New words in old styles

Tracked on a canvas of brick

By a precocious kid

Sneaking on the lines;

The little *****.

My morning art show

Laid out in illiterate words,

Scribbled by artists

Who failed art at school,

Then shat on by birds.

An exhibition of names

Written worryingly wrong,

Evident to the system

That failed before they

Even joined the throng.

We pause at one piece

Daubed in indelible paint,

White streaked on black,

A chaotic sprawl of letters,

"**** al saintz".

I've been there before;

A nice school I thought,

Catholic of course;

I doubt the child gave

The saints a spare thought.

And what about Al?

Does he care at all?

Does he pause here,

On his way to work,

And dream their downfall.

It drives me up the wall

To see tracks filled with art,

But are they to blame?

We let them loose

And they play their part.

I would pull your halo down

And fling it like a discus

Into the olympian clouds

For it to spin unending;

A fiery sun,

A sight to see

For the credulous crowds.


I would pull out your nails

One by one and stack them

On the blood slick cross

And watch you fall;

A dead weight,

So loaded with

Dogmatic dross.


I would see you fail

As we retreat from you

Into evidence

And truth from fact;

Intellect

Separating

Hope from sense.


I would see you gone

Like all you are or ever were

Is naught but

A memory;

A ragged

Child's blanket

We'd rather not see.


I would see you

Gone from me.

How do I say I love you?

How do I write it?

The words to stand so tall.

Tell me, love, the words,

So I can write it all.

To try, I’d come undone;

If you asked for light,

I would burn

To hold the Sun.

Fluttering weakly in the breeze

Left in the wake of the train's passing,

George's proud flag hung limp

From the pole,

Weathered and worn,

Like a tired old soul.


It's procurement no doubt,

was a misplaced, ill-thought out

statement of pride,

A belligerent shout

At the fresh-off-the-boat,

Here for the so-called ride.


The flag was once clear,

But Britannia's grey skies had

Poured down their drink,

Washing the colours,

Calming the passion,

From red into pink.


The train swept past,

It's multicultural seats

Brimming in rainbow hues,

As the punters sped

To the proud parade

Of the minority few.


They saluted the flag,

Laughter from lipstick,

Teasing it's impotence,

As the hated flag

Unexpectedly praised

Their innocence.


The train traveled on,

Past gardens like embassy roofs,

Displaying flags in retort;

Their bright bold colours

From every shore

Joined in support.


No tears for poor George,

Confused in his ways,

Run up a flagpole to fall and decay.

So sad to see, thought Union Jack,

As he flew with his friends

And waved at the track.

I turned up on time today;
Washed, and dressed, and brushed.
Taking my time, not in a rush.

The clock struck as I walked in;
Calm, and poised, and steady;
My plan's drawn up, I'm ready.

It's been a while since I walked out;
Hours of rage, and hate
Vying to make me break;

Clutching at friend-shaped hands
Too sad, too helpless to
Help me make it through.

The clock strikes behind me;
Tension, and trapped fears
Ascend to bring me once again to tears.

I...
                                       [slow to a crawl]
I...
                                       [come to a halt]
I...
                                       [a nervous tick, tock.]

As time screams at me to run;
I'm frozen, statue, stasis,
As I stare into the abyss.

I'm back to myself, I think,
And not much more, before
Smashing my day on the floor.

The clock
Continues
Regardless...

The boy ran through the fields,
His kite blazing like a comet
In the hot summer of yesterday.
Flying through the tall grass,
An open mouth, a smile held fast,
He danced, and leaped, and span away;
Safe in youth and come what may.

The day moves on.

The wind swept hard across the fields,
The kite bucking against the strain,
A twist and tear in the summer day.
The boy turned, distraught,
To watch his youth fall in thought.
He frowned, and wept, and turned away;
The kite lay broken amongst the hay.

The day moves on.

He turned to home, a sad retreat,
Replacing his steps along the path
He carved across the summer day.
A bird flies across the run,
Feathers flirting in the sun.
He turns and runs, a smile again,
And doesn’t see the hidden pain.

The day moves on.

A flying foot is sliced and pierced,
A scream of pain splits the fields
And the bird flies so fast away.
The discarded wire, the ill placed thought,
With no care for what it’s caught,
Leaves years of scars for a man to pay
And dream the loss of yesterday.

The warm cocoon breaks,

Spilling a tired body onto the floor.

Panicked, I hurtle to the door.

