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 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
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
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
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,
intrusive 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
Notes from life 