Payload

 

Doorways

Like Bomb Bays

Cluster

The Shells

Awaiting

The New Days

Release

Into Hell

 

Dealers

Like Healers

Descend

To the Street

Priming

The Charges

Their

Damage Complete

 

Victims

Too willing

Wheeled

On to Wards

Indulgencies spilling

What

Sickness

Affords

 

Doorways

Like last Days

Closed

On The Lost

Finalities

End Play

Offsetting

The Cost

Spin

 

The telling of Stories

Like the pull of a knot,

Let’s slip what’s remembered,

Yet grips what’s forgot.

 

Between its lines

Are secrets and lies,

relief to its Authors

Its Masters, Its Spies.

 

For whom of us knows

The truth of a word,

Delivered so deftly,

It was not what we heard.

Waiting for Bread

 

He’s just waiting for Bread.

The Sky is Black.

The Sea is Mocking.

The Stiffening Donkey Split apart.

 

There are Women Screaming at Nothing.

The Sky is Mocking.

The Sea is Red.

The Twisted Metal Draped with Rags.

 

There is Silence after Massacre.

The Sun is Beautiful,

It knows not Death or Life,

Enlightening all alike.

 

Their Pain is the Same,

It takes Residence in Emptiness

Its dull thud fills the Space.

It never ceases.

 

He’s just waiting for Bread.

He doesn’t want to eat.

It’s somewhere to be,

While he waits to Die.

Perhaps

 

My father, The Fisherman I never knew,

Left me in My Mother, returning to Blue.

 

My father, The Man of Cloth,

Administering The Word of god.

 

A Bastard Son signed up, confused,

Compelling the effete amused.

 

I cannot speak the things I’ve Seen,

Or blank the moments in-between.

 

It is for you to fill The Gaps

Like Father, just Like Son,

 

Perhaps?