Stood rigidly to attention either side of the hearth, the two bronze fire-dogs had been struggling to maintain that British stiff upper lipidness, which up until earlier that evening had best befitted their station in life... indeed, for the last half hour at least had become brothers in arms to the dying embers filtering through the bars of the cast-iron grate, passing from the present here and now, having lost every thermal attribute necessary to sustain any further vestige of life... to the shortly forthcoming and being at oneness with the Universe... only to fall foul of the overflowing ash-pan below.  This premature cashing in of the coal fire's chips could only be attributed to the recent and prolonged thrashing from the Baronial poker... and a distinct lack of enthusiasm from the family retainer, whom it appeared, required spurring along in a like manner... and while unseen mechanisms were heard to be engaging, then resonating deep within the Hall... that unless summoned... and quickly, the housekeeper had little intention of making an appearance of her own choosing and re-stoke the Study fire while the BBC Home Service were airing 'Your 100 Best Tunes' on the wireless, leaving the heavily tarnished pendulum to continue measuring the hour.

     An indistinct mutter and snap of a closing door latch sounded in the immediate distance as the unhurried shuffle of domestic footsteps... not too dissimilar from those of Jacob Marley's spectral visitation to Scrooge... echoed ever closer along the ancient, oak panelled hallway without.  Their sudden cessation, allowing the housekeeper ingress to  the book lined Study, was by way of sporadic groans from unoiled hinges, door furniture that voiced the same overwhelming lack of attention as that of the fire-grate set in the wall opposite and presumably, from the same overwhelming lack of domestic servitude.
                                        
     "Had his Lordship rang...?" the Housekeeper wailed dolefully, giving her employer what might casually pass for a courteous bob... and in lieu no doubt, of Marley's rattling chains, padlocks and dusty ledgers... "and would there be anything further his Lordship required..." before she took her leave for the evening.  The notion of a sticky mint humbug warming the cockles of his ancient, aristocratic heart gave her pause for thought as she rummaged through her pinafore pockets, then thought better of it, after all, confectionary didn't grow on trees...  In bobbing a second time she noticed the malnourished, yet strangely twinkling coal-scuttle lounging over by the hearth, whose insubstantial contents had taken on an ethereal quality earlier that evening and had now transferred its undivided attention to the recently summoned Housekeeper, who was quite prepared to offer up a candle in supplication come next Evensong were she mistaken, but the coal-scuttle's twinkle bore every intimation of giving what appeared to be a very suggestive 'come-on' in return... and had been doing so since she first entered the room... 'and did she have any plans of her own that particular evening', the coal-scuttle twinkled suavely, 'perchance a leisurely stroll down by the old coal cellar steps...'  Now perhaps it was the lateness of the hour which had caused the Housekeeper's confusion that evening, or perhaps an over stretched imagination, brought on through domestic inactivity, but it wouldn't take a great deal to hazard that a lingering fondness for Gin and tonic played no small part towards her next curtsey, which she did, albeit unwittingly, in the unerring direction of the winking coal-scuttle.

     With the household keys as her badge-of-office, jangling defiantly from the chain around her waist, the housekeeper began inching back the same way she came, back towards the study door and freedom... and back into the welcoming arms of her 1/4 lb. bag of peppermint humbugs and the pint of best London Gin she'd had to relinquish prior to 'Songs of Praise...' and which was now to be found... should you happen to be an inquisitive fly on a particular piece of floral wallpaper... half-cut, locked arm in arm with the bottle of Indian tonic water and in the final, intoxicating throws of William Blake's, 'Jerusalem...' hic.

     "Ha-arrumph..." the elderly gentleman cleared his throat... "ah Gabby" he said, lowering his book and placing it face down upon the occasional table set beside him.  The flatulent groan of tired leather upholstery made itself heard above the steady monotony of the mantle-piece clock as he stood and chaffed his hands in the direction of the bereft fire, "Oh! I'm sorry your Lordship, then there was something...?" as she maintained her steady but relentless backwards retreat unabated, the double-barrelled bunch of keys taking up a strong rear-guard action and away from the well disposed coal scuttle... "and was his Lordship quite certain that he required the fire stoking at such a late hour..." she dared, "perhaps a nice warming glass of port and brandy instead" gesturing towards the salver, long since tarnished by the half hearted attentions of a proprietary metal polish... "and would he care for..." then thought better of offering to plump the chair cushions herself, having discovered Mort, the household mouser in the final stages of claiming them as his own, deftly rearranging the Victorian Plush with far more than any noble airs or graces.

