she ran to the neural vat.

Holding the syringe above the brain of Halden she lunged it into his brain stem.

'You fool!' Berdensharder screamed

'The body of  Halden went into cardiac arrest.

Halden was now locked into the consciousness of Duriyima.

There was no way back for him. He could now only survive if Duriyima survived.

Seeing her chance at the shock she had given to Berdensharder she siezed the anthrax spray and a chemical solution from the neural vat.

'I swear to God if you don't bring Duriyima back then he will die my way!'

Berdensharder's mind raced. He had to save Duriyima if he was to save Halden. He knew Duriyima and Halden were one now.
Could he do it? What would the result be? Gunther Strausse would ****** him if he did not bring them back.

'Step away from from the neural vat! he shouted

'If you have any thought for Radsler Duriyima then let me work!'

Dr. XuGuang made to run for the door and was shot instantly by Berdensharder.

Hannah screamed as the blood sprayed her face.

'No ! Berdensharder' she screamed

'You will give me that gun or it all ends here!
'She gestured to the neural vat and prepared to dose it with a chemical mix.

Berdensharder looked at her and knew she would do it.
He passed her the gun.
'Now! Let me work!' 'Every minute is vital!'

Hannah Prestovsky was sickened by this filthy abbatoir.
'Where the hell are we ? She thought

Berdensharder turned the one way valve and shut down the pulmonary system for Halden. He needed to work fast and get Duriyima's brain back into its body.

A surge of excitement ran through his veins.
Would Halden be able to communicate from his new mind.
Could Halden dominate Duriyima's brain.
'Step back from the neural vat! Please!

Hannah held the gun and watched the horrible spectacle before her.
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Here in this room is the coal scuttle. Sitting precariously close to the fire is the photograph. In the photograph is a shadow on a wall.

In this wall resides a mind which never sleeps. It never rests. Nor does it permit me to rest. Time passes and each time I place the image in the fire I hear a startled scream. The edges of the Polaroid curl up and burst into blue flame. The edges of my mind are plastic; malleable neurons that have been distorted by that shadow.

In exhaustion, I have collapsed for what seems minutes and awake each time to the rustle in the scuttle. The sound of a cornered rat ready to lunge at my throat? No, the photograph has survived every time. It is always there;  waiting, watching, listening, eager to continue it's burrowing into my mind.
The shadow has emerged from the background and seeped into my room. It wants me. It lies on my skin and enters my pores.
It is pulling me into the photograph and I am no longer myself.

A stranger enters my room. She looks curiously at the photograph.

I look back from the shadows of which I am a part. A hand discards me into the fire. I scream in terror and cry out. Soon it is over and I look at the room. In my bed that young girl sleeps. She is restless and as her eyes open she looks disturbed. I have become what she will become. Terror leaks from her lungs and she screams! Her screams resonate with my own. The photograph is hurled into the fire again in unsedated shock. My mind explodes with fear and it is then I notice the shadows are a crowd of shadows. A multitude of collected tenants.

The girl collapses once again. The fire flickers. The coals remain unstoked. A scuttle rests beside the fireplace. I stare out from the photograph.
1.2k · Sep 2018
Sweeping the broken minds
Harriet Cleve Sep 2018
....the corridors were empty and her head was full.
Oily yellow walls and floors listened carefully to their own ancient rhythm. Two eyes stared into the low lit void of the hallways and penetrated the passage of life in a geriatric ward.

Everyone she cared to settle her gaze on were illuminated in an etheral light and slept in an unconscious world indifferent to the passage of time. Time stood watching with her and kept her company.

Sometimes her eyes fixated on a brush in a far off corner and she fancied the floor was gathering the dust of broken minds and fragmented thoughts ; then visualised herself sweeping the minds up and treading carefully so as not to wake their owners.

Sometimes too she saw herself in the spent people's faces and it kickstarted her mind to dwell on the fragility of life.

Here she was, an introvert in a world full of mouthpieces shouting through foghorns and blasting the fog of her thoughts into oblivion.

A painting of Munch's Scream looked down from the wall in an eerie aura of empathetic awareness and beside it a crucifix of a battle scarred Christ  with weeping wounds that were as red as the garish blood sky in the painting. Here she held her breath and stifled her thought process. The world was a cruel place and Golgotha lay in every city.

A patient cried out disturbing the scene and briefly opened his eyes and looked straight at her. 'Will he be here soon?' he said with a terrified expression and she soothed him with a quiet hush.

It would be dawn soon and she decided she would not wait for it.
From her pocket she took out a sharpened knife and without a moments hesitation drew it across her throat. She uttered no sound and lay back in her chair as the sacrificial blood turned her white uniform into a crimson rose.

The scream from the oil painting was unheard in the ward and only the terrified expression of the figure in the painting understood the terror. Christ looked down as her last witness and her eyes slowly closed.

A patient cried in the darkness, 'will he be here soon?'

The silence uttered a quiet hush and an introverts mind turned out her lights.
1.2k · Jul 2018
Chasing butterflies
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
that was the year of chasing butterflies

down yesterday's roads where lopsided iron gates

flung their welcome arms open

brushing the wings of painted ladies

that was the year of chasing sunsets

down yesterday's skies where callous clouds

swallowed the sinking Sun

dripping shadows on the Crimson ladybirds

that was the year of you chasing dreams

down yesterday's fields where glorious green grass

stretched for miles and we were new age pioneers

rolling our wheelchairs across the plains
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Delicately, extremely delicately, Penelope Bloom wrapped her headscarf into place. The fragrance was staggering to inhale.
The heightening scent of Summer radiated from her countenance.
Beneath the scarf was a blossom of red roses, scarlet tulips, pansies, bluebells, daisies and every other flower a botanist would roll off the tip of their tongues.

Penelope had shaved her head the night before as part of a charity awareness for 'The shelter for broken hearted Skinheads Society'.

In her bedsit was a shared bathroom. The shampoo smelled divine and she had poured an abundance on to her naked scalp to calm it down. This potion was actually an elixir with restorative properties for botanical flora. It was a trial potion left there in error by a scientist two doors down.

