Those who care not for thereafter
care neither for judgement today,
their sentence evoking mere laughter
as they shuffle their coil away.
Measure for measure the scales dip and rise
a pound of flesh can mean naught,
to the debtor who plucked sight from his eyes
and was blinded to what he had bought.
To strive for reward in a place uncontained
seems an act of wilful demise,
that is only of use to those who remain
beneath ashen funereal skies.
Spoken first or last
or in the void of moments passed
Those remembered are the ones
unfaded by a lifetimes Suns
un-dulled by silence dark and deep
they are the words we always keep
to shield against the words of hate
which dim and slowly dissipate
those words of love their gentle gift
so fine that all of time can’t sift
the strength they give to just one heart
which came from love and gave it start
Will they be glad when I am gone
when my bare feet float above the tile
will there be regret will there be none
will any stop to think a while
The street will stir the cars will pass
the news will come and go
the mail won’t stop nor will the grass
that’s how things go I know
My goodbye thoughts I will not write
there’d be no point in it
my message however so contrite
would only ever awkward sit
maybe this is how it goes
toward the end your mind runs dry
dreams drip from your dangling toes
your eyes roll up toward the sky
How to ponce about with words
to aim one’s arse to shape one’s turds.
Make them pleasing to the eye,
yet still attract the common fly.
Syllable or Syllabub,
is that stanza sweet enough?
That those who pander to its taste
are far too cool to be disgraced…
by calls to gladly recreate
the chunks of words which constipate…
pure thoughts that if allowed to flow
might sluice the sewers deep below…
of bergs that over years have grown
Soliloquies and Hymns full blown…
but no, stop there, withhold your haste
resist not the world of cut and paste,
Shakey, Coleridge, Wordsworth too
squeezed out their own fair share of pooh,
Fear not the sound of those who flush
wear proud your cracking cheeks, don’t blush,
we’re all the same here in the gutter,
speak well now bard…raise up, don’t mutter.
I am completely sane screamed the madman in rain
inside the scope of the trijicon
his wrists dripping blood and the money all gone.
Naked dancer on East African clay
panga smashed skulls at the height of the day
the Askari gate guard his chest “en filets”.
Diphtheria racked gasps in a third world throat
promise to the bearer defaced on the note
with flood waters rising and no sign of the boat.
The hostages are not worth the risk
raped and tortured their life poison kissed
the tactical teams go home squad dismissed.
Back home in the bars they’ve all bought new cars
swapped out their wives
self-harmed with new knives.
Trigger warnings on motorway gantry’s
shooting up smack in rastplatz truck stops
watch ISIS on YouTube till it no longer shocks.
Passion and love are obsession and violence
a show of affection replaced by a silence
a horse for a Kingdom a Kingdoms reliance.
Reliance on violence renamed as a love
a gripping kill fist in a flag draped silk glove
it’s that or precision death from above.
Raindrops like headshots lost in the mist
no tracking ballistics wayback to this
internal enquiry you know how it is.
Life jacket beaches footsteps in sand
friendly shone torches for the cattle who land
meat for the grinder their debt payback planned.
And the madman still dancing screaming for death
imagines all this in his last fucking breath
while The Cop with a clear shot pretends that he’s deaf.
Do you remember The Oystercatchers
in the quiet of still morning?
Their call shrill and persistent
as if a warning…
that in places formed from fiery rock
cold hearts might thaw their perma-freeze,
and from that melt of frozen shock
rise like Eagles on Summer breeze.
Do you remember how we fell?
and how we sailed that Mirrored Sea,
firing memories only we can tell
of how that Highland set us free.
Within that ancient rim of land
are roots of times no longer known,
and it was their I took your hand
from where our flame-cast love has grown.
though we might wander, sail and soar
it is to there we shall return,
beneath the sacred forest floor
where Molten Lakes of old worlds burn.
Falling from the heaven’s gate
toward the ruined Jericho
the river cuts the valley straight,
between two lands forged long ago.
From its waters kings rose up
anointed by unfounded creed,
that all who drink its holy cup
ensure their words live on in-deed.
Of deeds and words, where is their fruit?
that hasn’t poisoned all that flows,
or tainted tree from branch to root
so much that now it’s all that grows.
Beyond the valley men cry out
their kingdoms raise themselves to dust,
their eyes raised up their voices shout
where are the gods in who we trust.
A chair leg
stands beneath an arse
enduring scrapes
and endless farts
It is the cornerstone
of rest
forever subject
to weight and stress
In some respects
it’s just like you
it bears the load
it has to do
But if it creaks
and one day falls
the chair it holds
is bugger all
And all the
arse that ever sat
upon its strength
lands on the mat
If you’re a chair leg
feeling weak
don’t hold back your
inner squeak
squeak and groan
then squeak some more
they’ll move you to
a corridor
Where you can watch
the fat arsed pass
and find yourself
some peace at last