I kneel before my God

And spill my prayer of meat

On feet, body, crown and seat.

Clutching my saviour,

I draw a ragged breath,

Pleading, demanding for death.

The storm abates its tired refrain.

I rest my head against the wall.

I'm sure I swear "never again",

And back to sleep I fall.

As his feet step from the door,

His pace begins to stretch

From distance to time;

Each planted foot an hour

I don't get to see.


As his heel strikes the floor,

My brain begins the clock

From now until then;

Each hour a lifetime

I don't get to have.


Maybe just a little more;

Is that my avarice again?

Endlessly grasping

For my smaller hand

To spin back to a time

I don't get to keep.


It's not for keeping score;

Though at the start...

No matter,

That time has gone;

Poignant regrets

I don't get to think.


The years become a war

Between now and then,

Image and reality,

A mountain from a pebble

I don't get to miss.


How time flies.


As I close the door,

I lock away my thoughts;

Tuck them away

For twelve long days

Until the doorbell rings,

And there he is;

My son I get to have.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

My eyelids are glued shut. This can’t be right,
It’s not like I had much to drink last night.
Just a glass or two of much needed blood,
A sip to stop the ever-growing flood
Of bills and work and more bills and more work.

Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.

The soft bed digs gravestones into my back;
A dull fire, a gentle kick, a boneless crack.
An itch starts on my side and crawls down low.
My fingers claw where my shoulder can’t go.
Left and right and left.
Stop.
The pain again.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

There’s a monster in the mirror.
Canyons of worry crease a trapped youth
Too tired to care
About the red-eyed, bearded, fat demon
Caught in the glaring stare.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Spits of blood and white ocean spray
Strike the porcelain, scrubbed away
By the force of released denial;
A genie leaving a white plastic bottle.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Tingly.

There’s a lie in my mouth.
A denial of advancing age,
A bulwark to encroaching disease
Set against rotten cores.

There’s a lie in my mouth.

I try not to care.

The waterfall washes away the ache
In a cascade of warmth. The lake
At my feet fills with white foamy hills
Surrounding a naked giant’s ankles.
For a brief time I forget about
The bills and work and work and bills.

My clothes are tinged with sadness,
Their misbegotten brothers don’t dress
With them anymore; so set in their way
They can’t see their youthful crimes today.

I try not to care.

My chain smiles at my dress,
Approval sits smug on her face
As I pass the test.

I try not to care.

Boxes tied in bandages for a wounded ego
Are passed piecemeal for a so-so
Attempt at gratitude.

I don’t care.

Where’s the gun?

I retreat to work, laden with gifts unwanted
That make more bills more work
And drift through the day.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.

Thirty-five.
Happy birthday, you’re alive.
A filled cake I don’t like.
Presents for my dad.
My son bought me my dad’s socks.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

It’s another lonely day

Washing clothes. I might stay

In as the weather’s so cold.

Breeze blowing through cracks

And gaps makes the house

Sound so old.


I tell myself I feel fine;

Bones ache upon the line;

Hung out to dry with yesterday's shirts,

And bleach spotted sheets.

Shivering becomes the norm;

I take it as a sign.


I wrap up as warm as I may,

Cloth upon cloth,

fold upon fold.

It’s not enough I sigh,

As the heating starts to lie.

I crave warmth, but heat

Escapes and meets the outside

With a smile and starts to fade.

It’s another lonely day.

Words spill like an avalanche down a mountain,

Swamping out the message in a flurry of exposition.

The plateau crumbles, dropping great sheets

Of icy statements down like old guillotine blades,

To shatter against the cold rock in tears,

Too frozen, too brittle to pierce.


Such noise, such ineffectual destruction,

Laying snow on snow on piles of snow;

But the mountain stays still beneath the weight,

Its stony face unmoved for yet another day,

Knowing it will soon abate.

As the tide drifts to a halt,

The mountain slowly, contemptuously,

Turns away.

I've got a prayer for you, my Lord,
It's not quite fleshed out, that's true.
I wonder if you can brandish your sword,
And cut us down to the few.

I know it's not the most popular
Or practical idea I could say,
But, let's face it, there's far too many
Of us to squeeze into heaven today.

Also, begging your pardon, my lord,
Most of us really are ****.
We could do with a culling,
Before we take off and split.

You see, we're spawning like maggots
And spreading from pole to pole;
Slaying each other in your name,
With oil and land the goal.

Evolution was really quite clever,
A red herring for white-coated nerds;
Genetics our new religion,
As dinosaurs turned into birds.

