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Stringer Jul 2018
And Chrysomallus discarded the golden fleece, on the shadowy east,
Of the American land,
Harvested,
By charcoal calloused crimson red stained hands,

Our industry
Is heinous beyond belief
It's a surprise that we can sleep in peace

Selective memory is bittersweet
Stringer Jul 2018
1.

If black humour is a sign of intelligence then who is the most intelligent of all?

The hurricane that swept the weatherman away while reporting on a supposedly tranquil day?

The ravages of nature which left Ozymandias all alone in the midst of the desert?

Cruel cruel uncertainty,

2.

Cupid sneezed, and let his finger go,

A fiat lust led my way,

A golden love gone,

So,

Why, o, why

Do you plague me so?
Stringer Jul 2018
The concrete rose,

Never sleeps, never weeps

With diligence and duty it keeps,

Rising through the cracks,

Bruised and battered but essence in tact
Stringer Jul 2018
Ode to sincerity
Unlike a candles flame
Wrath contained,
Dissipates not
                    but
        grows and gains

Wrath contained
A brick in a washing machine
A moth in a closet
Wrath contained,
A plant growing
As Providence's Gardener is perpetually hoeing
With a deft hand doubt's seed Wrath is sowing

Wrath contained,
Is Suffering's Yeast,
To its expansion there's no end
The closed mouth is an open space for Wrath to bend
Sprouts of hope Wrath's malice fends
               Away and blights
With its bligthening might
Grinds light to dust
Creeps under the plant *** it must
Break in the foundation it may
Once cheery now morose
Day-by-day Wrath dissembled its host
Stringer Jul 2018
Its 6:01, Farringdon Platform 1
Shattered souls craned necks
And twiddling thumbs.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

Here stood reflecting.
Silently condemning a life accepted
Reams of fleeces overground and understated.
Shrouded from sheering myself.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

How my hem has freyed
No, not from loft today
Through rubbing ankles under desks,
To metamorphose
To a child cocooned blanket bound
Rubbing ankles dreaming sound
I dream as the child dreamt
As a baby longed to feel
      I long for what I have felt

— The End —