The empty halls of Bisbellow Mannor
Cold and dark under the torn burned banner
The empty rooms once full of life
Stand still and quiet from troubled strife
The empty stables once full of grace
Stands decayed and forgotten in time and space
The royal banner flew once high and proud
Lays fallen and thorn in mist and shroud
Greed and power let to blame
Covers this kingdom under a mist of shame
The hand that pulled the bow string tight
Released the arrow with fury’s might
Like lightning flew in the clouded sky
Through gale and rain with no reply
Struck the chest through a metal shield
Fell the king on the littered field

and i smiled into my father’s face and eyes
when i wrote this, and he set off to work
and i set off to bed to sleep off
having fed the hangover to appear by noon of what i thought
to be the next day... :)
indeed i did feel lazy being a poet and not being a
journalist. and i know the dead poets' society
still lives on! it still lives on! even though he was an actor,
the dead poets' society still lives on!
but i still have my father's strength at 6am as a roofer
than the weakness of a poet at 6am in wish to be
a roofer - most of the agonies of man are explained by the strenghts / “apathies” of animals... who share none of our sensible inquests of the new arrival proclaimed as lord of mannor but the corner stone / messiah of our turnip pyramid constructed by eager termites... we have none of such composure between mammal and lizard... we then in pretence rule animal with man’s fake prosthetic heart as heart of hierarchy and as above? when with as an above no above we dare believe in, surely?! of what heart does serve and of what heart could serve, only the sensual it does, serve, and no other in the realm of the heart’s intent to think exchange heart for mind and allow mind the feeling enclosure of not thinking. what then? i mind my poetry is weakened such and such takes of what could never be mistook: but you know how a masculine profession was mistook for a feminine one? it only took a mother and a builder to say they differed: the builder’s mother said the hammer in sense, while the mother’s sunday am simply said, the nails frequent the builder’s hammer less than my son’s tears my husband’s eyes, even thought that thety do.... as i too wish robin williams was my english teacher... but... really... wasn’t #hatealcoholicsmuk -
but then i heard soulfly's tribe:
your tribe our tribe!
your life our life!
your god our god!
your tribe our tribe!
amazon mea culpa mea crux mea ego!*

it’s a shame most of our lives are lived only to anticipate
a said impromptu:
mr. johnny mayfair..
king’s cross the doors are parting
hence you depart;
and so much of life was,
missing the mongol tribe
that would have replaced flatmoor st.
and would have done so with a good intention
and a happy face of he who was a member of...
the mongol tribe... rather than the boredom of
flatmoor st. making it worth a wrinkle to age to 80
and only remember life as having played chess.

Rushing and running through a busy day
Good will and laughter thoughout the way

Everyone loves her bright charming smile
how she fiercely keeps it strong all the while

All day far away from her humble abode
Not till the dead of night she returns to a room so cold

Its not the busy day that keeps her from this room
None know she's running from a four by four tomb

The keys rattle as she trembles, placing them in the lock
Bracing herself as she musters up all her courage in stock

Fatigue suddenly overcomes her body while
she removes the mask engraved with the smile

She tosses it on the floor with all the others
Till the next day she'll use one of its brothers

She sits in solitude, in darkness, waiting for them
Having memorized the routine in this forgotten asylum

Help her help her, her pride all vanished  
The demons attack, they'll never be banished

They scratch and claw on her very soul
She didnt know why she paid such a toll

They beat her, break her as they feed off her will
They never slow down, even long after having their fill

Left limp on the floor numb and alone
Nothing ever changes as if written in stone

All she can do now is feel the phantom anchor
Of parts of her slipping every night in this mannor

She stares at her veils spread across the floor
A heavy weight on her chest dragging her down all the more

You'ld think she attends every mascarade ball
With all these visages she's left riddling the hall

The Long Trek Home

Your sweet lips like fuel,
Applied to my teenage neck,
Reminds me of the long trek,
Back to my remote boarding school.

Your refreshing mannor so kind,
I painted you **** over and over in my teenage mind,
Remember that time and place?
I cherish it more than the immaculate grace.

Thinking of you and that wonderful time and place.

PG