A Juggernaut requires Bureacracy

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Monstrosities love little men
the hen pecked type
good with a pen

For measuring and counting stuff
that’s good or bad
or not quite good enough

To cross the t’s and turn blind eyes
to adjust their books
and snopake lies

That look good in well cut uniform
who can recite an oath
and be reborn

Who’ll save them brass by using gas
and tell no tales
if all should fail

They value heads more-so than hearts
a brain they’ll kill
but hearts restart

So I’m averse to bureacrats
it’s my belief
they’re mostly twats


© Wolfgar 2019

Two poems from the forgotten generations (New audio with intro)

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What beauty comes of war

What beauty comes of war
from all that’s black as blood
from damaged mind and broken bone

What beauty comes of war

What beauty comes of ugliness
from torment trapped in blinding light
from silver landscapes blasted white

What beauty comes of war

Yet how remembrance uses it
the flags and slow lament
with dignity and gratitude and scarlet sentiment

Is beauty in the orphan child
a mind insane
a lonesome soul

Is beauty in a life bereft
to live without a love
to sleep alone and cold

If yes a terrible beauty comes of war

But grim remembrance bares the truth
of beauty never seen
whilst only those with scars are proof
to those who’ve never been

Štimlje revisited (unseen casualties) 

Travelling across open flatland toward Štimlje the ground begins to rise.
Driving on through the tight enclosed lanes of the town to the far side as if to leave,
a battered overgrown compound looms into view, its heavy mesh fences collapsing and dilapidated in parts.

This is Štimlje Mental Asylum. The patients are unable or unwilling to leave, they have been abandoned left to fend for themselves or die.
The staff have fled because this is a war zone.
Snow lays in muddy patches around about, stained with shit and blood.
A slug-like legless form drags itself through excrement seemingly going nowhere fast,
its insane leer and wolf-like howling splits the cold air, this thing is human.

Horror descends.

We continue systematically on foot, through unlit grey buildings and rooms, behind each door a shocking portal to another circle of hell.
Women, children, half animals, intermittent screeching barking and yelps.
Self harming, open wounds, and the gut wrenching stench of filth.

In one room no bigger than a single garage space, at least fifty naked forms stand silently shivering.
They stare out of hollow skulls straight through me as I stand silhouetted in the doorway.
They seem to be mostly men its hard to tell, their emaciated bodies look sexless.
Upon closer inspection there are a few women present, Jesus! What might have happened to them in here? Their hair is matted in clumps.

There were just four of us a small recce team we could do nothing we had nothing, we were staring into hell and were struck dumb by it.
We drove in Silence back to Pristina not one single fucking word.

I was strong, fit, able in mind and body. I was in my late thirties and this wasn’t my first war.

I got back to a quiet place and hid myself, I cried and shook like a pathetic child, big tough fucking soldier eh?

And sometimes that is how war fucks you, slowly. Either that or you get blown to shit.

Who would write poetry about that?

© Wolfgar 2019

Night Sailing

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Chopin is slowly stitching the night around me
he’s weaving the darkness to shutter my room,
As my eyes surrender to his Nocturne Moon.

The universe expands behind the veil of light,
in here the world breathes freely as only dead men might,
Without resistant fear, released into second sight.

Where Symphonies crescendos crash the stars asunder
and a million raining sparkle-lights flood to Seas of wonder.
Shimmering they roll toward my waking.

Tis true the tides do never wait advancement or retreat,
that even in this netherworld the laws of Earth repeat,
and cast me back un-rescued to my voyage incomplete.


© Wolfgar 2019

Night Sweats

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Tusk tips dripping oil
hammer on a chalky skull looking for a dream.

Coiling trunks baffle down a spine,
piling teak timber at the edge of breathless cities.

There’s an empty moat with a spiralled sinkhole,
a devils giant mouth beneath exhales human bones.

A snail in a plastic bottle curls to its own extinction,
closing from the inside and screwing down the top.

The Lid slams shut,
The Lights go out,
The Sea runs dry,
The air afire.