We forgot your purposeful message,
To do onto others your will.
Instead we shoot the innocent,
And send their families the bill.

We buy and sell gold in our temples,
Our banks our churches of greed;
We care not at all for holy prayers,
Crosses, or rosary beads.

So spare us your soul-searching piety,
Leave off your crown of thorns.
Pick up your sword, strong and mighty,
And sound from your terrible horns.

Is it too much to ask for apocalypse?

Is it really that hard to do?

Or maybe you're far from omnipotent,

Or maybe, just maybe,

Not true.

Tired and tied tight
To the unyielding plough,
I scream myself hoarse
Into the silent field
Of endless toil.

Knee deep in the sludge,
Shackled and blind,
A waning force
Too stubborn to yield,
Too proud to kneel.

At the last pull I fall,
Too weak to climb up.
My health they endorse,
Their intentions concealed,
"Come back when you're healed."

The carriage arrives
To take me away.
The knacker's draught horse
Bought from the field,
Naught but bone meal.

'Not like that, like this,' said the small man,

Rapping his knuckles on my day.

I withhold, and sit back, watching.

He stumbles from one page to the next,

Unsure of his next move.

His veins flex.

I say nothing.

There is nothing to say.


'I lead, you follow,' said the small man,

In denial of the fact that he is more lost than I.

I demur, and sit back, watching,

As he trips over his lapdogs to find his feet.

He doesn't feel their bite,

But takes time to tip them with a treat.

I say nothing.

There is nothing to say.


'We work to live,' said the small man,

Lying to himself while he rows upstream.

I shrug, and sit back, watching.

As he loses his stroke, the doctors gather

With knives in hand for the feast.

Exit cadaver.

I say nothing.

There is nothing to say.

____

Comments welcome

Demons in khaki suits
Stand with baited breath,
Smoked glasses held high,
As God shows us all
What He means by death.
Disintegration
By starlight.
A fire of heaven.
Oh, bow before his might;
Blasted by wings of angels
Back and forth,
Left ablaze in the wrath of the sword,
Until your atoms are shriven
Of their bonds to this earth.

The demons clap and cheer,
Red eyes grinning as they smoke.
We grovel in your glory,
Piteous wails stopped in silence;
Choked.
A spherical void
To turn our tainted air to traces,
And leave a newly cleared path
Of charred stone and empty spaces.
The vacuum fills to receive
Guests with the promise of your blessing;
A half-life prayer,
Good for a thousand years
Of deformed children
And cancer tears.

Vocal silence
Does for an
Argument make.
You hide behind your belligerence;
With mortar of icy rage and
Stones of cold indifference,
Laid with trowels of denial,
Lobbing nothing wrong
Like fury-fueled firebombs
Then you run a mile.

It's not a war,
It's a conflict.
I'm hunting through a jungle
Of stone-walled edicts,
My defensive guns laying ammo
On metaphorical trees
Guilty of hiding the dead.
A bunker deep enemy,
Safe in their concrete head.

Hunting a deserter
Who spent a lifetime
Learning camouflage techniques,
Sulking under cover,
Lining up their gently angry shot
For when the cross-hairs meet.

I would call you out,
But you would only go in.
It's like fighting a shadow,
My silent twin;
Naturally nurtured
To hide behind benevolence
And fight a cold war.

I warn you, it's growing thin.

Breathless,
Wondrous,
My soul is gripped in awe.
She twists and writhes
Beneath the sheet,
And dreams a little more.
I'm sure she dreams of me, you see,
I feel my soul aflame.
When she sleeps
And sees me there,
She smiles and feels the same.

My spirit
Was consumed,
In death I found my bane;
Twisted deep,
And borne from sleep
My soul was lost in pain.
For in my sin, I died, you see,
While she did cast her spell.
My soul was
Tore asunder;
Cast feet first into hell.

Bound by
Chains of love,
Made from another's mold;
She speared
Me through the side,
And locked me in her fold.
The love she cast
She didn't know
Had caught my soul
In death.
But now I haunt her dreams
Life unending, without breath.

There’s a guy I know
Who’s into spirits,
And not the liquid kind.
He stares sidelong at the world,
Twists his head from side to side.
Imagine what he might find.

Vampires drink wine in Soho,
Sipping from fluted necks
In late night **** stores.
Werewolves run Hyde park ragged,
Robed in riches turned to rags,
If only in the lunar mind.

