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