Gin Lane

GinLane

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

Carn Galva

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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

The smugglers tunnel

ness-cove

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

 

The agoraphobic misanthrope

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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

The viewing room

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The frame that holds this pane in place
once engineered our human race
this glass that I now view you through
once drifting grains of golden hue

This hollow cage now stripped of beat
was e’re before you incomplete
enough that after once we met
no mortal moment I’ll forget


© Wolfgar 2019

Post conflict reconstruction

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Reverse search a pool of blood to its foetus of ideas,
calculate trajectories to a pin-head through the years.
While stippling marks proximity the silenced tongue won’t speak,
for its hell that takes our liberty when damp Earth entombs the meek.

In cavities of ancient skulls the dust of time drowns words
where cave walls once were libraries, now echoes fall unheard.
Where hit-list’s flamed in burn-pits and armies forged their prize,
re-written were our histories and their curses damned our eyes.

Then blinded willingly or not we sweep ahead in time
we carve sacred memorials in elevated rhyme,
and the horrors of reality will not be writ upon this page
as we flounder in our duality it is guilt that we assuage.


©Wolfgar 2019

She’s a lot like you

Strenitz, Kathe, b.1923; Camden Town, Regent's Canal

Retreating along the fretboard
beneath a parapet of microphones she takes her shelter.

A single pigeon, She’s a lot like you,
She’s a lot like you.

Her silent language speaks of a landscape,
just hidden out of view.

And moving slowly she takes her pathways
as earthbound travellers do

But if you listen so very closely
you’ll feel her thoughts come through

She’s on the pavement beyond the railings
and she’s a lot like you.


©Wolfgar 2019

Inspired by Aldous Harding with gratitude to Sir Paul McCartney

A thousand faces

Wisley December 2019 2

These eye’s now laid on natures wings
have seen the sum of hateful things,
enough that English Winter Skies
as Pale as death cannot disguise

the salty sorrow in a tear,
encroaching nightmares ever near.
An empty voice shocked free from words
which when it speaks is never heard.

Yet by the River from the hide
I saw a bird and almost cried,
as through its feathered curtain shone
a thousand faces dead and gone.

© Wolfgar 2019

When Nothing is news – News is nothing

White Phosphorus Barbecues
Burn Bone Deep against Azure Blues.
When Nothing is news

In the Belly of A Whale
Fester The Remnants of last January’s Sale.
When Nothing is news

In the back of A Truck
39 Futures come Unstuck.
When Nothing is news

In The Palaces of Kings
Likes and Tweets are Trumpeted by Thumbs and Pings.
When Nothing is news

In Civil Society
The Bar-Room Chatter is of Impropriety.
When Nothing is news

In A Students Room
The Book of Life Closes too Soon,
When Nothing is news.

In The Stairwells of High-Rises
Steel Blades Stab with no Surprises.
When Nothing is news

In The Unreachable Corners of A Mind
Rot The Don’t Give a Fucks of The Blissfully Blind.

When Nothing is news

© Wolfgar 2019

Weltschmerz

Welt

Dissolve apathy in The Seven Seas,
Terraform the Planet put re-Creation in the Breeze.

Apply lotion to The Plants and Trees,
Rehydrate The Glaciers and halt The Desert please.

Discuss in open forum the conflict of all Beasts,
That none be less or more than them, let exploitation cease.

Serenade our Group Psychosis and Soothe Delusions Pain,
that we awake to realise the place from which we came.


©Wolfgar 2019

November

November

The mind that strums pure chords from trees
that sets them tumbling on a breeze,
or plucks the seasons fresh from frets
to paint sweet tunes of no regrets,

is seldom seen in winter fields
where sunlights giving warmth oft yields,
where barren turns the empty soil
where springtime chutes wither and spoil.

Yet in such bleak and darkened days
somewhere the Summer Skylark plays,
and in echoes from the seasons gone
we hear our futures hopeful song,

then in reprise our souls unfold
to make us young, to feel less old,
and though a year has once more turned
there is less forgot than to be learned.

© Wolfgar 2019

Airport Circle Kabul

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Viewing the world through Inch thick glass,
the traffic chokes to a halt.
A veiled shadow holds a face to the window.

Its gaze encrusted with disappointment
eyes as pale as a moonlit desert,
We stare at each other from our different worlds

I silently mouth sorry
whilst thumbing my passports pages,
The Child Spirit sees me whole.

Frozen for the longest moment
in a humming steel cocoon,
I watch the wagons circle, vulturesque.

A hand-print is smeared on the window
I touch it before walking to the terminal,
less than the span of my palm or the fold of a Dollar bill.

Ascending through dust and cloud I curse the City,
Roads spinning out from the Circle below, the people are no longer real.
The Dubai lounge is first class cool just my Duty free and me.

© Wolfgar 2019

Here Is

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“Listen you fuckers you screw-heads you cunts”

He never talks so no need to ask them to listen
He used to talk

He builds his strength so he can destroy
He used to protect

He thinks and reads so he can express himself
He used to write

He looks at beautiful things to avoid the horror
He used to keep an open mind

He embraces a religion which he despises
He used to fear his damnation

He has knuckle dusters in his glove compartment
He used to bestow benefit on doubters

He sang his babies to sleep and raged against wrong
He curses children and cracks dull skulls

Here is what you made him
before you
Here is what you wanted from him
Here Is
Here Is
Here Is


© Wolfgar 2019

Poetry people

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The meeter and greeter
whose patter gets sweeter
whilst extending a sheltering arm,
to the nubile doe-eyed self incompleter
he’s like daddy minus the charm.

The halfwitted trojan horse clown
scribbles recklessly getting it down,
and though the words in his head
have already been said
he’s convinced he’s the new Ezra Pound.

The political ranters
finger their chanters
while reeling the dancers a tune,
the revellers will tap and skip to their crap
as if tides to a dictating moon.

The front line reporter the dutiful scribe
no opinion his own behind others he’ll hide,
he’ll travel the length and breadth of the land
making notes on events
he can’t understand.

The crab like page crawler
safe under his rock
awaiting the low hanging fruit,
skitters cross pages in clumsy veiled rages
his default much less than astute.

The cast out outsider
scrawls drunkenly silent
his passivity strangled, choked into violence,
he’s lost all his rhythm he’s radicalised
Joyfully driven to be so despised.

© Wolfgar 2019

I see the changes

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Fly Amanita’s are tempting the Cedars,
their red-bonnets beckon like poisoned Sonnets.

Chestnuts crackle underfoot
a smoking pyre refuses to flame,
stoked and stacked the leaves stay put
their golden death embalmed by rain.

My footsteps follow on Autumns path
though somehow it is I in shadow,
there is poison and there is life renewed
with every step inspired, imbued.


© Wolfgar 2019

Fatal blow

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Down where the Land defers to the Sea
like the edge of an offered blade,
a channelled ocean flows harnessed yet free
through trenches millennia made.

At the pool of my blood I’m cut to the bone
fractured cliffs rise up to defend,
my heart echoes through chambers forever alone
with a pulse that no steel could end.

Your love is a sword that rusts in the tides
thrust too deep to ever withdraw,
like the Myth of a King who drew it but once
to find himself ever at war.


© Wolfgar 2019

Palliative

David_Plunkert_11111

Serotonin’s
what black hearts grown in

deplete the dosage
invite psychosis

receptors confused
not broken, contused

bruises of purple and blue
flower only when they’ve wounded you

repeat prescription, repeat prescription
my GP speaks in robot diction

We pass from being into having been
pharmaceutically silenced, conveniently unseen


© Wolfgar 2019