The Earth was ours.

We filled its fertile fields full of
Plants of our own choosing: our own design.
To provide for ourselves we drained the Earth
Because the Earth was ours.

We populated the islands that
The Earth had built for us from its own skin.
Like parasites we kept it alive for our needs
Because the Earth was ours.

Then one day the Earth spoke:

You who crawl over my face,
Unthinking for the blemishes you build.
You till my skin and plough my bones, you drink
My tears and feast on my flesh. Slowly, my fiery
Vengeance has brewed, bubbled upwards
And wrath shall be known.

It will begin as a rumbling.
You will think I tremble with terror at your might
But the movement of your monuments is more my
Laughter at your lowliness. The hallways of your houses
Will be hewn by themselves as my body convulses to be rid of the
Sickness of you. You will sound your two-tone Armageddon sirens
In vain as my thunderous thoughts tumble your towers
Fragment your foundations. Break your brick walls.
Stone on stone will spark, igniting infrastructure
And your cities will burn.

But it is just the beginning.

I will bury you.
I will bury you in the fire of my fury.
I will bury you in the ashes of my anger.
You will solidify, screaming, into silent stone.
You will choke, child-like, on my smoke.
You will die by my hand: your home.
And I will bury you.

And this to me is easy.
I am greater than all you build from
My body. So I use my body to wreak ruin:
Reduce your greatness to rubble and dust
Because the Earth was always mine.
I was always my own.

Motorway Lamppost
Buzzard with his Evil Face
Watches the Rushhour

From one lunatic to another
One poet to his friend
We said we should go sailing
Ended up sinking in the end
They said that we were mad
And maybe they had spoke the truth
But the way in which they put it
Was so terribly uncouth
So we left them on the shoreline
Waving backwards with relief
We would ride the incandescent waves
So set in our beliefs
That we would reach the other side
We would become the pioneers
We would find the favoured winds
Across that ocean of our fears

We put out of the harbour
Put our faith into The Boat
We paddled with our hands
And handed our trust to The Boat

But now we’re shipwrecked on a coastline
Full of cannibals and rats
We wanted to put a dent in history
But we’ve barely made a scratch
We went exploring on the island
This unfamiliar place
Got lost in a simple jungle
Brushed away the green disgrace
We found a village of the natives
But we had to pass them by
We wouldn’t sell our heads for hunting
We’d rather run away than die
We found an orchard in the mountains
On a fragrant afternoon
But the fruit it was forbidden
Now we’re servants for the moon

We left home making sense
But just found madness on The Boat
We sailed after our dreams
But just found nightmares on The Boat

They say it’s an affliction
When the moon is shining bright
But to me it’s an addiction
And a goddess given right
To wear left handed trousers
And be gracious in defeat
They think we’re being honest
And we are: that’s our deceit
We wander in the meadows
Softly howling at the sky
We tie ourselves to trees
So we can safely learn to fly
I’d say that I’m a better man
Than I ever was before
But I’m still here on the wrong side
Of that ol’ asylum door

We came here wanting answers
Left our questions on The Boat
We came home with the tide
But left our senses on The Boat

Like a patterned rug
Beaten to be rid of dust and
Flopped over a balcony railing, a leopard
Hangs her hefty hands beneath a bough.
Head lolling lazily, she awakens.

Fingers like silent meteorites dig
Craters in the loose, dry earth.
From the grasses emerge many warm black eyes, unseen
And vicious: floral pockmarks on
Her carpeted exterior: cruel camouflage.

Deftly lugging her **** back
Into the branches to feed on its flesh:
Patterned rug stained.

Ears ***** and whiskers twitch
As boughs creak and twigtips reach
For the ground: the impala’s weight
Has weakened her arboreal home.

She panics not.

She slinks softly back into
The grasses: better to sidle away unscathed
From immediate danger.
Pride and body intact, she will **** again
Elsewhere.

