Blessed, we sing for thee

Eyes open wide for us to see,

In wondrous abandonment,

Freedom, before it went.

Flit away leaving murky dark,

A world devoid of creative spark,

And as i’m wishing things could go back,

I cry into the echoing black,

Is this all there is?

Crawling, twitch. Sobbing Char.
Twisted metal, broken car.
Lifeblood spilt, conscience torn.
Screaming through the bloodied dawn.

The subtlest nuance of cherry blossom,

Drifting down into the banks of my memory,

Twisting miniature pirouhettes.

We are the cold and broken ones,

Snapped like twigs and tossed aside,

Protested ‘gainst the thousand wrongs,

Were shot, but noone cried.

Sometimes I ******* hate you.

The feeling lasts longer and longer each time you snap.

I’m bigger, stronger than you now, but I still can’t stop you.

After all, you are the monster under my bed. The claw round the door, the matted fur and blood in the sink.

You are the bad man.

And that is how it will always be.

You are illogical, unreasonable. You defy rules you impose unto others.

I’ve endured a lifetime of this abuse, And you don’t even apologise the next day anymore.

Because you’ve found a hook, something to blame for your fuckups.

That hook is me.

And so, as you spit in my face, with beer in your blood, you are blameless in your mind.

Hate pushes the shame away.

It just saddens me that I’ve done nothing but forgive you all this time, and all you can do is hate me.

Deep-seated madness,
Slinks beneath pupils obsidian.

Flit away, pounding feet,
Warmth, marred insiduously.

Childish gaze,
Turns to anger, unwarranted rage. Unhinged.

This man I once knew, transformed.
Perfection, alight. Broken. Singed.

I long for Jesse and the knife, Nubi and the spinning top,

for Meg and her garden.


I long for primality,

for the cold concrete of the forsaken bridge.


All are memories burnt into my soul, yet never to be.

The mind is a cruel thing.

Slice thy mind, donate.

Thy flesh that of the state.

We bred you, raised you. Go hate.



This social unrest, uneasy rut.

Shadowed debauchery, directors cut.

Inside lies blood, the doors shall shut.



Closed off in my mind, insanity breeds,

Faded kindness that my heart needs,

Drowned in blood, tied by reeds.



I snap.

As the flames of half-life twist,

Lick at the very being,

A knee-deep shadow washes round,

the fish of ever-seeing,

gaze up and scream, a piercing cry,

Ringing through the hallowed night,

A thousand worshipped lotus leaves,

Claim thier god given right,

To flutter on the endless breeze,

For all the spirits see,

I am the earth, the rain, the sky,

Your world, your space, Is me.

Let out a little of the beast. Enough to appease it.

It howls. I feel it scratching, wearing away my mind.

This rage, This dark veil obscures. Clarity skits away.

Let a little out, then cage it again.

For this world knows not of the beast.

And it shall not.

Arson

The acrid smell of petrol burns my nose, sticks to my skin like molten plastic, marring me.

My heartbeat sticks in my throat, pumping harder, faster.

The match head flares into life, pumping liquid adrenaline through my veins.

I flick the match with one deft movement, the flame highlighting golden pathways as it arcs through the dusty air.

Time slows, petrol rips into life, liquid flames spill across the ***** floorboards, slip up the graffiti ridden walls.

The deed is done.

Head bowed, my shoulder dips.

I turn and run.

Behind me, lucifer rages. Ahead, salvation lies.

I crash out into night air laced with smoky undertones, piercing through the clarity with clouded barbs of charred morals.

My feet pound on the saturated concrete, the sound of gasping breath and crackling pine slowly drowned out by the droning cacophony of fire engines soon to come.

Longing, encapsulated culinarily.
Crisp, crumbling.
Buttery.

Wooden board, serrated steel,
Sawn loaf.

Thick black waves,
merged by steel.

This cool forgiving breath,
This wondrous night.

As blue eyes flash,
And bats take flight.

This cool wet ground,
Beneath my toes.

This fleeting call,
And up you rose.

Warmth of your smile,
And of your kiss.

Makes me thankful,
We have all this.

I am a swordsman of the mind. My blade, Language, and logic.

It’s purity glints in the sun. It’s truth, a razor edge.

With a deft flick of my tongue, crimson lines appear, blood beads.

The cut is skilled, rends deep.

This is not trolling. This is sparta.

Rows of red, and blue and green,
Confectionary ordered pointlesly,
Only to fall, one by one,

Or all the large to the left,
and the small stacked up.

Coins in stacks of one pound,
Unless it's pennies, Then in stacks of ten.

Books piled, large at the bottom, towering up,
Pens lie in rows,
Invisible borders prevent touching,

Keys too untidy, remove from ring, arrange in circles,
Food cut into bites, counted and ordered,

Fridge ordered by food group,
Or colour,
Depending on the day,

Lighters in rows, standing tall,
Zippos together,
Clippers and disposables,
Flints in a pile,
Wicks in the little paper sleeve.

Fuse wire in the little round tin,
The one she gave me,
The one that opens with a POP.

The relentless sound of the sky exploding, shattering into a thousand shards.
Flashes of light overhead, trench Romanticism at play.
Oxygen becomes smoke, sulfur watered eyes.

I love Bonfire Night.
Happy Pyromania Day, everyone.

People say that I'm foolish,
a bundle of velocity.

These magnificent stylings,
the simple joy of being me.

Stares curious and curiouser,
cocked eyebrows and murmurs.

Astonished minds bleat society,
cower from smiling performers.

I'm hidden, nothing but these scars,
These sheltered lives, in sheltered cars,

Speed to sheltered homes and then,
Speed to sheltered work again,

And speed right past this homeless man,
This human litter, crushed tin can,

This empty packet of a life,
What are my troubles, or my strife?

Keep living sheltered lives and then,
Have sheltered kids and start again.

And stop us shadows leaking through,
To sheltered lives, from scaring you,

From opening up these barcode eyes,
What is your life without it's lies?

Upon the crumbling moss-streaked wall,

A single shephard leant,

As he sadly counted peaceful sheep,

His mind on unpaid rent,

his loving wife, and doting son,

this cool sweet scent of night,

and now we leave the fretful shephard,

He’ll go to war and fight.

The future is not orange.

It's the colour of faded newspapers,
Dying embers, Buttery moonscapes and
Concrete scars.

It reeks of chip shop oil and skidmarked tattoos.
of Rotting flesh and accelerant
fumes.

The future comes with arms outstreched,
with daggers in your back.
with comforting palms.

The future tastes of soft toys, lost in time,
of thick cut white with butter
of goat.
It tastes of blessings once before.

and with luck, tastes once more.