Silently she walked out of her bedsit and holding down her panic took a stroll into the Botanical Gardens for guidance.
She could not work up the courage and decided to sit on a park bench and figure things out.

As she did, Henry Hammer & Tongs McVicar noticed her. He was the founding member of the 'Shelter for Broken hearted Skinheads Society' and he eagerly sat down beside her to thank her profusely for her support and kindness.

He was overwhelmed by the heady scent emanating from Penelopes scarf.

'Good God!'  he cried

'You smell divine! '

In defensive shock Penelope replied 'No Henry, you are smelling the gardens'

'Isn't it beautiful though?'

Just then an old lady walked by.

'Excuse me lovey'

'There are a bouquet of flowers streaming down your shoulders!'

The flowers on Penelopes head could not be contained and burst from the scarf.

Henry Hammer & Tongs looked on in bewilderment as Penelope ran off like a galloping garden of colour.

The old lady gasped in amazement.

Running back to her bedsit Penelope bumped into the scientist.

'Oh my God!' He cried

'Eureka! Eureka!'

Penelope was like a moving forest at this stage.

'You know about this!' She cried

'Well! Answer me!'

David Longfellow just looked though and for a long time stared and stared before he spoke another word.
948 · Oct 2018
Walk tall, Pilgrim!
Harriet Cleve Oct 2018
Like a Tombstone moment, there they stood
Corporate gunslingers looking for blood
Sales are down! Now you are going down!
One was heard to say

No gun to **** so he cocked a snoot
On that dark November day

They both stood tall inside the meeting hall
and stared each other hard
no guns would fire, no life expire
though no-one dropped their guard

Cerebral cowpokes locked minds that day
words the weapon they chose
yet these would serve them just as well
than both exchanging blows

Six thinking hats, De Bono once said
was the smartest way for thinking
one wore white, the other wore black
The mood was mean and stinking

It was finally said, though no one was dead
It's over! You are fired! Now get out!
they both stood tall in the meeting Hall
the victor chose to walk out

Now listen Pard as life is hard
you too may have to walk out
so train your mind and you will find
You will once again be sought out

Walk tall, Pilgrim!
927 · Nov 2019
A word in your ear
Harriet Cleve Nov 2019
Life happens

poetry helps
914 · Sep 2018
Frank the Butcher
Harriet Cleve Sep 2018
Frank the Butcher knew his meat
no ifs or cuts about it
'Lovely day for walk!' he would call out
when his neighbours pet pig
was out and about

Watch his poor little trotters!
he would shout with a snigger
the grin on his face getting bigger and bigger
'He must love you to bits!'

Yes! Happy as a pig in mitts

His neighbour, disgusted, the very next day
shouted 'Pigs are loyal pets!
but to his dismay
Frank the Butcher looked his way
shouldering the carcass of Aunty May

The pet pig's Aunty I meant to say!

Her mouth on a meat hook
sliced down her full belly
Pet piggy was shocked!
his knees turned to jelly

'Look away luvvie! his owner said then
as there in the window was his brother Ben

The pet pig's brother that is and his cousin Ken!

Pet piggy was oinking with fear on his face
then ran like a demon far from that place
'The usual Tom? Pork sausage and spice?
'Rashers and bacon, yeah that would be nice!

The neighbour was fuming, still to this day
Frank the Butcher is heard to say
'Where's the little piggy that went on his way?'
did he wee wee home or just go astray?'

'I hear lambs make such lovely pets
'Better than dogs or a ***** old cat!'

Frank the Butcher was nasty like that....
796 · Aug 2018
The Devil's tooth
Harriet Cleve Aug 2018 silence he stared till his eyes ached from exhaustion.
The shallow breathing unsettled his mind. It was frostbite cold.
His head swirled with giddiness and instinctive fear; the
horrific realisation he was not alone and his form was no longer human. It was a deep rooted consciousness that instilled terror in his brain. An awareness this was Hell. No flames to flicker the shadows.

It was then the Devil opened his mouth to eat a plateful of dumbstruck souls writhing and recoiling from the sharp nails.
Slowly a tongue lapped them all up and relished in their horror.

He wanted to run from the Devil but was riveted in gut wrenching fear and was immersed in the souls and meshed with their terror, saturated in their gruesome awareness of their tormented new existence.

The Devil swallowed and drank their blood by the gallon and slaked his gory throat. Silence. Silence. Silence.

A realisation formed in his brain and either side of him lay decayed teeth. Rotten and mouldy and gangrenous. He had become a tooth in the mouth of the Devil.

Another plate of souls was placed before the Devil and he chewed with an appetite that would never be sated. The Devil laughed!
An evil cackle that drowned the fear of the writhing souls.

A tooth screamed within the Devils mouth. It screamed. Screamed.

Harriet Cleve Mar 2019
I was Richard the III's political double

it got me into a lot of trouble

agents came within the dark

my end was blunt and very stark

they sliced my skull and stabbed my bones

then pummelled me hard to stifle my groans

life for me was a strange osmosis

I was chosen  because of scoliosis

my hair was dark and face was mean

the closest to Richard you have ever seen

Yes, I was Richard the III's political double

it got me into a lot of trouble

my end was bleak and rather shabby

far away from Westminster abbey

to cap it all ( This ranks and needles)

I am reinterred in Leicester Cathederal

And as for Richard? I don't know

He's somewhere out there down below

I was Richard the III's political double

It got me into a lot of trouble
737 · Jul 2018
Baroness Penniless
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
Baroness Penniless stripping for your art

creaming up your body like an apple ****

tomato bras and candelabras that's your dada art

take a side, not suicide, looking for your place

don't be a *****, be the **** descending staircase

Duchamp, your champ,  your ready -made not taking any chances

A sheet of glass and your fine *** declines your *** advances

Marcel, Marcel, I love you like Hell, take me to your mountain

we will not stop until the top and there I'll find my fountain

Marcel, Marcel, can it be true, the thief is here what will we do?