I: Hypocritical Accusations of a Jealous Knave
I could have sworn the Queen winked at me as
I laid my Royal Flush on the table
Clubs
She was always the prettiest
Hers is my suit:
I imagine myself as the Jack
Who turns her from Monarchess to
Adulteress in the Royal Garden
Maybe slip her a stolen **** or two
To spite the King for he always
Outranked me
The chances of being dealt it are
Sixty four thousand, nine hundred and seventy (ish) to
One,
If my luck is running out,
Why must it be wasted
In the gaining of ethereal money?
Why not conserved for the selling of my soul to
A queen who is not ink on laminate
Card?
Or at least not here in an
Imagined Vegas or Montecarlo where
Neon, though colourless in nature,
Forms a blinding parody of a hell, hooded
In green and pink and orange and yellow or more
To pass as a heaven for
The wannabe vagrants of brat nations
Who may weep pennies for a disaster,
Remove the split onion, retake the shining knife
And bleed brass, nickel, copper and
Slaughtered tree (more ink) into
An impossible lottery
Hoping for a transfusion with
Monetary hepatitis and all from
The blind benefactors
Apply a plaster and
Reabsorb oneself into the mirror
I too am guilty of all this

II: Inside the Dreams of a Madman to Be
Checkmate.
Oh how the intellectuals do duel
Yet spill not one drop of blood;
Like the bishops of old before they were
Confined to diagonals
Who would carry clubs instead
Of blades to preserve their
Sanctity:
Keep it white, not stain it red
Or brown, dotted with congealed black;
It is a wonder to paint
But not to see or to feel
This was before the days when
Bleach could hide one’s
Breaking of the LORD’s commandments
And before the harnessed
Lightning strike
Killed the LORD himself in his creation’s (Midnight)
Eyes
And so the bleach was not needed
Yet still it sold because
Grass stained trousers:
The fruits of a hard summer afternoon’s
Labour in the sun
An atom of wasted
Childhood well spent
Could not be called a sin

III: Nonsensical Ramblings of the Recently Awakened**
The eyes of an ivory cubic
Snake in two parts leer up at me
Does this mean defeat at the hands of fate?
Nonsense! I am the hand of fate
The left, disused one to be exact;
It is not chivalrous to use me
Yet I am the hand of many things
I know nothing of hands or of dice
I tell lies instead

Demon from Depressed Depths
Horror lurking in the murk, squirting myself through liquid nightmares, paranormal animal portrait
The walls of my bedroom are black, the ceiling navy, ****** sun above me winks in mockery
My friends are few in this frozen almost-society; I wander the briny fog in boredom, purposeless
Eyes swollen from swimming, swallowing so much salt: dehydrated underwater, skin pasty and ill
I hide from starving sharks and their terrible tiny teeth, but duel the diving whale: he I can drown
I can ***** forth literature; the pens of Whitman and Carroll were filled from my blackened innards
From fingertip to toetip I am nearly biggest, in a world without fingers or toes, primitive appendages
I am all knowing: I commune with the dead: I can operate a Ouija board alone with all these arms
I was killed off by Tennyson after just 14 lines, but Lovecraft made me what I am: heathen deity
Wonderful creature, yet I find myself here: battered next to chips in a polystyrene tray: Beach food

Like rivulets of rain on a window
Conjoining into pools on the sill,
Or like lines of cement between housebricks
Converging at corners,
These two families, separated by an aisle,
At the point between two softly shaking hands
Are colliding.
We of the confetti and white roses,
We of the jewellery and pressed trousers,
We of the suppressed tears and aching smiles
Are considering
The beauty of a moment when gold envelops finger:
The signal that an uncertain journey through love
Is concluding.