     "Poor Mrs Alabaster, you will recall Sir, I'm sure..." a pained expression crossed the Housekeepers face as she collided with a corner of the Georgian writing bureau and bringing her to an abrupt halt... "her late Ladyships lady" she continued, indiscreetly rubbing her derriere, "whose services your Lordship dispensed with at the onset of last Winter, shortly after the funeral, God rest her late Ladyship... when you made her redundant... and how she's been unable to find a new situation ever since on account of her lumbago flaring up again, seeing as how it's been the coldest January in living memory", which in all likelihood meant since records began... "and SHE didn't have any coal either... or a roof over her head for all anyone cared... begging yer' pardon, yer' Lordship", letting her tongue slip as she attempted yet one more curtsey... "and it's wicked-cruel outside this time of year Sir, you wouldn't turn a dog out in it..." and how ordering the coal used to be Mrs Alabaster's responsibility...

     "Oh no, Sir", as she unsuccessfully stifled a hiccup...she would be only too delighted to rouse the Cook, especially after that dodgy piece of scrag-end they'd all had to suffer during Epiphany, but it was only last week that the Doctor had confined Cookie to bed with the croup... "as I'm sure your Lordship will recall..." as she attempted a double curtsey for effect, the despondent coal-scuttle now all but forgotten, "that below-stairs had been dining on pottage since a week Friday gone... and it tends to get a little moribund after almost a fortnight your Honour... and that Mrs Cotswold's rheumatism was still showing no signs of improvement either by the looks of things... and was having to visit the Chiropodist every fortnight for her bunions scraping... and how she's been advised to keep taking the embrocation as required".

     As a young woman, any disposition her grandmother may have had towards sobriety or moral virtue had quickly been prevailed upon by the former Master's son taking intimacy to the next level with the saucy Parlour Maid's good nature.   Shortly thereafter, having been obliged to marry the first available Gardener that came along, she was often heard to say "a bun in the oven's worth two in the bush" for it was with stories 'of such goings-on'  that made it abundantly clear to the Housekeeper, that it was far more than old age creeping up... and that if she didn't keep her wits wrapped tightly about her, as she threw a sideways glance at the winking philanderer... then who would.

     As for the Gardener, "well... he couldn't possibly manage the cellar steps at this late hour, yer' Lordship, wot' with the weather being the way it is right now Sir, seasonal... and him with his broken caliper... and bronchitis playing him up at every turn, even though his own ailing missus swore by a freshly grown rhubarb poultice first thing each morning", but oddly enough, "how it always seemed to work better if the young barmaid down in the village rubbed it on, especially around opening time..." even his brother, Mr Potts Senior, ever since their Dad passed away... "God rest his eternal soul", as she whirled, twice in as many seconds, a mystical finger in the air... had said how surprised he'd been to discover that it could be used as a ground mulch for seed-cucumbers... it was truly amazing how The Good Lord provided for the righteous... and even as she spoke, was working in mysterious ways, His Wonders to Behold... "Praised-Be-The-Lord".

     And how the entire household, with the possible exception of Mrs Alabaster, her late Ladyships lady, who doggedly refused to be evicted from her 'Grace n' Favour cottage...' the one with pretty red roses growing around the door, that despite a string of eviction notices from the apoplectic Estate manager... had noticed what a fine upstanding Gentleman his Lordship had steadfastly remained since her late Ladyships sudden demise... "God-rest-her-immortal-soul..." and may she allow herself to say, "how refreshing it was to have such a progressively minded and discerning employer such as his Lordship at the helm, one filled with patient understanding and commitment towards the entire household..." much like herself...