Forgotten like this parapluie am I by you

Baroness Elsa von Freytag- Loringhoven Mother of Dada Art

sitting in the jolly inn playing out your part

Berlin, Berlin and there within the forming of a ylem

you end your ways and count the days in a pyschriatric ayslum

Baroness Penniless stripping for your art

creaming up your body like an apple ****

tomato bras and candleabras that's your dada art
Tribute to Baroness Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven founder of Dada Art
711 · May 2019
Cuthbert Cutknife
Harriet Cleve May 2019
Cuthbert Cutknife was a peculiar young lad. When he was nine, his mother toughened him up for Grammar school.
Veronica, his mum, was as hard as nails and came from a dubious parentage. Her peers said she was the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. It was rumoured that her ancestry was vintage thuggery.
Some even said her great paternal grandfather was a pirate. This would account for the affluent lifestyle her family enjoyed.
Whispers were in circulation that she was a military trained former assassin; assigned to protect her Majesty the Queen.

Either way, she was one tough mother. Cuthbert was a nancy to the naked eye. Demure in appearance and manner, he looked as soft as melted marshmallows in an autoclave. A skeleton had more flesh on it's bones than he did. His voice was girlish and his gait effeminate.
This made him a target through the years and was the cause of many a bully's demise. Cuthbert was deceptive in his masculinity but he was a hard ******* and a vicious, malevolent streak ran through his veins. He had just turned sixteen and was enrolled in Grimshaws Grammar school for young gentlemen. This was a boarding school notorious for bully boy pupils and bully man teachers. Education was secondary to survival and the worst of young men excelled in the art of debauchery and villainy; which were on the curriculum.

Cuthbert was 'welcomed' on the first day by the headmaster, a nasty piece of work, Master Whipfrenzy. A young **** was at his side, Tom Thompson, and given instruction to settle young Cutknife into his form quarters.

Thompson didn't beat around the bush. As soon as they were out of sight of Whipfrenzy, he pulled Cuthbert into a side room where seven young lads were waiting to give him a hiding.

Thompson started the ball rolling and lashed out an unmerciful
kick at Cuthbert intended to destroy his manhood. No sooner did he do so than it was countermoved by Cuthbert by a concealed flickknife. Thompson's leg was sliced open like a side of bacon on an eager chef's skewer. Shrieks of terror followed at the rapid response of Cuthbert and all seven lads ran for their lives.

In shock Thompson wailed as his lifeblood was pouring out in torrents. Skilled in the art of battlefield wound surgery, Cuthbert applied a tourniquet and waited for the scattered lads to return with the authorities.
Between the tears and fears for his life, Thompson was subjected to a few well placed boots to the kidneys by Cuthbert.

'Spread the word around Thompson'

'Anyone taking me on better be carrying iron or steel'

'Next time one of us dies and I don't fancy your chances of survival'

Thompson bawled his eyes out and the blood poured and poured and poured.

Footsteps came scurrying down the hall in panic and no one could believe what happened.

'He looks like a girl?'

'Are you sure it was him?'

Cuthbert had arrived and Grimshaws Grammar school for young gentlemen was in for a rude awakening.
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
somewhere else the guns are silent

not a word escapes from their muzzles

doors are in place in a house with a roof

a fire burns warm in a cast iron grate

somewhere else the girls wear faces

lipstick red on fresh baked smiles

freckled skin with awesome hair

brushed by hands with lilac skin

somewhere else the books are waiting

words are sleeping on feather down pages

like wild animals in a well fed zoo

beneath the gaze of rested eyes

somewhere else a world breathes easy

clouds drive slow in  low-gear lanes

women walk in elegant gowns

cigars perfume the company of men

somewhere else these things happen

but I am nowhere near these places

my gun is waking in a trembling hand

my dreams are silent in a different land
662 · Jun 2016
Buttercups in flight
Harriet Cleve Jun 2016
Stretched for miles was a meadow of yellow buttercups standing three feet tall
all their petals open to full throttle like propellors on an old airplane ready for take off
in an airfield looking for pilots to sail them to the heavens speaking in a language only
the wind could understand as it blew soft amongst their wings looking to achieve
terminal velocity while the drone of their engines filtered my senses as we took off to the skies
Harriet Cleve Nov 2019
Four women stared at the shoes.
Only one could afford them. Only one wanted them.
Only one needed them.

The fourth woman would steal them.

Beryl Masterman glared at her competitors in the plush carpeted showroom of Sothebys on Oxford street

Her eyes were transfixed on the three women. Seething with rage at the sight of her great grandmother's former diamond studded heirlooms on ****** display in a gold gilded glass cased monstrosity.

Beryl was a beautiful woman possessed with delusions of grandeur.
Her family's fortunes were lost when the ***** industry collapsed and the Chinese authorities nationalised their properties.
Barely escaping with their lives they had  made a valiant attempt to smuggle arms into the Congo in the hope of securing a lease on a diamond mine in the Transvaal.

This scheme  too was fated to collapse but not before forty extremely precious diamonds were discretely sewn into the hem of Great Aunt Sarah's wedding dress.

It was a small step, no pun intended, to get a cobbler to purpose build a beautiful pair of diamond studded shoes. No one knows what price he was paid or if it covered the cost of his funeral two days after the shoes were handed over.

The Mastermans were a ruthless lot and each generation had an intelligent matriarch at the head of the family.

Beryl was trained in the ancient art of skullduggery, hand to hand combat,profiency in wrestling and was an expert with a rapier.

All her skills would be called upon in the events about to unfold.

Only once had Beryl come close to death. Making a mad dash across check point Charlie she had unleashed a full ammo clip when her sten gun misfired. The startled guard, a brute of a woman with the fists of a boxer cut Beryl's face with a nasty uppercut. This immediately caused her nose bone to destruct and the blood flowed unmercilessly.

Provoked by this savage attack Beryl lunged into a full tilt roundhouse and caught the guard on the side of the head causing instant death. Five other guards shocked at her reactions failed to act and Beryl made it to safety. This would go down in legend although it was the least of her exploits.

Hitting thirty eight now she still had the legs of a glamour model.
Six foot six and a beer belly to match the bar flys in any American city. Yes, she was out of shape but once committed to a cause was known to get into fighting shape in rapid order.