I wake

and gasp for life.

The audio is purposely overblown

Sunburn

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The garden is cool now
the Sun’s rewound her cancer gun,

her rays live in the bladed green
my toes are splashed with whiskey,
the day already sunk, unseen

A cool breeze licks my face
I fumble through my dead bookcase,

each fingered tome their words devoured,
As thunder reigns before the showers.

I won’t sleep, the night awakes me,
the day will spin back round to take me,

I’ll clamber from my slumber
no longer will my dreams encumber,
the words I lay down on the page
come from the space

in which I rage…

the storm passes over and far
to somewhere that you maybe are,

I sit and wait the world to turn
and contemplate my new sunburn.

© Wolfgar 2019

A million more did start

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I wish I could walk a mile on my twisted wasted legs,
but they are on a cratered path
somewhere else instead.

I wish I could speak a truth with my mangled severed tongue,
but it festers in a blood soaked pit
where silence was begun.

I wish I could show you vision through my blinded plucked out eyes,
but they were stamped on with derision
when I pleaded with them, why?

I wish I could take your hand with my shattered broken claw,
but they shackled it and hacked it off
when I knocked upon their door.

I wish I could make you feel with my broken bleeding heart,
the one that when they stopped it
a million more did start.

© Wolfgar 2019

Under Sail

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Under my sail and under their sky
the silver backed Dolphins defiantly fly.
 
I’ve cast off my shackles I’m gravity free
I’ve stepped from the edge that imbalanced me. 
 
I can’t see the land that tethered my soul
that bore me up-right then swallowed me whole.
 
Out here on my Ocean I skate on it’s surf
feeling finely attuned and equal in worth,
 
yet all the time knowing I’m at its command
a giant diminished by natures true hand. 
 
Here delusions of status are stripped and revealed,
where freedom is given to all who will yield.

© Wolfgar 2019

The management of savagery

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There seems nothing more civilised than the management of savagery,
remote and air conditioned.
Once separated from its delivery by sail boats and oceans,
by wax seals and emissaries.

Now only satellites and microwaves disperse the shock waves.
Cobra delegates are traumatised in real time as targets fall,
their lattes cool as does their blood
but “Fair Trade” product keeps their conscience clear.

We on the other hand are tools of necessity,
clinically educated…cold as hollow points.
Through us their message flows like the bullet through the barrel,
the recoil never reaching back to them, is lodged in us.

Go-Pro Call of Duty whores, accountable only for our failures,
Justifying the absence of target acquisition.
So sorry that we failed to kill for our sleeping masters,
sorry that they wake to the news of survival not death.

And now with that memory, we cannot sleep or face our children,
I can’t vote without the bile rising from my gut.
That my mark for them permits them murder,
that my hands can never wash clean.

Yet they stand clear and free of my crimes,
they absolve themselves of my savagery
and look on me the savage,
that I be somehow dead yet still alive.

© Wlofgar 2019

Gently in the forest

Gently in the forest

Gently in the forest truths unfurl,
petals channel raindrops
fallen far above this world

Gently through the forest
we’ll venture you and I,
beneath the sheltered canopy
above the watchful sky,

Gently in the clearing
we’ll take some time to stare,
to pick a million starlights
and ponder what’s up there.

Gently on the pathways
I might teach you what I know,
that when I fall behind
you’ll know the way to go.

Gently in the forest
I’ll slowly fade to earth,
and hope our steps there taken
be some measure of my worth.

© Wolfgar 2019

Ivanovka (thoughts on Sergei Rachmaninoff)

Rach

Chords struck like bells,
within the straddle of a hand,
Ivanovka rang out to the stolen land.

Through Summers and peasant days
before The Great Silence,
the artist plays.

Though men without music crushed the soul
the melody remained,
and through decades of winters the refrain refrained.

It flowered in blooms that smother the cruel,
and love pushed on through..
it’s natures rule.