     Fearing an uncontrollable attack of the ague, which invariably took the form of a selfless and unstinting dereliction to duty and always flared up at the slightest suggestion of having to roll her sleeves up and do something... which incidentally, was the first mutual attraction by common consent to which her parents, some forty years earlier had discovered they both held in tandem... and "would his Lordship take exception..." feigning a sudden relapse as she gestured towards the nearest chair, were she to take the weight off her feet... she plonked herself solidly upon the Chippendale before his Lordship could decline... "perhaps a recuperative drop of brandy" she volunteered, "just for medicinal purposes", she swept her feet onto the footstool, then crossed them with a flourish that would have caused Cyrano de Bergerac to hang up his sword... "the good stuff, if his Lordship would be so kind, in the lead-crystal decanter... over in the corner by the potted plant", she caught sight of the adjacent cigarette box, also tarnished... "just to keep body and soul together, may it please 'Him upon High'..." and just long enough to brave the coal cellar steps and refill the amorous scuttle... "if only it were a little less chilly", she gave an affected cough... on account of her diphtheria acting up again, she felt sure that his Lordship understood...  Moving over to one of the book lined alcoves, the elderly Gentleman lifted several tomes from the shelves... 'My Life in Anthracite', an illustrated compendium' "to begin with, I think... followed by... hmm!" 'The History of Fossil-Fuels, a comprehensive study in twelve breath taking volumes' "and we'll take it from there" as he threw the first on the barely smouldering embers...

                                                      ­     ...   ...   ...**

a work in progress.                                                        ­                                                         1859

on your birthday
I wrote a letter comprised
of all that I adored;
words articulated in strikethroughs
and barrelled with smiley faces
to disguise my evident
addiction to your smile
--to your happiness.

and although I value your happiness
the letter remains at the bottom
of my computer
untouched, unsent
because my heart is already
shred to pieces, and the thought
of you dismissing
the words I poured myself in
is unbearable.

words;
they never articulated properly
although I pride myself a writer;
I addressed situations I overanalysed
over countless nights of lost sleep,
where your mouth dropped,
your eyes lowered
your breath grew heavier after
another brutal attack from my unaffectionate
words.

I noted little things;
conflicts within yourself
and wrote about them,
my remedy a simple melody
contrasting the bitter tunes
spat at you, through widened eyes
and curled lips.

That letter is unsent
because it exposes too much
about how often I think
dream
feel
about you.

while I say very little

The party starts at ten to three.

On the second floor,room twenty two
two vicars who had come down from Crewe were wondering just what to wear, to the shindig going on down there.
They collided,both decided to put on crimson frilly frocks,this was not a 'do' for cassocks or for smocks.

Room forty four up on the forth,was Lucy Ann,a double barrelled name of course,a horsey type who came by invite to liven lively up the night.

In number ten slept teacup Ken,who had never once imbibed,the porter was slipped a twenty,but was bribed to keep his big mouth shut, as ties were cut and Ken found Zen in a brandy glass,
and discovered parties were a gas.

The police arrived to room fifty five and found Miss Sterling doing the jive around the severed head of Fred the cook,
poor Fred never had any kind luck.

There is no escape from the party at Lancaster Gate and those who come are those who'll die
but the party is so flamin' good I'll try to sneak in,got to take a peek in room number twenty seven,where it's said,that the lady there can show you several kinds of heaven before you meet your doom.
Got to get in, get a room,check in time expires at noon.
I shall no doubt expire,naked by the fire in
room, one o one.

shackled to a notion
rubbing through wrists
in rusted remains
of beautifully easy

it's a slow bleed
through insults slung
in fear the unmaliciois
only noticed in hindsight

calling the innocent a *****
doesn't breed hate from love
the duke-yeilding cowardly lion
flings back like a monkey


##

breaststroking a marathon in tears
wading through pain I never caused
pelted with double-barrelled denial
THIS IS NOT WEAKNESS

there is no waver on my solid ground
torn flesh and compound fractures
cannot break harder than history

still, gavel strikes
in sucker punched cracked ribs
that look like a past that ain't mine