He was not without sin
But his hands were clean
The only blood on his soul his own
And now he is

Old man on death row
Aging faster than the fools around him
Does he believe that there is any justice in the world?
If there is, it is not reserved for him
Dead man sits

Fifteen minutes to seven
Dead man walks
Five minutes to midnight
Dead man lies

His final quiet pleads and requests scream injustice to the people
Perhaps a thousand miles or less away
Cop killer laughs

Veritas, Aequitas
Just because it’s a Dead Language doesn’t make it meaningless

Man
Perhaps with no Thump in his chest
Perhaps confused a little
Perhaps not noticing the pure white Thump next to him
Flips switch
Nails man to the cross of corruption
And now there is a murderer in the room
Dead man sleeps

Those lungs which gave wind to such wisdom
Collapse
That heart that beat with an Iron Innocence
Slowly bleeds no more
And now Georgia is heartless
Eyes of hope that saw themselves killed
Twenty years ago
Glitter, shimmer, flow, run down
A cheek of a ****** colour
With federal crosshair tattooed upon it
Then dull

Libra, chained, looks away
Governor nods in satisfaction and corrupt pride
Broken scales lie on the floor of his office
Troy Davis is dead
The World Weeps

It was 5am
When the thunderclap dragged me
Screaming from my bed.

I – Rain Over the Dying Empire
The Weather Forecast looks grim today
This mess won’t clear up any time soon
So button up your jackets and turn up your collars
And mark up your calendars for a time of grey skies
There’s a storm on the way
We’ll all be blown away
The reign will never end
Until we’re washed clean off the map
But don’t you worry darling viewers
Just find yourselves a shelter, you’ll be fine
Don’t go scrambling in the smog to find hope: it’s always there
It pains me to be the bringer of bad news
Oh! Dearest Public I always pride myself in saying Tomorrow will be a brighter day
But oh! My friends I also promised I would never lie to you
We have serious weather warnings on the way
They will ravage your livelihoods but don’t let them take your souls
We stand strong against the tide of the oncoming gale, the hail and the thunder
If they weather away each tiny bit of all you hold dear
Raise your fist to the angry sky and scream for what is right
I promise, one day, sunshine will be legal again
I’ve tried to make you laugh and I’ve tried to make you cry
But it’s difficult when describing the movements of cold air across the land
If you ignore the hot stuff blowing out of parliament these days
It’s possible to force a smile: a fraction of happiness for hollow promises
They know nothing of how to save the world, they just want to escape
They’re harvesting the strong so they can find another home
Sure, they bejewel their guillotine as it hangs above your throat
Because they think that you’re impressionable but my advice is let them think so
Because Nature wants out of the pact she made when God abandoned us here
And they just want revenge because she’s stronger than they’ll ever be
The Mother they used to love, that they cast down, has come to kiss them with her poison passion
She won’t ask for their forgiveness as she beats them down, begging for hers
I’ll leave you with my darkest secret since you probably won’t see me again
As they surround me I want to let you know it’s been incredible
Striding through the desert carrying you upon my shoulders
And so I’ll thank you and blow a goodnight kiss to you
If there’s anyone they’ve left alive
They have finally come for me
Goodbye

II – The Broken Figurehead Speaks
We interrupt this broadcast with a message from the high command
Good evening noble people, please ignore what you have just heard
And keep on working for our greater good
For as we all know, it is better than theirs
Regrettably, my tolerance is thin for behaviour like that of our darling Weather Reporter
And my mercy is negligible for those who stand against us…

III – Martyrdom for Sunshine**
As I stand above the ocean, with the army at my back, looking out at this sunset
It feels like the first time I have seen such beauty
Though waves gallop into the cliff below there is a malleable peace
It penetrates to the deepest corner of my heart
As they load their guns and prepare to fire, I think of the others who they have killed
And how privileged I am to have the sun as the last thing I see
If God will have me I’ll happily join his angels now
I look down the crippled rock face to the water, miles below
What have I got to lose?
I’m going to learn to fly…

In oil-painted brilliance their stunning resilience
To shame upon canvas is bound
As Jack the Crustacean expresses frustration:
Says "Terry! Stop ******* Around!"
He's spared all his blushes 'cause these ***** brushes
Can't capture his voice or its sound
But the sad situation still needs explanation
'Cause Terry's still stuck upside-down!

