Too much time to think
too much time to reflect,
That is the accusation levelled.

Much better
is the reflex action,
To act before the thought

Much better
the trigger finger,
no weighing up of options.

Survive or die
and fuck the why,
“Yeah, Fuck the why”,

Staring at the faces of people
determining their origins,
just shoot and give them peace.

Whilst you’re thinking
their bullet flies,
So kill your compassion and kill the wise.

Survive to see the errors,
The Terrors
of your terror

Heritage is for other generations
not for our deadened hearts,
Hang your battered shields on victories wall.

Stone stairways of cities
are built on civilisations strata,
Cascading flood waters will drown the poor.

The Dome on the Rock
is built on a shit pile of lies
and no-one knows what it’s really for.

The monied man turns his nose away,
from the guts spilling on his streets,
his shit smells so much sweeter,

his shit comes from purer things,
Vegan menus
not Chicken Wings.

Poor men still eat meat
and use fossil fuel,
They watch soap but never use it.

Their opium
is spoon fed and free,
and War Lords watch Netflix on TV

The War Lords are heroes
in series 1, 2, and 3
their victims applaud on bended knee.

The roaches are drowning
in pools of vegan piss,
yet do we ask who paid for this?

The credits roll
the WiFi kicks in,
the proles are reconnected

they leave the theatres
and head to the bars,
to drink their fill.

You’ve too much time to think,
was the accusation levelled..
and now the muzzle warms the mouth

Lennon and the NRA?
just pull the trigger to save the day.
Go on do it, blow the fucking world away

© Wolfgar 2020

Through prisms of Moroccan glass
rainbow colours shed,
white walls are brushed with pastels
the storm has passed, has bled.

The shutters still are shuttered,
the gutters blackened full,
the forecast lies un-uttered
the lunar tide still pulls.

The silence falling soft now
a breeze whispers to the calm,
the count is for the cost now
yet un-accounted goes the harm.

© Wolfgar 2020

Sprung deep between the cracks of the slabs in Peckham Rye
come the sprigs of empires children their old masters to defy.
Here where Blake saw angels where shepherds quenched a thirst,
the outcast and the stolen are reaching to be first.

From terraces and tower blocks confined as the unseen,
they soar with aspirations beyond their silent dreams.
Though Highwaymen of history defoliate the past,
their shoots will not be stunted as they forge upwardly at last.

English roses clipped and rootless look so pretty on the shelf,
Smooth stemmed, perfumed, useless, soul-less in their wealth.
Stronger grow the slum-flowers that climb toward the Sun
for abundant is the garden that is sown for everyone.

© Wolfgar 2020

That wretched beast upon the stairs
her child in freefall unaware.

Her tit un-suckled, withered, sags,
she pinching snuff among the lags.

In kettled pots the liquor swills
dispensed as slops by those it kills,

who smiling gasp then beg for more
while treading piss they drank before.

their inane grins on hollowed cheeks
betray the sins they cannot speak.

The barrow boys who fleece the corpse
upend the stiffs with no remorse,

where in the guttered waste they lie
their sated taste has drunk them dry.

© Wolfgar 2020

Here where winds blow unheard
Atlantic skies surrender hope,
Incomers sit in cars to stare at the Sea.

Out there on the waves no-one watches the Land
where ruins slowly crumble,
where walkers comb the wilding gorse.

The cyclops lighthouse pirouettes
it blinks where darkened time forgets,
some hidden scapes remain untouched.

Stone stacks idly finger the smokeless sky,
the air too rarified that men might work
where empty windowed homesteads die.

Signposts point to further places
beyond these scorched earth empty spaces,
here where people pass like clouds.

© Wolfgar 2020

Bible black surrounds, wet walls and puddled floor
hunched with shoulders loaded full toward the seascape door.

Beneath the damp and smokey lanes that spiral through the town, 
the bloody aproned Butcher spies the Priest in priestly gown.

The gossips roam the stone lined streets between the ancient dwellings,
to breathe a swarm of whispers embellished with each telling.

But where the tunnel beckons toward the foamy sea,
the pebbled beach in solitude lays waiting just for me.

And I with burdened memories cast my secrets to the waves,
and pray they are forgotten like dead men in their graves.

© Wolfgar 2020

 

It is vacuum that nature abhors
it turns god fearing girls into immaculate whores

at three in the afternoon my sheets are well soiled
the TV is shot and the action recoiled

the gun in my mouth replaces a cock
my hands like a prayer embracing the stock

my brains on the wall in the cool evening light
I’m a coward you see but somehow it’s right

Happy Christmas folks, replace with “holidays” for those wishing inclusivity.

© Wolfgar 2019

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