###

keep hacking off pieces
maybe I'll fit into those pretty boxes
your liars left as gifts
nasty reminders that trust has sharp teeth

maybe that's just you
biting back any hand that gets too close
pandering in placating platitudes
ain't my bag

flattery fails to flounce from unfettered friends


####

can't be beat into submission
with unspoken broken rules
can't run from a truth in plain view

this is what it looks like
to believe what you know over
what you've lived

I'm not running
I'm not biting back
I'm not going anywhere

then again, why would I
I'm not the one afraid to love you




https://soundcloud.com/user-166761247/a-fourth-in-time-to-cracked-selections-of-music

Left hope behind
Abandoned fights
All vicious signs
Of savage plights

Felt like a flea
A parasite
All savage plea
To savage plight

Oh Sisyphus
Exhausted might
Lay in a hearse
Oh savage plight

Heathen in prayer
God-given right
Sign of the lair
Of savage plights

A crimson snow
And eyes of white
But don't you know
These savage plights

By Doom's own herald, God's own **** creatures all collide
Like ole rye barrelled, seasoned to withstand savage plights

Let woman cry
Let man be scorned
Let savage plights
Shut closing doors

He'll will stay frozen
Heaven forlorn
The savage chosen
***** of Babylon

Live off of plights
All but one savage
Dragged day and night
Your horseless carriage

Call it a burden
That is your right
One thing's for certain
It's savage plights

With mind so prurient
Give humans blights
From West to Orient
Come savage plights

Dorian-like picture on the wall, too mild a fighter for a knight
Was God-forsaken, after all, dealt sole with and to others each a savage plight

When I was 17 I watched a man **** himself,
I remember the morning like it was yesterday,
the air bit at my heels
and it was too cold to be at the skatepark,
there was a lounge area of
weathered tables and pine trees
about 50 yards north,
I still remember the look in his eyes
confusion filled mine,
he was old, around 70
and I kept skating around,
he just sat there with
saltwater in his veins,
holding a long barrelled
30-30 it looked like,
I kept skating and fixating
my eyes on what he was holding,
it manipulated my vision,
reached out to hopeful ignorance
and yanked it through my throat,
we never made eye contact,
his eyes were buried down
a steel thief,
I kept rolling back and forth,
and I never knew thunder had
the ability rip the bearings
from the wheels,
the crack turned the bark
on the tree behind him
to a yelp,
and I’ve never saw blood fly
until that point,
I still remember how fast
it turned from a picnic table
to a crime scene,
how aimlessly the yellow tape
flew in the wind, as if nothing
ever happened,
time forged a signature
on a death note to man
who never felt the chill
bite at his heels that day,
that barrel screaming for forgiveness
knocked at a door with perspective
standing at the peephole,
I saw myself in his shoes
when I saw the life leave his body,
I went back that day
and saw the city worker
spraying the pavement,
running an eraser over
the pen-painted picture
in my mind,
the chill shattered my
porcelain heels that
day and shooed me
away from the
griptape forever.

(smoke barrelled down
the valley and across
the lake, visible
only through luminous
moondust

i felt
security

i saw that
even the darkness
was shrouded in
light)

a family name with two parts,
yet what it has to do with
guns , heaven knows.

there is a hotel designed
around that shape, apparently.

looks out to sea.

some times one wonders about the fuss,
and worry, when.

it is only a privet hedge.

sbm.

On the drive from St. Andrews to Aberdeen
I stopped at a roadside cafe,
For toast and jam and tea.
The young blonde server
Took my order,
And never spoke a word.
Then her mother bellowed
From the back of the room;
And her father barrelled through the door,
And a baby cried;
She's wanting more.
This is their country;
She was their girl.
I paid for the platter,
I tipped the teen,
And continued on
To Aberdeen.

I roll the possibilities over my tongue
before I even allow them to breathe.

I carry my lids heavy, as if lost in thought
and pronounce:

"Salt, lust, and barrelled in frustration."

I see I seeing I seeing
That.
I drank from That cup
As the liquid spilled over the lip
Into my open mouth
There lay a mystery on my tongue
Unnamed sensation in my throat
A knife cutting deeper and deeper
A sharpness dissecting.
Sometimes an axe, hacking.
Sometimes a needle, sewing.
A pierceness, the clear blade
Of the mind.

