Poppy fields grow
seeds make *****
****** and morphine dreams
and the leaves
can cure leprosy
and answer all your needs.
Poppy leaves boiled taste like spinach,
and could be used in a
fragrant dish, fit for a king.

They made their graves and layed in them too,
in the poppy fields.
They didn't cook. They didn't shoot up.
They didn't have leprosy. They just died
amongst the flowers
and bullets
and shrapnel
and smoke.
They were sent to die. They were our kings.

It's all going strange, or so I think;
'For whom the bells toll,' ringing all week.
The truth is told, witches do not sink,
Burnt at the stake, for the lies you speak.
Presecuted; superstitous men,
Accuse and choose; God fearing, they ****.
Eradicate if you don't fit in;
Wipe out those with the strongest free will.
Witch hunts aren't exclusive to the past,
Each day we read about people burnt;
In the tabloids, reputations last;
They are not killed, but families are hurt.
Witches; daughters of humility,
Not called a witch but 'celebrity'.

Famous Leatherstocking was a mighty hunter,
Like a male Artemis; Freischutz without bullets.
He did slay many a fiend for Minerva;
Slicing their gullets, before burying the hatchets.
He whistled as he skinned the prey he killed,
And wisdom hung about him like thick mist;
He told stories and glorified all the blood spilt,
But never did he mention the few he missed.
There will always be ones like Leatherstocking,
Those who **** for sport, who like to brag.
When there's no prey left and nothing's shocking,
He might hunt down the children who've been bad.
Or that's what they'll say to keep us in line,
For we are the children Minerva left behind.

Our carpenter wakes, looks through window,
Sees the morning star, eats breakfast cereal.
The exploited saint, stands on a table;
"Drink me up" says he so commercial.

You can take Him out of his heavenly domain,
But you can't take the heaven out of Him.
You can burn His body but His spirit remains.
Desecrate handsomeness, needle pierces skin.

Lay it down, sugared up, milk and honey,
Eternity is a long time to get bored.
Heaven is cloudy, but Hell is sunny,
Empty gate, nobody died, impatient ******.

Our Heavenly Lady smiles, nobody looks down,
To the clean floor, Mother lays weeping.
Another stoner put in his cave casts a frown,
Messiah arises, but the world stays sleeping.

Wouldn't that be so much fun?
A whole page of nothingness!
Just potential, imagine;
Everybody's happiness!
Untarnished and untainted,
Clean slate for a masterpiece;
Poetry or picture painted,
perfection, yet unreleased!
Blank page does intimidate.
Too much space to fill with verse.
So much pressure to create,
drained of ideas, such a curse.
This blankness does need a genius;
Wasted canvas, so meaningless.

Old Harry talks too much,
Devoted to onomatopoeic sounds.
He listens as consonants
Emanate from his mouth.

The gentleman, patriarchal
In his way, deprived, solitary;
Talking to the hypothetical
Companions in his psyche.

Old Harry gets no reply,
Devoid of company is the liar.
They used to sing years ago,
The devil's only friend is fire.

Death scroll on the stone brick wall;
"Died in battle, year eighteen oh six".
'On first name terms with a cannonball'.
The mind said lies the eyes played tricks.

Must be the tiredness. Where am I?
Lady Luck is a bad dealer. Counting sheep.
Can't shuffle and I keep rolling snake eyes
In this cruel game. I need some sleep.

Time for your close up, get on stage,
Curtains up, intermission, curtain call.
Turning mustard yellow with old age,
The rules were written on the death scroll.

Script me a play with no direction at all.
Sinning sleep, work is a virtue we all hate.
'On first name terms with a cannonball'.
Kiss for a cross, Lady Luck named Fate.

Lights, warm glow.
Sun, burns hole
in the floor.
Only temporary,
a moment and
the hole moves on.
Now it's on the wall.

Inquisitive eyes,
on divine face
talking to me,
"Why are you
staring
at my shadow?"