Tarmac under foot
Bootprint in gum stain
Pigeon among thorns, warble from ghost
Wind between railings, xylophone of souls
Altar for vagrants, drunks and rovers
Graveyard for worms of steel

Footstep footstep footstep
Echo, silence, echo, silence
The Wait.
Out of the moonlight, floodlight
Bone of back against wall
Tentacle of mist, droplets on window
Thunder of wheels through the emptiness
Deafness, echo, silence

Autumnal joy floats on the wind: it blows
A woodwind section through the buzzing leaves,
And gently rattles red arpeggios
That harmonise with mournful semibreves
Of ageing branches creaking in the breeze.
The forest spirits collectively moan.
Without the crunch of thund’rous symphonies
The rain can ****** on a xylophone:
The surface of a hidden woodland pond
Where all the stepping stones are so arranged
As keys of limestone next to keys of slate.
And all around the silence is estranged
And till the snow of winter has to wait.
We wave our sticks at where the air has thinned
And call ourselves composers of the wind.

Estoy en túnel
Como estoy en boda, detrás
De un velo *****
La oscuridad me abraza: mi novia nueva

Pero veo una luz
Y ¡Corro! ¡Corro!
Corro a la luz
Pero cuando llego a la luz
Veo

¡Matador! ¡Matador!
Mi verdugo, vestido en luces
Una esponja para las hurras
De una gente sanguinaria
Veo tu cara y sé: voy a morir hoy
Pero si voy a matar es una cosa diferente

Para ti nuestro intercambio solo es un juego
Para mi es una guerra
Si gano será una victoria pírrica
Donde seré la pérdida sola:
Vivirás para siempre en memoria
Yo habré sido solo carne de res

Te esconderás detrás
De tus amigos montados:
Sus banderillas me hacen
Parecer como puercoespín
Y seré débil cuando me peleas finalmente:
El protagonista es un cobarde.
Y yo soy el carácter solo quien sabe la verdad:
La verdad muere conmigo

Mis cuernos no son armas o herramientas
Son símbolos del orgullo de la familia mía
Un orgullo te diezmas cuando me tomas para deporte
Lucho con mi orgullo, mi hoja más afilado

Toso y toso y toso
Pero no puedo desbancar tu espada
Mi espalda es una cadena rota
Mi orgullo untado en la arena:
Vomito mi sangre para una vez más
Para ensuciar tus manos
Porque en los ojos de tu familia eres limpio
Y eso no puede estar
Más lejos de la realidad

Entonces, muero
Debajo de las luces
Escuchando de las gritas de ¡TORO!
¡Toro!
toro…

La oscuridad es mi novia nueva

White Man! White Man!
You dare come and conquer this country?
This corner of the continent
Construct your castles with crystal windows
Looking out on a foaming sea
Model your marble walls, polished and pristine
On your porcelain teeth: terrible and tough
Paint clouds on the ceiling with paper fingers
Papyrus skin crumpling with age
Your knights galloped in on young geldings
Castrated to keep them clean
Like the sterile white cloths draped across their clavicles
You’d scar this landscape
With a squat whitewashed town
Matt and peeling
Dishevelled and overgrown

Black Man! Black Man!
You dare come and claim this country?
My corner of the continent
Behind boulders and barren hills
Coalfires choke the burned sky
I’m breathing in your smoke but at night
Your bullet-holes in the firmament glint
As stars glimpse the belching flame
Of your volcanic pride
Your bearded bishops bludgeoning
The bloodied populace of pockets of resistance
Scorched brown eyes smouldering
From here to the horizon
Of mournful ashen mountains, blunt and black
You’d build your walls of black onyx
Cold, hard and brutal