The silence so loud, comforting
Yet disquieting.
The silence in my ears,
A miracle, a bane, a source.
Opening doors to curious flowers,
Strange yet native to my work.
A curious pattern in my heart
Resting on the laurels of my past,
Practices I had to forget,
Like laughter.
The silence, a peace I can return to.
A deep and penetrating character
Of existence itself.

Animal, plant, mineral.
Human with peculiar work, very peculiar work.
The cosmic sense of humour.
Eyes looking at eyes
That appear, like a wave, a sense form.
Ghostly clouds and fairy apparitions.

There is an ancient wizard monk,
A blue mystic sage that walks.
He is always walking, always moving forward.
His long hair, long nose,
And even longer cloak,
Generating the Abyss.

Then doors again open to evergreen branches,
Swaying on my cheek, whispering the sweet joke of
“you are not alone, you are not alone”.
Creeks and valleys, ferns and fiddleheads,
I ascended the quiet mountain.
Made requests for what I did not know.
Asked to keep unknown promises I could not keep.
I had lost my heart.
It was to be found in the decaying mushrooms
Or fallen trees, which became “logs”.
It was to be found in the limitless forgiveness of the Goddess,
And the glowing of the moon, too bright, too bright.

The beauty swallowed me whole,
And spit me out.
All I could hear was the trickling water,
The songbirds call,
And my inner voice, deep, deep.
I consulted my past, soil and dirt both.
My past as a Queen, a carrier, a holder of the secret language, as loam.
Hooked, I was hung, to bleed until clean.
I couldn’t surrender to the Horror. It was just as great a burden as the Beauty.
BUT I KNOW THE MAMA OF THE VIBE HERSELF!
How is it I confine myself here,
Trapped in my own expansion
Much too free in my own deconstruction.
Much too attached
To my preferences for life’s wild songs that fill the air.

The same reality, underlying the foundation of everything.
Layers of endless illusion,
Sparks of entertainment.
So many comparisons.
Are not the blind happy to see?
Even if what they see is not the bare reality before them,
Barren of all colour and vibrancy?
I do not know.

Tenaciously, I jumped off a moving train.
I barrelled down the mountain.
In a sadness, I had forgotten how to feel laughter in my heart.
My inner self looked on, watching
Witnessing me learn.
The minimum of respiration to stay alive.
Wellness ran dry, hope was put on ice -
At least not obliterated, as suggested.

The frequency of the water which formed the tears I cried.
So many different frequencies. So many tears.
Much of this I have read and studied,
Much of these lessons have I digested.
Many I’ve experienced, forcefully
From external pressures and inducements.

Can the Buddhist taste the truest quality of the tea she drinks?
I’ll enjoy it and leave the true tasting to her.

Can the austere sample Earth’s greatest delights, in the clearest quality of their form?
Good, I’ll savour and leave the clear sampling to them.

Can the pious smell the sweetest scents that the spring grounds do give off?
Wonderful, I’ll be happy to sniff and leave the sweetest smelling to them.

They are now leaving.
Gone are those who work themselves into atoms.
May they enjoy their disintegration, into the intigration
Of universal truth.
They are more enlightened.
I wish I could taste those fruits,
But am not willing to sacrifice lust for Life.
We are equal, we are equal.
Too cruel is the depth, too violent is the scale.
I refuse it,
And accept myself as is.
Widened,
Open, immense growth.

So now, in pieces, torn
And battered and broken by the Horror and the Beauty.
I pick up my pieces, put back together the puzzle,
Coming back to some kind of Original Mind.
I dropped the reins I was never holding in the first place.
Leaped off the speeding black horse of complete stillness.
Bones broken, muscles frozen, teeth shattered,
Brain fizzled out.
I pray for those who really have to experience
Insanity via disease.
IT IS EXHAUSTING.

So much magic. What has disappeared is the urgency -
The desperate need to express
Gratitude.
The disappearance of the illusion
That the Great Force doesn’t know how thankful I am.
It made me that way, so it should know.

And I emerge with greatness
That is cloudy but present.
A giant bird ruffles itself in the dandelion field.
The mammoth linx, teaching me in my dreams
“don’t let your addictions become a robust yet scrawny beast
That others will have to wrestle”.
The message of feathers is soar softly on the four winds.
Smile with delight, you have permission.
Chuckle at the obvious captain:
“If you throw dirt into the wind, you are going to get *****!”