Drawn and marked out in sand
The tide will wash it away.
Kneeling and then groove by hand;
The wave clean slated our names.

Wear a heart upon your sleeve
Not a ******* in your chest.
Hoping that you'll never leave,
Take my hands, my head; infest.

My body has absorbed all hate,
And converted into passionate rage.
The system annoys and frustrates,
Pushing me to rebel, and create.

I love so much and want peace,
But am losing faith in the cross;
I don't want to be cross, madness cease.
Belief all gone, but not All lost.

Pray the price and stalk and slice
Talk in tongues and you're never right.
Go to church, dog collared dictator
An abundance of love, plenty propaganda;
Heil Jesus, pretty painted statuettes
Holes in water, quick to forget.
Make me a prophet, make me a saint;
Cover all sinning with a lick of paint.
I love the sound of church bells;
Oh pretty stained glass, stone stair wells;
Cut the pomp, ceremony and biblical rants
And fables of miracles with a moral slant.

Jesus wasn't Christian and he turned out
all right.

There was never paper
only ink,
I tried to talk but
couldn't think;
and as I watched the pigment
I lost my train of thought;
my argument
lost or maybe was just
a figment of my imagination;
Is this just?
A placebo numbs the pain
that was never there to gain;
for existence is an only child
to a parent who never was.
Tragedy is a mellow colour
mildly wild in a forest of loss.
Careless stutter to find an answer
you write and write and write.
What was the question?

A crown of thorns on my head.
I'm laughing soon,
I never asked for anything except "Why?"
An answer. "Why?"
"Why have you forsaken me?"
Sadistic isn't it?

I never mention sacrilige,
And I never talk about blasphemy.
I haven't read the Bible.
Who wrote that?
God didn't have a pen,
Yet He designed us.

I shudder. Nailed to wood. RIP.
The alcoholic flowers drink my water.
Hallelujah! Wear my pain around your neck.
**** your fellow man,
Because he must die like I did,
For his crazy beliefs.

He lit up a cigarette.
His worries and problems haunted him.
He could never forget.
His indescressions were eating him.
His smile ever present.
He tried his hardest to be polite.
There was a strange presence
In his apartment that Autumn night.
The cigarette burned;
It would be his last one he decided.
He felt like dirt,
The fault of the colleagues he hated.
He adjusted his tie,
Combed his thinning middle-aged hair,
Wiped his tired eyes
And headed up the flight of stairs.

The first step is the hardest;
The first cut is the deepest;
The last smoke is the foulest.

He stops on the twelth step
and looks around.
Every direction is a long
way down.
Blackness behind him;
Blackness in front.
Everywhere is dark when
you're hiding from hurt.

The night is cold and beautiful.
Peaceful.
He doesn't say a word.
He doesn't sob or sigh.
He just walks to the edge;
And falls.

Everyday I grow a little bit older,
Every now and then I get a little bit colder
Towards my friends who supplement nothing
Towards my existence and leave me falling.
I can't trust anyone when I feel cold.
Dark thoughts emerge when the water freezes,
Below zero; I have no feeling.
The dead trees stand; river of paper leaves
Will break my fall, when you trip me.
I am a shadow on your graffiti wall.
Dark clouds on my mind, I am the dirt;
Created in cold, through darkness I'm birthed
Dead to the world, but with toughened skin;
You'll cut me down, I'll stand tall within.
I don't feel anything when I'm ******.
Food for thought; I'll be a buffet for worms.
I change when I want, leave on good terms.
Carved and scarred, and never caressed;
I hope I'll be missed when nothing's left.
My body might rest, but never my soul.

It's all done with smoke and mirrors.
Look you can see the trap door!
This isn't magic,
It's all a trick.
She's not really dead.

Wow! Big explosions, flashy lights!
It looks real, and really cool!
This isn't magic,
It's all a trick.
She's still not moving.