It's true that her mishaped nose took away from her looks slightly but even at that men stopped in their tracks at the elegant gait.
Men were known to duel at dawn for her affections.
No one ever really captured her heart and had they known her scurrilous background they would have backed up the bus a mile before she boarded.

As Beryl cased the room and took note of the exits and fire escapes she noticed a small man looking at her. It might have been an innocent glance but nonetheless his body was found an hour later in the Gentlemans privy with his head shoved and smashed into a ******. The look of horror on his mutilated face was a sight the coroner to this day has never forgot.

Beryl was on a mission and it was essential to get those shoes.
Her fake passport and identity were in her handbag and a hotel reservation booked in South America. Tonight she would steal the shoes and three women would lie dead in their hotel rooms.

One man would be given the task of solving the case. Detective Harry Horsefooder would need his full faculties to bear down on the culprit. As Beryl's plane took off that very night his body was found torn from limb to limb in the backroom of a cheap hotel. He never got a chance to fire his weapon. His eyes were gouged out and his wallet was missing.

Scotland Yard were now on the case. The trail would lead them all over the map of South America.

In a hotel in São Paulo Beryl lounged across her bed. Smoking a Cuban cigar she figured out her next move.
Perhaps she would get the next flight to Cape Town.
The shoes were going back to Africa either way.

Beryl gazed in the mirror and looked at her reflection.
The belly was getting harder to lose. The make up not quite as good at camouflaging her broken nose. A couple of teeth were getting loose in her head but by God she was still beautiful.

A soft smile traced her countenance but even as she relaxed another woman was on her trail. An enemy from the past.
The incident from Check point Charlie was about to reignite.

A KGB agent wanted to apprehend Beryl. She had orders to bring her back to Mother Russia. Belanka Stavros Lettrovnass was on a flight to Sao Paula.

Belanka looked at the photo of Beryl her handlers had given her.

'What a fat ugly looking *****' she thought.

Already she was underestimating Beryl and this would have fateful consequences for the KGB's best undercover operative.

Beryl averted her gaze from the mirror and sank back a Black Russian. Stretching her torso across her bed she thought to herself

'I will get the Masterman fortunes back. Or die trying'

Then she closed her eyes and slept the sleep of the just and righteous.
Beryl's exploits will follow soon.
Harriet Cleve May 2019
The world is full of odious vermin

today a eulogy; not a sermon

know your swine in all their guises

wisen up, avoid surprises

the biggest pig and here's the twist

a smiling face; narcissist

many words describe the beast

parasite is not the least

the following list is not complete

rancid, rotten, pure deceit

stinking, ******, rancid, ****

malicious, vicious, outright ***

monstrous, ghoulish, foulest ****

slimy, crawly, insect, slug

know you pigs and know their smell

putrid, pungent, stench of hell

the world is full of odious vermin

that concludes this lengthy sermon
625 · Sep 2016
Skinhead trilogy
Harriet Cleve Sep 2016
Skinhead Showdown
Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, were walking down their lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging chains!
A toothless grin was flashed within the darkened lane  just then
As coming up the other side, two rough old wrinkled hens!

Two old grannies, hand in hand, were walking up that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, and both were swinging canes!
Sparks flew then as chain met cane and a massive brawl ensued!
The skinheads knew they'd met their match, that this night would be rued!

You''re both going down! the skinheads roared as violent fists were thrown
But grannies  quick each threw a kick and the skinheads shrieked and moaned
*******! Get out of here! the skinheads roared just then
And a toothless grin flashed within from each old wrinkled hen!

Two skinheads rough, hand in hand, fled back down that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, but both were minus chains!
Two old grannies, hand in hand, proudly held that lane
Rough and gruff, yes very much, as each still held their
Both walked off, heads aloft!
Each was swinging a chain!

Old Skinhead
His Doc Martens stared back at him from an old tea chest marked East India Company
a wary apprehension settling from the burly skinhead gazing at his past buried amongst
his chain which showed some signs of corrosion even though it was folded in the deep
blue pockets of his denim jacket awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of
yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets where his blood flowed in rivulets
of anger soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice
to his manhood and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they
were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and
engage in a final battle and he even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted
the chain from its resting place and carressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies
leaving the bodies on the battlefields of his youth and instinctively a guttural cry roared
from his throat ' Gerrup ye *******! ' as he wielded the chain one final time before his
heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest as silence settled upon the scene
of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company

Skinhead Swansong
Cyril laced his Doc Martens
Prescribed for violent altercations
Ox blooded and ****** weapons
Battle scarred and battered
Essential kit for tours of duty
The last of the Skinheads dressed for battle

The intimidating black gum shield
Filled out his gaunted haunted face
Taking pride in his denims
He gripped his chain and took a swing
The old battle cry resonating from his arthrithic throat
'Ger up ye *******!

He worked up a frenzy and beat the crap
Out of his council bedsit
'Taste that steel!  What did ye bleedin' say?
'Are ye lookin' at  me ye toe rag!
He still knew his lines even at eighty one
It was time to  bow out
He needed some one to bow out on
Skinheads are funny like that
Involve other people for the crack

The Teddy boys were juking it up
Fifties nights for the decrepids
Ducks arses groomed and combed
Dry cleaned rockers in dry cleaned crombies
'That'll be the day when I die'
The old vinyl floor filler whippin' up the adrenalin
Defibrillators and oxygen on standby
Cyril burst in then

He took out two Teddys and worked his Docs hard
Hard men are still hard in old age
Once a hardo always a hardo they say
The chain was swinging now
Wrecking the jukebox and escalating the battle
'Come on ye *******! roared Cyril
Five teddies were downed now
Then the beer bottle came crashing down

Cyril staggered as his head burst open
His heart packed in and called it a day
A smile came to his face as he took one final look
His Doc Martens oxblooded and ******
The last of the Skinheads bowed out
His chain by his side
Skinheads are funny like that....
601 · Jul 2019
Ejector seat
Harriet Cleve Jul 2019
In a strange coincidence of fate, Lancaster Pilot Henry Cavendish was teamed with his former boss from the Semperit tyre factory.

