Cathedral spires reflect
éclatant drops of fire,
lingering lovingly above
the damp grass which is my cradle.

A sodden cigarette
caresses the chapped rim
of my mouth, whilst
vagabonds search through
wavering sacks of *******.

We feign eloquence as
gnomes question
multi-coloured scars on
a once bland wall.

And first-ladies laugh
at me, from the dark
mirror who viciously consumes me.

A mosaic carpet shifts
like a slug sleeping in salt,
while my expectant eyes
fixate upon strangers whom
I know well.

The clock no longer knows
the time as the sun
rises backwards over wet machinery,
and we smile through
the thick haze which
suffocates sanity.

We live in a state,
where men in white-collars wait,
for you to fall straight,
onto their plate,
and we can no longer breath,
we can no longer leave,
how could we have been so naïve,
to even believe,
the lies that the spurt,
words covered in dirt,
free speech it hurts, so
you must escape the system,
the babies and the presidents who kiss them,
and those who will not listen,
limping away in the distance,
to be its slave,
it preaches that we behave,
****-filled spoons,
once consumed,
become propaganda dishes,
burying your wishes,
under piles of lies,
wearing their suits and their ties,
so doomed is your fate,
in this hopeless state.

As day falls to dark,
eyes turn red,
lusting, hunger, lusting.

Hatred will devour
the flesh of any man
at the bar with eyes closed.

Cursed forever he is with
the sour taste of change,
an irrevocable scar upon today.

We are not united, and we
will die alone, in a ditch
dug by fellow man, under the
crashing September sky.

A lunatic cannot cure a wound,
and one hundred will only
drown in ignorance together.

The man next door has shut
his curtains, fools do not listen
to the sound of yesterday,
only to the screams of cowering conscience.

The red cracks gape, as the tears
of dead minds pour in vain
over the edge of God’s last
and
final
vessel.

The jazz man on the metro,
is playing you his song,
while you inwardly cursing,
wonder where it all went wrong.

As light flashes to dark,
you remember that one day,
sheltered by the oak tree,
a glorious morning in May.

The man opposite shuffles,
you need to get off this train,
the sun doesn't rise in this place,
horror tattoed onto your brain.

The water is all frozen,
with you trapped beneath,
sometimes even villains,
need some kind of relief.

Scholars have all thought,
of why men do such things,
but the ghost on your shoulder,
knows not what tomorrow brings.

Her blood will be cold now,
the clown has stopped his show,
the trumpet has stopped playing,
and it seems you've nowhere to go.

The collective thoughts of a generation
stand huddled in the alley,
while the painter from next door
is erratically dancing atop his canvas,
and Beethoven booms over the
barking of the dogs, salivating in the
shadowy gardens of this ever-worrying
neighbourhood, home to the screams
of the past and the angst of what is
yet to come, beneath the thunder
and the blood of a washed out
society, more questions than answers.

The guilt will subside, for
a day at least - and the barkeep
will pour one more drink, to numb
the taste of an inevitably regretful
and shadowed past.

   These fingers, dipped in a hysterical
paint of red, taste much nicer than her
auburn eyes would have expected -
considering the
deathly circumstance of this
night.

As the lark calls outside, society
turns its head - slightly - a nod of
recognition to the disrupted
path between the
trees.

And

While he and she watch on
like those cursed with
a panging desire to idle under
azul clouds, the barkeep’s client
drinks with an avid intent.

The crucifix on your wall,
makes you weak at the knees,
the professor locked in the basement,
says he has a cure for your disease,
you philistine, you, burning those books,
take a look outside as consequence scorns you,
and the seagulls, they are a-laughing,
where on this earth are you going to?
 
While two shadows bleed out in the alley,
Over the hill the steeple is a-calling,
the old lady in velvet is already there,
doesn't that wine just taste apalling?
Nietzsche and Darwin fidget beneath,
whilst you all sing entranced as one,
and in the wind is that pollen scent,
and the torment of old memories gone.
 
The un-wed ***** outside the jazz club,
where the men play cards till the clock sleeps,
is wondering where He really is,
but does your heaven have room for creeps?
Suffocated by the antediluvian dogma,
though you of course blindly unaware,
of the reality behind your clasped hands,
mesmerised, committed, to his crucified stare.