So let the battle-lines be drawn
Let us duel to the death until we mix
Into that emotional grey area between man and man:
Peace

Imagine Complete Annihilation

Imagine it

First drain the colour from the world
Pour metaphorical bleach on the landscape
The lively green of the foliage
Is now a lethargic grey
The placid blue of the sky an angry black
Each cloud remains unpainted

Next expend the energy
***** its skin with this hypothetical needle
And induce a coma
Watch monochrome bees roll over in bed, unwilling to go to work
Vultures lying down with their dinner; corpse pillows
Sloth is the new God

Then purge the life
Draw your figurative razor across its jugular
Don’t worry, it’s humane: the victim’s already sleeping
And when yours is the only soul still tied down
Burn the pile of non-rotting flesh
(even the saprophytes are gone; death doesn’t revile anymore),
Gnash your teeth and throw yourself atop it

You’re almost done, now expunge your senses
Deaden the sound: halt the airflow through this graveyard
But remember that there is no silence
Dampen the light: pinprick each pixel till it pops
But remember that there is no dark
Cry “Begone!” to the wind and feel no more
But remember that there is no numbness
Cut out your tongue and relax
But remember that there are no memories

Finally call last orders on Time
Find each clock, smash it, don’t worry about the glass
There is no pain anymore
There is finally nothing
Imagine

Now accomplish this horrendous task
In the space & time-frame of a single breath
Learn
That what you godless fools call death
We of faith, however little, call hell

In a tunnel
Like a wedding where I am behind
A black veil
The darkness embraces me: my new bride

But I see a light
I run! I run!
Run towards the light
But as I reach the light
I see

Matador! Matador!
My executioner, dressed in lights
A sponge for the cheers
Of a bloodthirsty people
I see your face and I know: I will die this day
But whether I will **** is another matter

To you our exchange is but a game
To me it is a war
If I win it will be a Pyrrhic Victory
In which I am the only casualty:
You will live forever in memory
I am just beef to you

You hide behind your mounted friends
Their spears make a porcupine of me
I will be weak when you finally fight me:
The hero is but a coward.
I am the only character who knows the truth:
The truth dies with me

My horns are not weapons or tools
They are a symbol of my family’s pride
A pride you slaughter when you take me for sport
I fight with my pride: my sharpest blade

I cough and cough and cough
But I cannot dislodge your sword
My spine is a broken chain
My pride smeared on the sand
I ***** blood for one last time
To ***** your hands
Because in the eyes of your family you are clean
That couldn’t be further from the truth

I die beneath the lights
Listening to the cries of
TORO!
Toro!
toro…

The darkness is my new bride

Armageddon in a bowl
Thunder gallops, waters roll
Countless wolves howl in the sky
Blow down houses, growl and cry
Matt grey sky like old stale paint
Sobs like son of slaughtered saint
Weather wails, laments the day
Soaks the cliffs in tears of spray
Sky and sea both boil in rage
Tragedy on sand strewn stage
Scrawl a picture with the storm
Carve coast into madman form
Bitter chill bites scarce seen boat
Struggling to stay afloat
Placid place this never was
Peace, serene, unknown to us
Yet still we flock to headland’s edge
Gosling spirits here will fledge
Grizzled veteran surfer sorts
Breach the brine upon their boards
We stand rigid, bodies glow
Defiant ‘gainst the hammer blow
Gripping Gore-tex, clutching cloth
Cowering from the furious froth
Backs bent crooked, faces skinned
By razor rain and whip lash wind

Opposites equal:
Sonic similarity
Of rainfall and fire.

My sunlight flees around these withered walls.
My starlight glints no longer through the leaves.
The water through my fading fingers falls.
The shadow in the corner sobs and grieves.
The tether round my heart has been untied
And from it floats away a white balloon.
The sea stagnates in absence of the tide:
Held still by silent mourning of the moon.
The whisperings of memories and dreams
Like ghosts are tugging coldly at my hand.
They’re picking at my bones like ruptured seams
And crumbling my castle into sand.
She is a thing of beauty whom I love
Together we’ll be lightning from above.

