part 1 of 5

Up on a feathered duvet a man conceding defeat
To the Sunday that had just begun
Reeking of last nights sweat, smoke and self deceit
Threads of reality so rapidly un-spun
All that he promised himself to accomplish this day
All that stuff to be tossed in the bin
Procrastination rearranges plans or lets them decay  
And all because of his love for gin
Amnesia of last nights antics plants the seeds of guilt
Shame shall be his shadow today
Enter a recurring thought... *a sword driven to its hilt
Piercing pain added to his dismay
Rusted cogs of cognition screeched slowly into action
"A cure" he grumbled "A cure"
Wearily off the bed searching for medicinal satisfaction
To make last night less obscure
The stark bright light of the bathroom fried his vision
But as his senses normalized
He stared in the mirror shocked, BANG! in a collision
Mouth agape and paralyzed
Finger painted on his forehead, with what must be blood  
G    U    I    L    T   Y
From down stairs somewhere
A woman's laugh
Mocking
Fear took its grip quick
*a sword driven to its hilt

Honey liquor. the sweetest taste on my lips,
to fall down to the inner sanctum, and rest,
beneath my chest in a silent humming desire.
I feel your breath across my teeth, as it takes in my edges,
the curved outline of my body, plays with the candlelight,
that was so sweetly lit for this moment.
In a flash, like a 1950's photography picture,
the want, turns to rage, to abandonment of what lays before you,
I lay before you.
You breathe me in.
You take me in.
You leave my skin with goosepimples, and i am not cold.
I want to roar, but i am lost with out my mouth,
as you hold it in fearful gaze that I might just breathe,
you, in.
You following my veins from my neck to my wrists,
you count the beats of my blood, with your ears,
pinned back, with your teeth white and sharp,
feared by the candlelight, they do not move, like my body.
I writhe and sink below you,
your hand is on my wrist, and my arm is locked behind me,
I am pinned,
I am put upon,
and yet, i have nowhere to go, but my mind is running from you.
I wait for you to take me,
an indeterminate amount of time passes as i look at you,
with your eyes closed,
taking your time, with your lips pursed and your chin turned,
just so.
And i feel the liquor burn within my chest,
it drips down each breast and across my navel,
as you nip the scant flesh of my inner thighs.
It is quick, it is swift,
the breath i held is exhaled through an open mouth,
a silent howl in a wood-less room,
and a den has been made.
I am not here anymore,
I am within you, as you are within me.
I am breathe, as you are the air.
There is suffocation as i come too quickly and i can't control my mouth;
It utters words in religious overtones;
'Let this be my Sanctum, OH, MY GOD'.
I am fixated by the sight of you,
my body breaks into a millions pieces and dances through the languid,
heaving sweat of the dormant room;
I watch my fingertips pass me by,
I can no longer see your face,
You have braced me for the final *******,
The Ultimate Fix.
And my legs crumple as quickly as your body does.
You are silent in your respite in having me,
there is no tangible evidence of love having taken place.
And sweet honey liquor burns at the back of my throat,
as i exhale and howl to the room, the air, the woods;
for in the space between the light there lies within some air.
To love a wolf, one must have to fight,
to love a wolf, one must have to forsake all,
and be reborn anew and to cry.
For to love you, you have to take me.
And i will drink the sweet liquor,
and retreat to the sanctum within, with a smile on my face,
a burning in my chest, and a tear in my eye.
For to love a wolf, one must be willing to die.

After all, we're not savages. We're English.
And the English are the best at everything.
                                                     ­       (Piggy)
The hovelled huts
Near  school house ditches
Hardly sheltered starving children.
Emaciated, pale and ghastly,
Three million lost.
Exports defined them,
Imports denied them,
The world was told their hunger
Was the wrath of God.
For seven hundred years
Untolled Rachels wept;
Twice as long
As Jews were kept
Enslaved in pagan Egypt.
This was Ireland,
Not Auschwitz.

Beneath the banners of
Labour and Freedom,
Toiled the innocents.
Eyes burning from hot peppers,
Bodies weak and wrecked
From boarding;
Skin separated by flogging
Thousands of Cypriots.

Over soup and sandwiches
A demarcation's drawn,
So Hindus now face Muslims
Seeking their new homes.
Three million displaced
During lunch,
Brain salad served up on a hunch
By a line
Drawn by one man.
This wasn't Treblinka,
But Pakistan.

Millions fenced in labour camps
In what they called  
The Dark Continent.
The torture was horrendous,
With random executions.
Think the worse, you're still not there,
Think ravenous dogs and mutilation,
**** and human degradation.
Eyes gouged out, ears cut off,
This was Kenya,
Not Warsaw.

Sir Winston wore
His crocodile shoes,
Feigning the blues,
While blocking friendly supplies;
Letting three million hungry die.
His callousness was cruelly matched
When delivering Mahatma's epithet:
“Has Gandhi not starved yet?”
This was Bengal,
Not Dachau.

Their ****** count adds up.
Their new policy was errant:
Imprison all the peasants.
It was racist to the Nth degree,
A million desperate detainees
To exile when they're freed.
But half died on their knees
In Malay,
Not Buchenwald.


The Boer War and Apartheid
Were blessed with Royal Assent.
In Amritsar Brits opened fire,
To cut down Innocents.

This isn't just in history,
It's happened all too recently.

Argentina's watery graves
Gurgle from The Belgrano,
Sunk by Royal torpedoes
For a rock of sheep.
Such was the work
Of a band of brothers,
To fly their flag
Over Falkland waters?

There's no denying
The atrocities
Of her maternal
Ferocities.
The Spinners
Wrapped their glories
Furled in Jack's war stories.
The winners
Have detoured their crimes,
Enjoin us denouncing
**** times;
But the sun hasn't set
On Empire fires:
China, India, Kenya, Aden,
Ireland, Africa,
All invaded.
All degraded.
Imperialism is not benign,
The legacy lives on
In Palestine.

Under pretence
Of flag and king,
The English are
Best at everything.

let go the words
like seeds,
to the vast and
windblown
sky

let them settle,
where they may.
some may flourish,
take root and be...

a happy little flower,
a great oak tree.

some may lay dormant,
until the right season.
some may become,
a life's new reason.

some may fall
to ravening birds
some may fall
ans flourish
yet never be heard.

and sadly some may
wither and die...
without ever understanding, why....

we as poets,
truly are,
just the sowers of seeds.

to the winds....
to the sky,
let your words go,
let them fly...
to some say, adiue
see you soon.
to some goodbye.

but let them be...
borne on the wind
...to make poetry