It was Henry's job to train the rookies before flying into **** Germany for bombing raids. Now he and Slaughter were on a mission. Slaughter's first.

'Never thought we would go to war, Henry'

'You never told me you were an accomplished pilot'

On and on went his former boss rabbiting on about the good old days in Semperit.

Henry just grunted a few empty responses.

'Well you were a busy man Mr Slaughter'

Henry recalled his time with Slaughter. It was a terrible memory.
Gruelling hours to meet the demands of production.
That was fair enough but Slaughter was a malicious bully.
Many times he called Henry out on the workshop floor and humiliated him. The names he was called. The loss of his dignity.

'We met our records and filled our time sheets eh Henry'

'Now keep it quiet and take control of the plane while I look at the maps' Henry responded.

'I will watch the instruments so don't worry'

Just then heavy flak straffed the Lancaster

'Jesus Christ!' screamed Slaughter

'Keep calm! We are within target range!

The bombs were dropped and Henry glanced at Slaughter

'Look down below! The heart of Germany'

Suddenly Henry pulled the plane up and deliberately hit the override for Slaughter's ejector seat.He would settle his score the hard way without any remorse.

Slaughter didn't know what happened as he shot out of the aircraft and up into the sky.
His face was a picture of confusion and fear.

Henry looked at the skyline then and saw a Messerschmitt  looming in.

The plane was straffed and caught fire.

An explosion sent the Lancaster plummeting to the ground.

Henry hit his ejector seat and escaped the fireball.

Landing on the ground in a farmers field he looked around.

He knew instinctively despite his position he would survive the war.

He felt it in his gut.

Meanwhile Slaughter landed in a city heavily fortified with **** shock troopers.

'Hande Hoch! Hande Hoch! Schweinhund!

Slaughter looked in shock all around him.

Adolf Eichmann got out of his car.

'Take him to my quarters! Schnell!

Henry looked across the expanse of this beautiful country.

His compass was intact as he set out to plan an escape route.

Sitting in Eichmann's office Slaughter looked around him.

Two guards looked at him.

'Look at him! Eichmann will soon humiliate this English filth!
'No dignity will remain in him after his gruelling interrogation'.

The guards laughed and Slaughter struggled with his thoughts.
597 · Jan 2017
The Devil's Knickers
Harriet Cleve Jan 2017
the Devil's knickers were thrown on the ground
a bleak wind howled on high

on a night that was black as the ace of spades
a bare-assed horse ran by

on top of that  horse with
a rage in his face
the Devil  was digging his feet

his red *** ripped by a cold North wind
it was me that he happened to meet

step down old Devil! I happened to shout
that horse you ride is my own

then I lashed out a kick as he galloped on by
the hardest he had ever known

I picked up his knickers and
hurling them high
caught him full smack in the face

I pulled in my horse by those
blazing red reins
putting an end to his bare-assed race
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
I travelled

the road less travelled

met my end at a dead end

the wrong end of a cannibal's fork

in the event you are meant

to read my torment

my last testimony

kindly entrusted to Cannibal Sidney

his knife now in my kidney

who never saw an eatery

was pleased to taste the likes of me

weep not forget not

the road less travelled

is paved and gravelled

and full of peril

Say goodbye to my girl Beryl
551 · Sep 2019
God is not a mirror
Harriet Cleve Sep 2019
God is not a mirror

you must look deep within yourself

to see His reflection
534 · Jul 2018
Greedy Glutton
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
Greedy glutton wolfed his mutton

then he ate a whale

he waded in the deep blue sea

buoyed up by a gale

Up he flew and before he knew

he landed on the moon

to his disgust it was only crust

that broke his silver spoon

Greedy glutton ate his button

his shirt flapped like a sail

he blew around the sweet blue moon

then met a hungry whale

It drank him up in one big sup

I saw it on the telly

his arms and toes and chunky nose

then his big fat belly
522 · Feb 2019
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
once I starred in a film role

playing an ***** ( Seminole)

firing arrows from an old wood hut

me and my pals (from the tribe Blackfoot)

along came a girl sat next to me

long black hair ( Cherokee)

in the company of a gal named Sue

who brought some more ( her tribe was Sioux)

What could I do? What would you do?

Our reservation was a film lot

the  pay was crap so was the plot

we gathered all that we could muster

to take him on ( George Armstrong Custer)

So there we were on a scalping spree

Comanche, Cheyenne, Crow and Cree

that day's shooting took it's toll

I was murdered ( hung from a pole )

The only one that cried for me

was a black haired gal ( Cherokee)

Once I starred in a film role

playing an ***** ( Seminole )
506 · Feb 2019
Madman (by Paul Durcan )
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
Every child has a madman on their street

the only trouble about our madman is that he's our father
Great poem by a great poet Paul Durcan
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Herbert Spineless Springbottom looked immaculate in his three piece, navy, woolen suit. There in the mirror, his image looked back with protracted pride. His tie was a royal red and knotted in the shelby style. His shoes were blacker than a lump of fresh coal and gleamed of gratuitous affluence.

'Will Sir be taking the suit and shoes home?' the tailor asked.

'No, I don't quite like the cut of it'

'It makes me look small and from a lower station in life'

This was a remarkable statement by any stretch of an exaggeration.

Herbert stood six foot seven and held no position in life or society.
His bank account was non existent and his brazen neck was harder than a hangmans smile.

'No, let it out at the shoulders and I will collect it next Saturday',

Herbert knew he would not be returning and walked out with a head full of unbridled contemplation.

His ego needed flattering and this episode restored his view of himself as a lost son of high society.

As he turned into a side street he walked past an an Army Surplus Store. There he beheld the uniform of a **** Third ***** SS officer.

' The uniform in the window' he said to the shop assistant.
' I want to try it on'

'All of it, Sir?' came the reply

'Yes! The Jackboots, cap, everything'
'Also the Iron Cross'

'Yes Sir'

' The changing rooms are just behind that grey door to your left'

Herbert stood in his full height and gazed upon his image.