When debt's piled up to a roof
That you can't call your own
Your friends have borders you can't cross
Stuck in a state that's all your own
When lonely can't describe how you feel
Holding tight onto your phone
Cause others could have been through worse
More horrible than you know
They say, "Come now, son,
Take my hand
We'll lead you through the dark
And a path that you can't stand
Hoping to eventually find the way
But you know they don't know the way

There's volumes stuck inside your head
On what you should have done
And memories inside you of
The races you should have won
You stayed a hindrance to your family
When you know you should have run
You held that hand wiping tears
When it should have held a gun
They say, "Come now, son,
It's a bright new day."
But "Why wake up?"
Is all you can say
Hoping life could just go away
But you know it just won't go away

Chorus:
So, please, let me go
I will understand
If you don't cry for me
Cause the path was hard
The trek was long
And I'm begging you
Hear this song
And don't forget me
And don't cry for me

When you could write a book about
The things this song relates
And every word and every line
Come barrelled up with hate
And you feel the only things to blame
Are yourself mixed with some fate
And just pray that this will end soon
And pray you're not too late
They say, "Come now, son,
We can't bury you
We'll hold you up
We'll carry you."
But you won't go that way
You know that's not the way

Chorus

And don't cry for me...

The figure moved; "let by gones be by gones
n'all" called the other reaching for gun.
Shadow flashed, eyes witnessed unsong;
"bound soul flitting shade bound, n'all!" gun sung.
As the bank clerk accosted sought shelter,
the barrelled void looked on with glee. Happy?
What a time to shine we've a belter,
and I'll betch ya bare presents from me.
Animate beings the devils in deets
Replete we so are and we suffer.
In-animacy, the terms quite discreet,
and our ignorance hampers our buffer.
For guns everywhere, unloading despair,
pushing and crushing; the barrels grim stare.

Your hair is longer than before,
Mine is shorter than the last time,
All our dyes have ran out,
Into our natural brown.

Your a little taller now,
With a head,
not hanging as low,
A tighter spring in your step,
As you wittingly walk toward me.
I hated waiting,
But I've never stoped.

Eager, I can not help becoming,
In the shadow of our showdown.
Modest mercy is all I ask from you.
As we fire our double barrelled Deringers,
Bullets that shoot tangible mementos,
Pierce worthless wounds you have opened before.

-Jamie F. Nugent

The sirens wail
turning tail to run
shots expire from a
long barrelled gun,
but it's not me
I flee.

it's youths or yutes as they call them today

scallywags robbing tally bags
the neighbourhood goes from bad to worse but
it used to be good

I think
it used to be a paradise

the end of the 60's
beatniks and hippies
free love
flowers and
rainbows,

we didn't know
or we did
and hid these
thoughts away,
baby boom
baby boom
look at today

our fault the system's down
the wiring's kaput and
not just in this
Northern town

"the lamps are going out all over Europe"

is there no hope?

I heard the ring of the ambulance
As it barrelled down from E,
But wasn’t really awake, so didn’t
Know that it came for me.
They had me strapped on a stretcher
In the twinkling of an eye,
And only when we arrived, did I
Believe I was going to die.

The pain had been unrelenting since
I’d eaten the evening meal,
It started up in my shoulder, and
My hands, I couldn’t feel,
I felt my head become groggy, till
I finally passed out,
It must have been when I hit the floor
That I heard your sudden shout.

They said it must be a heart attack
So they’d have to run a test,
But while I lay in the hospital
I’d better get some rest.
I kept on coming and going while
The questions filled my head,
I wondered if I’d been poisoned,
Did you really want me dead?

I’d thought that it tasted funny, at
The time, as I said to you,
The meat had had a consistency
As if it was cooked in glue,
And then some of those vegetables
I couldn’t recognise,
You said I’d not know the difference
Between casseroles and pies.

And then, it must be about the time
That my forehead became damp,
You said whatever I knew of food
You could write on a postage stamp,
But you had been acting strangely since
That boarder came to stay,
Spending your time in drinking wine
That he’d brought from Bordelais.

