18 Herding screams like crocheted baubles
He plucked each target from the rooftops
With the grace of a fishermen

Slicing hairs off heads
And coke cans from hands
With a skill most of his ex army mates
Would have been proud off,

Piercing dreams with hard earned sweat
Flicking art with each bullet

Ripping policemen in half
And people running to his rescue
Into splots of paint,

Slowly drowning in his own happiness
With each ****
Unaware you can’t **** ghosts
With bullets

Until it was too late.

*

19

Swollen with nerves
Scaled around the outskirts
Of what he had just reported
The police inspector
Spent the next 10 minutes
After his interview with the press
Panting with breath,

Fathomless in his guilt
Covered in a paused sweat
Lighting cigarette after cigarette
Like a stale perfume

Fragile in increasing nerves
Out wearied across the stars
Until a colleague joined him saying
‘Did they buy it, sir?

To which he answered
'I know I wouldn't.'

woken by sultry rain
droplets big fat splots
upon my window pane
feeds the need
to feel your skins warmth
next to me
in nights dark pitch
knowing
at my fingers reach
you are here
closer, so near
not kept from me
by swirling vast seas
It hurts
pulling your pillow
in close
wrapping my body around it
whispering your name
is not the same
as feeling your breath
upon my skin
your touch
that I need so much
the rain falls
on and on
pushes me
through this barren night
til dawns light
breaks me apart
with it tears at my heart.

© J.C.

It makes you think doesn't it?
Who whistled Christmas lights in their weave?
How have I tasted the drops of sunshine
As though those shadowless snow covered leaves
I once saw in Autumn. Dark is the time
Between those bodies, dancing about splots
Of celestial paint drops of stardust,
So wet with supernovas' heat. A shroud
Kissing the tips of trees. Planet's of rust,
Dazed as they wander and scatter through lint,
Faded through grey from daylight to black smoke.
A raisin. A raven. A soot nothing.
I lay there and fell through a gliding cloak.
The obsidian oblivion bares
In my opinion, blue, blonde hair.
Maybe it's less of a thought
Than a song idea
For a guitar
Without any strings
Or something whispering

I will look out on those mountain crowns of my ancestors.
As I feel the wind's fingertips on my face
And as it leaves, with it's embrace,
I will go with it and I will fade.