Even though he despised the Nazis he was a student of History; knew there were some good men amongst them.
Stauffenberg was one of those officers. That brave man who tried to assassinate ****** and paid for it with his life.

His image gazed back and he gave the salute in mock indignation.
He looked official and authorative. The Aryan glint in his eye.
Then he clicked his heels sharply and thought he saw something in the mirror which would have unnerved a lesser man.
A ******* flag seemed to flutter in the wind. He reached out to the mirror and incredibly it became a portal to **** Germany.

Steadily he stepped in and looked on with incredulity.

All around him were **** supporters and officialdom.

He held his nerve and when he spoke it was in fluent German.

A staff car pulled alongside him.

'Reichsmarshal Fokker! We have been looking for you!

'The Fuhrer wants to see you immediately!'

'Our orders are to take you to his quarters'

Herbert Spineless Springbottom turned around and the shop was no longer there. He eased himself into the staff car and a strange sensation overtook him. He was about to change the course of the War. ****** was about to meet his greatest nemesis ever.

A man from the future. A man who despised ****** and tyranny everywhere. A capable, charming man with a brazen neck harder than a hangmans smile. Herbert Spineless Springbottom.

****** stood facing Herbert.

Herbert stood ***** and threw out his arm in salute.
'Heil ******!'

******'s sullen face broke into a smile.

Herbert was brought into the War room and shown the battle plans for an invasion of Britain.

Churchill didn't know it but Fate had intervened in his favour.

The exploits of the most unlikeliest hero, Herbert Spineless Springbottom, were about to begin.
488 · May 2019
Happy Birthday! Cecil
Harriet Cleve May 2019
Cecil the skinhead put his false teeth in.
A new red shirt, cotton lined, showed off his physique.
The boots he wore were a beautiful wine colour.
Blue jeans took the shape of his ancient legs.
Today was his eightieth birthday and he had no cake to celebrate.

Never mind, his council flat still had the feel of a batchelor pad.
There on the wall, next to his samurai sword, hung his chain.
Many a head was cracked open with that weapon.
Swinging it over his head a few times brought it all back to him.
The streetlights in London, broken noses, disgorged eyes, screams from pansies caught off guard by a kick up the ****.

Cecil chuckled to himself and prepared to swallow back a
can of cider and light a cigar for the occasion.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door. Instinctively, Cecil reached for his chain and let the door open slightly just off the chain guard.

Chaos broke out as a boot kicked in the door with the ferocity of a Gestapo officer looking for a head to kick in.

There he stood, **** the Mod, that mad Irish ******* who Cecil had left for dead five decades ago. All his height was gone with time but his knuckles still had a raw edge. With all the force of a decrepit nanogenarian he proceeded to take Cecil on.

Bad mistake. Cecil was always ready for combat. Always had been ever since his dad knocked the crap out of him for practise.

Ironically, the Who was playing on Cecil's old transistor radio.
'You better you bet' became the soundtrack to the next fifteen minutes of mayhem. The Mod was a sly ******* and his hair was slicked with grease; which he used to smear Cecil's eyes.

The chain needs no eyes and it cut a deadly swathe through Micks brylcreem. Once again Cecil put his Doc Martens to good use and **** crumpled beneath a well placed boot to the proverbials.

Cecil did the decent thing and called an ambulance. Said **** was his mate; they had been celebrating his birthday when a gang burst in and gave them a going over. A nice cover story.

That night Cecil hit the town, got drunk, and reflected on his day.

He was eighty, still alive, and still had it in spades.

Then he passed out and never regained consciousness.

No one missed him but I often think of him still.
481 · Jan 2019
Harriet Cleve Jan 2019
' It is winter now!' cried the Doppelgangers

a withering wind cut their faces, shaping their features till they replicated the human.

As they emerged from the wilderness of antiquity they went their separate ways armed with the seed of iniquity.

One hundred beasts of the Anti-Christ set out in a deadly march to the homes of their identical faces. The first of the many to come. A vanguard from the vaults of hell eager to settle the Earth.

One hundred humans awakened from a nightmare and stifled their screams as each saw a living reflection at the foot of their beds.
In the same instant a hand was placed upon them and the intake of breath from the beast inhaled their very being until nothing remained except the doppelgänger.

Each night for thousands of nights to come the Doppelgangers came and settled into humanity sowing the seeds of destruction and made their way across the globe, across all the political and religious divides ensuring the wars would continue and the blood would shed and hatred would find its place.

Finally it happened by stealth layered upon stealth that the human was extinguished and hell reigned on the Earth.

The Doppelgängers waged war upon each other taking pride in the traditions of the human and in their blood lust remembered the pithy religions they had cast aside. The religions of division which had become tribal and adversarial pitting man against man.

The Doppelgangers laughed and held reign on the Earth.

Thus it became and thus it would always be.
Harriet Cleve Sep 2019
Slick Brick Mandini, half Irish -half Italian, was raised in the Dublin slums. Around the corner from Henrietta Street, Europes biggest slum, was the Italian quarter of Smithfield.

Slick Brick knew every stone and alley, every hawker and scumbag, every dark street in the North side of the fair city.

A tall, good looking man with a penchant for riding street horses late at night. Many the harmless vagrant were run over and trampled to death as Slick galloped his piebald down North King street into the early hours. He could turn that horse on a sixpence, with the deft assurance one would normally attribute that skill to an Apache or Commanche warrior from North America.

North America would beckon one day but for now it was the mean streets of Dublin that tried to contain him.

Everyone knew he had a brain and could recite his Shakespeare as well as the Bard himself. In his own mind he was a MacDuff ready to take on the Macbeths and weird sisters of life.

An incident in secondary school which he evaded suspicion of set him on the road to criminality.

Brother Lugnaciois was patrolling the school corridors that fateful day. 'The Lug' as the schoolboys called him behind his back was a vicious *******. A Christian Brother with a passion for violence and intimidation. His leather strap hung from his swaggering hips like a gunslinger from the Old West and many's the hand he welted with pure savagery. Lug's favourite torment though was to pull a young school lads locks and lift them up off the ground in one horror filled moment.