The guitarist with his well-rehearsed finger
Positions dips his toes into the river and sighs:
He’s singing a long forgotten chorus line.
He taps a melody on the shoulder, coaxes
Out its voice, weaves it into his own.
His studded leather fingers stroke the beast, tame it
He caresses its neck and tightens its stretched heartstrings.

His song is rivulets of water running
Down the thin red line between a wrist and a razor blade.
His verse is a poorly tied knot that dumps
Its cargo onto nothing more than soft carpet.
His refrain is the advancement of freight train brake technology.
His harmonies are the phantom branch that catches
One’s shirt as one passes by the bridge.

A Hero with a song worth singing, but he chooses
To remain hidden beneath the willow where the sign reads:
“Danger, Deep Water.”

Unread correspondence lies in despondence
Gathering dust on the shelves
Journal subscriptions of countless descriptions
Piled on top of themselves

Confirmations of blood donations
That never will be attended
Leaflets unnumbered, the walls are encumbered
Far more than was ever intended

Postcards from the tropics discussing dull topics
Like “them ****** foreigners” and rain
Parcels were ordered, were barely afforded
Never to be mentioned again

You’ve got something yourself, squeezing onto a shelf
That’s as packed as the Vatican’s coffers
But it’s weeks out of date and you’re several days late
To respond to the business it offers

I kneel on tarmac under blackened sky
No creature, breath or breeze here spoils the peace
And on my knuckle rests a butterfly
I shudder from the cold, his heartbeats cease
No frail and fragile flight did he achieve:
His wings were sealed together from his birth
And for that molten moment I believe
How much to him his simple flight is worth
I leave him in a hawthorn bush to fight
Against the hungry shadows, sneaking forth
I didn’t have the heart to end his plight
I feel as cruel as winter in the north
When life, then death are held with open hands
The wielder, faced with God, now understands

The garden served little purpose
It sprawled across the bored ground, despondent beneath the yawning sun
My mother would wail her annual rage
At the snarling weeds that softly smothered the flowers
How I loved those flowers
Rejected footballs perplexed the lawn
Their obtuse hulks spoiling that ripple of green
I found a four leafed clover there once
He poked his obscure head above his brothers: a suicide mission to bring me luck
They are all dead now
I didn’t waste nearly enough time reclined on that jealous cushion
Watching the lethargic clouds wobble on

But most otiose of all in that seldom wandered paradise was the Wall
That Wall was never high enough
I see it from my back door
Squat, depressed, sighing, each dusty clot of red brick seems so lifeless
Doomed to live out the rest of its days as a failure
All flung ***** that compress their rubbery bodies against it will soon vault over
It crudely bookends the busily neat hedge
Simply because that is where the drunken soil runs out
It fails too at its chief instruction:
Be the purgatory bridge between Our heaven and Their hell
But the Wall was never high enough

I remember the other side of the Wall
How I crouched in filth
Needless to be afraid of a cut from a single blade of grass
Impoverished chickens clucked in the squalor
How they survived such malnourishment awed me
The friends I thought I had there cheated me
And I ran from that disastrous place
Where chaos twisted the agonised branches of the hedge we shared
But it followed me like an age old Gypsy curse
Even today, a writhing, mewing splodge of night will sit on the Wall
Looking too fat for its own fur coat
It will viciously attack the thin air for a while
Perhaps accept a stroke but, seeing no morsel, wander home
But I am not spared
For I can see its wasteland kingdom from my window

It is not an evil place
But the Wall was never high enough

Isn’t it strange
How amidst the dying leaves and growing grass and snarling ivy
Keeping their vigil without choice, perhaps

