Empty sky, no window.

The Sun frames the curtain

At the edge of the day

Its offering uncertain

In the usual way…

But the curtain was blown

From the space it revealed

and what once was unknown

is no longer concealed

The woken are reeling

from the light they have seen

their frayed edges feeling

their numbed senses keen

The Moonlight is haunting

at the end of the day

Its shadows cruel taunting

In the usual way…

In the library of needless regret

 

Daffodils puked lava trails

Where sunlit spears melted nails,

Wanderings no more alone

Lonely clouds remained at home.

 

Poets of Apocalypse swapped

honeydew for pints of piss,

their easy silence spread infection

neutralised for mass protection.

 

Truth was not a casualty

its absence served to set them free,

to write of what was truly seen

might have saved what might have been.

 

But here among these sacred shelves

are books with words that they themselves

foresaw the crimes of their neglect,

which for our sakes they duly kept.

 

Disinterred

 

The Body is the property of The State

in a cold room

in a drawer

 

The owner is the property of no-one

disappeared

yet still here

 

The drag marks in the snow

are covered

and will go

 

Arrogance wears a suit and smile

but only for

a little while

 

Flowers strewn, arrests are made

blooms in the gutter

A Fascist parade

 

The State is the property of The Body

and the Body

Submits to Nobody