Slick had the misfortune to be returning from the school toilets and was confronted by Lug. For no reason other than the infliction of base terror Lug grabbed Slick by his locks and twisted his ears for good measures.

It was expected from Lug and retaliation meant sustained torment.
Slick pulled a flickknife from his waistband and slashed Lug under his left eye. It took a moment for Lug to realise what had happened.

Stunned at the emerging pain and gush of blood from his face, Lug went into a rage.

That was when Slick's fathers tutelage came to his mind.

'Always remember, Son, a swift kick to the lower nether regions will stop a racehorse'

And Lug became a racehorse in that very instance of thought.

He reared up to grab Slick by the throat when the kick landed to his nether regions.

First he went purple then green then a fury arouse on his countenance. With what must have been a testimony to the power to retain control in extreme pain Lug lunged at Slick for revenge.

Slick knew it was a life or death moment. He deliberately and calmly drew the knife across Lugs throat. Even that was not enough.

From his pocket he took out his pistol. A silencer had been fitted.

The horror with which Lug's eyes met Slick's was one of disbelief.

'You ***** toe rag!' Slick uttered and pulled the trigger.

Lug's head exploded in a spray of red death.

At all times Slick had retained his composure. He had opened the door to the underworld and eagerly walked through.

In time the world would come to know of the foul exploits of Slick Brick Mandini. Only a few close friends would ever know who murdered the ******* Lugs.

Slick would lie low for a while and it would be some time before Dublin was shook by another ******. This ****** would be the one that placed Slick Brick Mandini firmly in the gaze of the police.

For now Slick smoked a cigar of Cuban origin and felt proud of his efforts. He allowed himself a smile as he recalled Lug's terrified and confused countenance.

'You had it coming you *******' he thought as he held his war trophy.
The leather strap which would never again inflict pain on a schoolboys hand.
430 · Oct 2016
Harriet Cleve Oct 2016
Shadow movers, moonswept plain
Primal stalkers, beating rain
Wolf pack leader, stealth platoon
Instinctive howling, high full moon

Lone wolf far off,tethered chain
Body writhing, searing pain
Toxic brain melt,limbs explode
Synaptic shockwave, full implode

Muscles tighten, flesh is changed
Vocal chords , rearranged
Sinews tauten, pulsing vein
Heart enlarges, time again!

Cursed since cub, at full moon rise
Assume a dread form, human guise
Head tilts back, 'neath full moon beam
Emits no howl, just shrieking scream!
426 · Jul 2019
Moon- Lost Eden
Harriet Cleve Jul 2019
Three rockets achieved lift off from the Moon.
Each had seperate trajectories and destinations.

One of the rockets, Star Searcher, contained six people.
A two generation family. Two of them in particular chosen for their intelligence, resourcefulness, gene pool critical analysis and the hope they could begin a second Genesis on Earth.

Adam, his wife Eve, young sons Cain and Abel and their wives looked out from their craft at the dying Moon. Three quarters of the surface had lost any trace of vegetation, flora and fauna. The river beds dried and irrecoverable. The athmosphere no longer breathable.

The second rocket, Planet Hunter, contained an elderly man and his son. Two of the greatest scientists the Moon ever produced. A distinguished man who was a genius in DNA and gene pool studies, and his equally brilliant son. This man, code name God, and his son Jesus had first spotted the accelerating decay of the Moons surface and brought it to the attention of the inhabitants of Moon.

The third rocket, Destroyer, contained one man only. A rogue astronaut who had infiltrated the Space Agency under the alias code name Satan.
Another brilliant mind, it was his intellect that challenged the proposition that Moon was in danger. So great was his rhetoric that no one believed God and his Son. Yet it was this man who surreptitiously had sown the seeds for the demise of Moon.

All three looked out from their seperate craft.

Adam, God, Satan. All looked at the sudden flash and the cloud of star debris that followed. Eventually it would disperse and a new, smaller Moon would emerge over time. Never again would it sustain life.

Earth was the new hope. God would land his craft elsewhere in the solar system. Satan set his own course. His destination known only to himself.

A waiting Earth, ignorant of these events, turned on its axis and night followed day. A Neanderthal looked up to the skies and saw a strange object in the sky. It was the Star Searcher.

Frightened, the creature ran to his cave and hid.

Earth was about to change. Change utterly.

God looked at his instrumentation panel.

'Jesus' he said.

'Yes Father?'

'Reset the coordinates to Stellar Star 19'

'We have a tough road ahead of us'.
Harriet Cleve Jul 2018
the quiet frog is smiling still, sitting in his swamp

not for him the loud displays of garish regal pomp

no clothes to wear, he wouldn't dare

his candles have no tallow

yet you can tell he wears life well, sitting in the shallow

beside his bed, he is quite read, lie his watery books

late at night, tucked up tight, he reads to babbling brooks

when this is done he checks his gun, though you might think it's silly

a human tried to **** him once and wrecked his favourite lily

he reads the classics every day, is well up on his Dickens

the books he loves the very most are those where plots will thicken

Richard Burton heard him once and loved his baritone

He listened quite intently and made that voice  his own

when he reads a verse or two and that frog knows many

so many insects gather round you'd think they're ten a penny

'Again, Again'! those creature cry when he has reached the end

It really is a treat to hear their pumping hearts all mend

One day he shocked the little swamp, yes it was quite risky

they never heard the likes before, who was Charles Bukowski?