Isn’t it strange
How in the land of the doubted god, omnipresent, yet never seen
Who killed himself for the lives of the faithless, perhaps

Isn’t it strange
How in the shadow of His building of stubborn stone and vicious spire and painted glass
Waiting for a fable to knock, perhaps

Isn’t it strange
How with the shadows and ghosts and worms and butterflies
Symbols for what they guard, perhaps

Isn’t it strange
How in line with the crosses and grails and angels and virgins
Left in loving memory of the forgotten, perhaps

How curious it is
That the obelisk stands tallest: ancient symbol of those heretics
Who kneel before the filthy sun

Defile it as they will
Atop it may they place a crucifix
That they may execute the knowledge

But still it will stand
Still Proudest
Still Sneering
Still

Amidst the still and silence and spirits and guns, perhaps

Old cat, climbing stairs
Pauses, panting, halfway up
Stuck, frail predator?

They placed my love inside Pandora’s Box.
The box they placed atop a golden plinth.
The plinth inside an empty room was locked.
The room was hidden in a labyrinth.
They built a palace on a desert dune
And sunk it underneath the ocean spray.
The truth behind the myth forgotten soon:
Atlantis: built to hide my love away.
Encased the myth inside a grain of sand
And left upon a lost pacific beach.
I feel the sapphire water in my hand
And dream about my love, far out of reach.
Awakening, my lonely body lies.
Brush the sand out of my weary eyes.

The corporate megastar with his million
Dollar Rolex on his wrist grips the bottle
That he sells for infinite profit
Because the elixir shares his name

The marathon runner, with only six miles
To go showers himself with liquid diamonds
They ping against the tarmac and roll
Into the gutters unnoticed by the greedy crowds

The craftsman briefly coats
His calloused hands in silver to rinse them of the brick dust
As they dry they lose all value
But it’s a loss he doesn’t have time to account for

The clouds ***** out riches
But the public complain

The daughter of the busy housewife
Gratefully crams her mouth with elephant ****
Her filthy hands beckon her friends from the huts
She poisons herself with the bucket between her knees

Pebble took a leap
At the sky but the Earth's great
Fist caught it mid-flight

Scattered around are the ashes of all that I ever knew
A light sprinkling of burned snow-cover on the charcoal of my house
My silent friends, skeletons, lie face down in the dust, passively smoking my memories
I can’t remember what happened last night; must’ve been one helluva party

Kicking around in the bones of my past
Looking for a scrap of fresh flesh from my future
Here, in history’s graveyard, where the forgotten rest in greater peace than the loved
Where falling tears don’t spoil the sacred ground, I kneel

I clutch someone’s knucklebones to my ***** for comfort
Who were they? Were they of any significance? Would they offer an arm?
To wrap around my shoulders in my present predicament
Did I love them? I long for them now

Yearning for an excuse with which to sew the tatters together
And trying to remember what started this Hakuna Matata nightmare
I chose to forget about the past
And stride boldly on into a future that wasn’t there

I remember the shadows of empty mystery
That cloaked the door as rot cloaks a stagnant pool
I remember the dingy corner it crouched in
Just out of reach of the old and wavering lightbulb
I remember how I never seemed to see it
How it would seemingly meld with the dark as I passed
I remember the call of curiosity’s mouse-hole
Drawing me in like a noose around my drumming heart
I remember the tired paintwork as I stroked it
It crumbled into my hands and coated my palms like ****** ******
I remember the corpse-like wood that lay beneath
Gnarled by time like the hands of a long dead Messiah
I remember the moan of a seldom turned handle
Mirroring the sudden cry of a crow outside in the grey cold
I remember the hurricane of dust that migrated out
That clogged my nostrils and choked my throat