I knew to look for the danger signs
In your long retreat from me,
I knew at once that he had designs
When his hand had touched your knee,
And every time that I left you two
Alone on a sultry day,
I had to wonder what you would do
To while the time away.

Your friend, Margot, has visited me
Alone in my hospital bed,
She said you were picking mushrooms,
Which has left my mind in dread.
She always seems to have favoured me,
And she sat and held my hand,
She said I shouldn’t have married you,
This is what you would have planned.

My mind was full of suspicion when
You came to visit me,
But you had cried, said I almost died,
And that brought you misery.
‘You know that I’ve always loved you,
But that love has brought me pain,
Whenever you look at Margot, it’s
Like losing you again.’

I asked her about the boarder and
She said that he’d gone before,
‘I only ever played up to him
To make you want me more.’
We’re both a prey to suspicions
And the heartache that they lend,
We’re over that, and we made a pact,
Our love is on the mend.

David Lewis Paget

Maybe what was good was bad and bad was good
But if so would it hurt that we could
Return and try till we break once more
Till one or the other walks out the door

But in a way that would hurt less than this
Knowing it's over without what ifs
But we're stuck in a limbo, both still in love, can't let go
                  but
It's not the right time, we'll lose each other.
                                We know.

Something I can't do and neither can you
Is lose my best friend and lover, though it seems what we have to do.
To survive this, endless pain
How I wish to go back and live it all again

Fix what was good to make it better
Change my heart to realise sooner
That my dream had changed from art to you
And now I'm left in a pit with nothing- without you

As I said.
Maybe what was good was bad and bad was good
Our love was good but we were too young to feel as strong as we could
In that way it was bad
And we'll struggle to fix it
But should we hold onto our chance? Or cut ropes and drift this?
So confused cause you care and act like you love,
but at the same time it breaks me we're not as close as we should
Be.
We should be,
But only in a couple years or three.
But what then when I'm all alone,
Come back and find you've forgotten me?
Or will you be there, been my friend, still in love with me?
Can this grow again, you said that maybe there was a chance.
But I couldn't bare for us to hurt even more in this dance.

Distance is unforgiving but it's what we both need. Is it working for you?
It's not for me

Till the end you make me happy
And at the moment the end is a happier sight
Than that of a life without you, all alone
Even with art it's a fight.

Bad and good, good and bad,
What does it matter if it just makes you sad
I'll chase happiness wherever I find it
At the moment all i can find is you
With your double barrelled pain
Shooting once for like we were, shooting again for distance away.
But I have to take my chances
After I build myself up
You are all that I want now
And I won't give you up.

each new green shoot,
shot to hell and back
with a silver barrelled gun
and razed to the ground
with the surface of the sun
is benevolent
to the poor earth

There was no blank canvas
fresh pages nor empty void to fill
There was.
Delicate taps of dancing feet
Roars and screeches in constant symphony
They felt.
Skin curling from scorching heat
Dust choked the lung suffocated the brain
But the rain of fiery arrows still
                                                        fel­l
                                                        punctur­ed
                                                              ­     sank in them.
They couldn’t make it rain.
What is.
Howling winds crying out a message
Frantic scurrying to seek and secure
Before.
An ever growing snowball barrelled down a cliff
Frost devoured and gnawed for the last scrap of warmth
And then.
They reached. Struggled and crawled and climbed and fought.
For the faint drum of familiar beat
Until.
The indulgence of an only child
Cuts and gouges, rips and tears
Storms of acid, rupture in their
                                                     skin
                                                            ­ heart
                                                           ­           
                                                                ­soul
to the very core.
They were very sore.
The child asked for a second chance. Ha! Whatever for?
You wish to enter a broken door.

In the supernatural sphere,
down London Road
cheek by jowl,
the angel of death pontificates.

Beyond its parlor,
the old subterfuge of death,
languishes in this netherworld.

Untouched by conscience.
Our apparition stands by the silver moon,
self-crowned and wearing the also run
upending the praying soul.

The past doctrines of survival,
half barrelled,
speaks its own enormity.