Then he read them Sylvia Plath and really wowed the crowd

You never heard a din like that they clapped so very loud

the quiet frog is smiling still, sitting in his swamp

not for him the loud displays of garish regal pomp

no clothes to wear, he wouldn't dare

his candles have no tallow

yet you can tell he wears life well, sitting in the shallow
394 · Oct 2016
Earth's last book
Harriet Cleve Oct 2016
Earth's last book still stands
Stonehenge like
Relic of a former age
In a distant museum, Galaxies away

Excavated by other beings
Space archaeologists
Deep from the charred soil
Of the Black planet
The once healthy blue now diseased
Obliterated in a nuclear flash
Earth'slast snapshot
Undeveloped Polaroid

Earth's last book still stands
A curiosity  of an extinct species
Viewed by a reverent assemblage
Gazed upon in awe
Evoking pity and wonder
Stimulating thought

For the ****-sapien
Who took pleasure
From the written word
Gone now
Unharnessed passion for knowledge

Yes! That last book still stands
In distant lands, distant stars
Beneath it lies an epitaph
'Excavated from planet Earth
Remnant of the atom splitters
Destroyed by unbridled knowledge
They were not ready'

'This artifact is evidence that the ****-sapien
Showed some promise'

The assemblage moves on
To the next exhibit
Extraterrestial tears softly falling
For the book, for humanity
For the hands that once held that book
And the mind which inhaled its contents
The Oxygen of life now extinguished

Earth's last book still stands
Stonehenge like
Tombstone to Humanity!
379 · Oct 2016
A man called Horse
Harriet Cleve Oct 2016
He was a horse of a man
equestrian you might say
Hi Ya Horse!  would call
as he cantered along his way

shirt three buttons open, tattoo on his chest
blinged medallion stallion
a breed above the rest

of course he was no stallion
his looks were crude and bland
larger in **** pocket, nosebag in his hand

his mane was long and full of dirt
it never  saw a rake
yet still he thought that he could flirt
I know, for pity's sake

still and all he loved to hear
Hi Ya Horse! called out
hoping for a filly at the other end of shout

one day, not paying attention
look out Horse ! cried out
he walked in front of a speeding bike
and knocked the cyclist out

nor did Horse recover
amongst that steel and blood
for when they finished treating him
he would never now be a stud

he was a shadow of a man
timid you might say
Hi Ya Horse! they'd call
as he looked the other way

yet  in his mind he'd still recall
his former glory day
Hi Ya Horse! would echo
as he limped along his way.

they shoot horses, don't they ?
360 · Feb 2017
Old Skinhead
Harriet Cleve Feb 2017
His Doc Martens stared
back at him from an old tea
chest marked East India Company
a wary apprehension
settling from the burly
skinhead gazing at his past
buried amongst
his chain which showed
some signs of corrosion even
though it was folded in the deep
blue pockets of his denim jacket awaiting the return of an other era lost in the arms of
yesterdays battles in the dingy London backstreets where his blood flowed in rivulets
of anger soaking the concrete with the indifference of violent confrontations in a sacrifice
to his manhood and the enemies of his youth and he inhaled his memories as if they
were a gift from the war gods of ancient times beckoning him to don his armour and
engage in a final battle and he even thought it over as his seventy year old hand lifted
the chain from its resting place and carressed the steel weapon which had slain his enemies
leaving the bodies on the battlefields of his youth and instinctively a guttural cry roared
from his throat ' Gerrup ye *******! ' as he wielded the chain one final time before his
heart packed in leaving him slumped on the old tea chest as silence settled upon the scene
of his final resting place in the shadow of the East India Company
360 · Aug 2019
Johnny Icarus -Spitfire Ace
Harriet Cleve Aug 2019
The air raid sirens screamed over the Kent Landscape.
Above  the skies an indifferent Sun gleamed its energy off the Spitfires on the ground. Never did the landscape look so beautiful than when it was realised it could be the last sight of England witnessed by the brave men scrambling to their aircraft.

One of those men, Johnny Icarus, was already in the air. A squadron
leader with tested courage in combat.

Churchill paced the grounds of Bomber Command. He had heard the pre-war exploits of Johnny Icarus and commissioned a plane especially for him.

'Hey Johnny, check out your new spitfire. It's called the 'Daedalus'.
Courtesy of Churchill himself'

This went over the head of most of the men but Johnny saw the irony and even felt it was as if he was favoured by the Gods.

Suddenly the Luftwaffe came into view. A Messerschmitt engaged with the Daedalus and unleashed a barrage of flak.

Johnny dived his Spitfire and looped up and behind the Messerschmitt. The Sun glared his eyes as he was temporarily blinded. Even so, he fired his guns and the Messerschmitt Bf 109 went up in flames and careered to the ground.

His eyes recovered as he regained his bearings and pulled into the open skies. He saw it then as he climbed; a Focke-Wulf Fw 190 gunning for him.Instinctively he fired his machine guns and destroyed the Focke. It seemed as though he was surrounded by enemy aircraft when he noticed a Hawker Hurricane covering his rear. For forty minutes the Daedalus  fought for control of the battle when it was suddenly over. The enemy was routed and sent back to Germany with their tails between their legs.

Johnny Icarus stayed in the airspace above Kent. The countryside was a glorious shade of green. England would stand firm.
The Daedalus turned its back from the Sun.

Back in Westminister, Churchill was informed of the outcome.

'I want to meet Johnny Icarus. In three hours I want him here in my office. Get Barnes Wallis too. The Germans are going to get a taste of their own medicine. We will pay them back in their own coin'

'Yes Sir'

Johnny looked down at England from the cockpit of his Spitfire.
He would give his life if he had too for this magnificent country.

The Sun shone oblivious to his thoughts.

Back in **** Germany a portly figure was pacing Hitlers office.
Goring was grilled by the Fuhrer.
The War was turning against the odious Germans.

Johnny Icarus descended to the ground and lit a cigarette.
Inhaling deeply he touched his precious craft gently.

'Good job Baby! Good job'
Harriet Cleve Feb 2019
Once from a big, big building,
When I was small, small,
The queer folk in the windows
Would smile at me and call.

And in the hard wee gardens
Such pleasant men would ***:
"Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair!" —
It was so red, you know.

They cut me coloured asters
With shears so sharp and neat,
They brought me grapes and plums and pears
And pretty cakes to eat.

And out of all the windows,
No matter where we went,
The merriest eyes would follow me
And make me compliment.

There were a thousand windows,
All latticed up and down.
And up to all the windows,
When we went back to town,

The queer folk put their faces,
As gentle as could be;
"Come again, little girl!" they called, and I
Called back, "You come see me!"
A great poem by Edna St Vincent Millay
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