© Wolfgar 2019

It doesn’t make it alright

Good morning folks. A little follow up to my video posted the other day, I wanted to say that admitting to bad behaviour in itself does not “make it alright” it is not an apology in itself, that would be something else. Also it is risky being honest, people easily and sometimes purposely misinterpret things, In the latest rambling I said I stole my fathers car which could be understood to be I took it for multiple reasons. I borrowed it without asking never meaning to take it permenantly, technically not stealing but maybe TWOC for those who know what that is. Anyway, it’s out there now lol. I am posting this “Specials” song “It doesn’t make it alright” although the sentiment of the song is not exactly what I am referring to here, the tag line of the title applies. Admitting is not in itself enough, it might be the start of the right path. Anyway…it doesn’t make it alright folks.

A cleansing by fire

trauma

The first mouthful turns me inside out,
my soul screams down a tunnel of memories.

The slap, the fist, the spittle in my eyes
the sound of my mothers whimpering cries.

A key in the door, the stairwells echo
panicked faces in torch-light.

The desert with impact craters like a scarred brain,
sack cloth floating in the hot seared air.

This is where I laid that memory to rest,
where I exorcised my trauma by transference,

where I pollenated a thousand miseries,
with lead and fist and bomb,

where I punched a peoples shadow
until the shadow was all gone,

and I’m pouring in the poison that blackens out my skies,
for that fucker on the stairwell, he’ll never hear me cry.

© Wolfgar 2019

Burning in and burning out

Burning in and burning out

A shard of light rifled through infinity to embrace a petalled bulb,
across echoless voids enough to tempt The Christ.

Waterless and unbound by pathways yet still it arrowed straight,
no curtained silence, no hiding place, with a single radiant intent.

And then dispersed it scattered to a million points of purpose,
toward Corners, Deserts and Oceans, subtracted, refracted then gone.

I’ll ride that shaft of eternity some day and be carried to illumination,
burning like a returning Son, to flicker out and fade to nothing.

Oh but what a journey to just see its very end.

https://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=90415

© Wolfgar 2019

Toward the Bliss

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And when I opened my eyes at last
when the fear had subsided
and my throat let me breathe

I saw your face and heard Angels Sing
God told me that I was God
and he was just a voice in my wilderness

He took my hand
and we walked into the Sun
and everything I knew just fell away

Toward the Bliss

© 2019 Wolfgar

The Librarian

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He sniffed at Miles Davis in his Pompous English way
but doffed his treasured cap to the tunes of Sid Bechet,
who himself was not a stranger to the pulling of a trigger,
though to one as mean as he was he’d have been a lowly “Nigger”

From High windows he could survey other lesser forms of life,
those toads and grubby proles mired in their strife.
In his literary palace alphabetically displayed
he would charge his poison chalice with words so cruelly made.

© Wolfgar 2019

Manuscript

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She traced her poem on my skin
so when I breathe I breathe her in,
each touch a treasured silken word
too gentle to be overheard.

Upon my heart she wrote her book
on which no others eyes may look,
so now my life’s love story told
the pages close no more to fold.

© Wolfgar 2019

The Waves that Break

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An ice cliff wafer slips to the sea
it cracks with hellish thunder,
like natures dementia, knowledge melting away,
sliding ever under,

it flows to an ocean of forgotten things,
things unlearned, things unheeded,
receding before our human advance,  
yielding to us that which is needed.

While Adamah is Gaia’s and ever shall be,
she merely shifts her shape.
It’s you and I that drift through her Sea,
and we’ll be the waves that break.

© Wolfgar 2019

Jean’s hands

Jean's hands c.1980 by Don McCullin born 1935

Eight fingers interlocking
rest untrembling on Jean’s cold knees,
blackened in Whitechapel grime
steadied only by each other.


Torn and bloodied claw,
once pink and curled in beautiful birth
once reaching and clutching,
no hope to cling to now.


She folds them to her face 
tears trace lines that pool in scars,
hand’s which once picked Mother flowers
now crave the dampened soil.

© Wolfgar 2019