Police pigs snuffling
Through street trash,
Hunting for him shaped treats.
Televisions watching
His living room and recording
Names and faces of all his kind.

The media he scorns,
Puppet masters pulling strings
For their puppet masters.
The government and the media
Are in it together he opines,
Waving a rag with that in mind.

Aliens control the government,
Sinking sinuous senses
Through simian skulls;
Prodding, poking, pulling
Political factions to provoke
A return of the fleet they left behind.

Codes in hoods hide in churches,
Linking mathematical shapes
To chain centuries of history;
Statues wink and leer at
Myopic armchair men and women
Hunting for the doom of mankind.

Millions of rubes bought over
Shop counters using nonesuch
To sell their souls for trinkets;
Illuminati design adverts,
Flashing commercials;
****** for the public in mind.

Big name pharmaceutical
Selling death at a point
For the sake of profit over parent;
Buying stats to lie to the mass,
Doctors demanding dummies
Despite the way the stars aligned.

Taken for a ride,
We queue with tickets in hand
Waiting for our turn on the rails.

Lie on lie on lie.

He sleeps with one eye on the sky.

Tracking cameras on a road sign.

This guy I know,
He thinks too much.
I don’t mind.

Stay awake my precious,
Stay with me some more.
Grasp my hand, my love,
And hold me to your core.

I am here, my darling,
I am just right here.
When you fall asleep, my love,
I'll stay with you, my dear.

Your eyes are growing tired,
My soul is held in pause.
If you go to sleep, my star,
I will lose my source.

Courage, love, and faith, my dear.
I haven't gone away.
I shut my eyes to dry my tears
So you don't have to pray.

I'm scared, my joy, for what comes next.
Is it dark, you think?

No way.
I picture fields of endless stars
And you brighter than the day.

Hold me, I feel I'm slipping fast away.

I'll never let you go, my love,
Sleep, there, it's not so bad.
I'll be with you shortly,
Don't worry, don't be sad.

Sunlit rays slant through
Like traces in the dark,
Incandescent beams
Flinging dust motes and dreams
Into sharp relief.

Eyelids crawl open
To a dim shelter
Of duvae red, faded.

A peek over the edge
Sets the stomach a'quiver,
An urge to leap fought off
By fatigue; you stay in camp
And slowly stretch your muscles.

An electronic foghorn
Signals your doom.
An avalanche of cotton,
And your back protests
At the sudden weight.

The tether snaps
And you fall
Into the dark of the day.

Time, said the bird,
As it flew through the bay,
Catching the wind
On that fine summer’s day.

Alone, it flew by,
As I watched from the sill;
Its feathers so white
As it flew past the hill.

Stop, I had wailed,
As his storm hit my shore;
But the damage was done
As I lay on the floor.

Sky, you and I,
We’ve been here before;
Sharing this tale,
Perhaps more and more.

Clear was the glass,
As I stared through the pane,
Wondering just then
If the sky was to rain.

Done, said the sky,
With a wink of its eye;
Time to get up,
here’s no need to cry.

Peace, he did cry
As he stepped on the boat;
I watched with a smile
As he settled afloat.

Dark, warned the sky,
As the boat set its sail;
The warnings were there
To live through this tale.

Listen, dark sailor,
The sky is no friend;
The boat tried to help
His friend in the end.

Hell, she will send us,
If you carry this through.
But the man would not listen
To the boat who held true.

Wild, called the storm,
As it blew through the hall,
Tearing and shaking
The paint on the wall.

Hope, I did feel,
As the sky fought my cause;
Smashing and banging
The air without pause.

Break, cried the storm,
As it picked up the boat.
The man and his friend
On the water were smote.

Death was his lot
As he sailed on the sea;
I waited ashore
For my life to be free.

A badge without condition bought cheap, from a thrift store
Lies with brass medals and plastic ribbon, from uncaring hands.

A paid add on the paper floor, claps on the back from glad-hands,
Claps for marrying poor, she’s worth it, all her rotten core.

You walk with conceit, when the army stamped it’s boot,
A doctor’s note, before the sarge could break your seat.

Readies from your parent’s purse, a hand-out on the brew.
You queue for ****** on the roads in a pimped-out hearse.

Slurred words drawl from the dark, blood spit on the street,
Fistfights punctuate grammar like an exclamation mark.

You clone another you, spat from the womb cold;
A mother’s love wrapped in smoke of cozened blue.

There is no end to your ambition.