I remember the Flesh Eating Monsters housed within

I remember the yelp, and then scream of a child
It was me
I remember the clunk of a barrier restored
I prayed that a door would be enough to protect me
I remember the rush of musty air down my throat
As I trembled up stairs to the open arms of safety
I remember the tears that rattled my eyes
How they ruined the shoulder of the jumper you were wearing
I remember the love that I felt for you then
I was a bundle of innocence sobbing a funeral march
I remember awaking to the chill of my sweat
And solemnly promising to try to forget

It sickens me
To think that my ancestors were *****
By greasy, shaggy men from the north
Who burned down their houses
And pilfered their precious possessions
It sickens me
To think that I am but the last domino
In a centuries long trail of *******
It sickens me
To think that my father is a *******
His father was a *******
And all my children will be *******
And it sickens me
To think that I am so proud of that fact

Within my polluted veins may be found
Perhaps only one drop of foreign blood
But that drop of blood is from an ancient heathen deity
The years have diluted it but still it fills me
With a blissful rage, my poisoned skin tingles
With the most wonderful of furies
With every beat of my tainted heart the capacity
To duel with giants and annihilate armies
Resonates around my body
I feel I have the power to rend heaven
And lacerate the landscape of hell
With just my adulterated fingernails
Because I am the pink diamond
In the pile of precious stones
I’m impure, and I’m worth nothing to the masses
But I’m just as indomitable as my kin

So if any of my fellow white men
Strut round claiming to be pure, know this:
I will take a torch to your hall, hew your head
From your chauvinistic shoulders, and hang it
From my gateway as a warning to those who dare to disbelieve
That we are all somebody’s *******

The Great Crested Grebe
Looks on in admiration:
Sodden Squirrel swims.

Looking out of place
He's making steady progress,
A strange sight indeed.

Climbing from the Lake,
Pausing under a new tree,
His wet fur shivers.

It happens on the banks of Hydaspes
No bird that lives has seen it thus unfold
Except the Vulture: stolen memories
The egg is laid, now upwards as you’re told!
To cliff’s edge flock, and there prepare to die!
Our Master calls us with him to go down
As flames go out the Phoenixes shall cry
All birds of Earth with Lord of theirs shall drown
A vortex made of joyful cawing beaks
They spiral splendidly into the sea
And back where tears of Hydaspes shall leak
A chick is born, a Monarch soon to be
In awe I gaze upon him, so sublime
Alerion! Our King for all of time

The man who put bullet holes in the fabric of time waiting for you
Who scrawled lunacy all over the pages of history
Who started all the wars, murdered all the prophets, burned down empires
Who laughed “Apocalypse” at a billion futures
But let every opportunity slide by

The man who wrote your name on all the maps for hope of finding you
Who dammed up the rivers he had made so you wouldn’t see his tears
Who peered between saplings in forests he had planted to see if you were hiding there
Who sat by fires in newly opened taverns, telling tales of his search for you
But didn’t cross the road to knock on your door

The man who locked you in a tower to be the princess in his fairytales
Who cast himself as the dragon guarding you forever
Who lived off a diet of slow roasted questing knights, tall handsome features charred at the edges
Who antagonised himself in the kingdom of his own story
But never looked through the window to tell you why

The man who wrote his rulebook with the blood of his closest friends
Who proudly swore never to break Number One
Who even wrote a riddle to protect it from your words
Who drove himself insane with all the times that he stuck to it
But never realised it kept you from him

The man who made himself a crown of thorns from the dozen red roses he tried to send you
Who crucified himself with dreams of you
The man who was content to write you a love poem
But couldn’t tell you he loved you in person

I gaze up at the world with two bloated eyes
I am monochrome, terrible, but beautiful, never vain
My hunt is but a leap of faith
I know you! You could **** me with a footstep
If you do I’ll try to poison you
I will Fail
Break all my teeth: I will never smile again
But though my sweetest smile was at best a grimace, I still rue my loss

What Man sees when the sun is too bright
What Man sees in the middle of the night
What Man sees in his darkest dreams
What Man never sees, it seems