She should have considered crucifixion,
self induced thirst for the sorrow
of a Winter’s passing, the bleeding of snow
upon the higher ground of a December
day, the pitying cries of the lost and lonely
applauding her angelic face
and the darkness of spite, sacrificed, despotic
craving that lay in her bloated heart
and which would, in time
give birth as it ripped apart
to a black bulbous spider
eating away at the Winter Bride’s soul.
She should have considered crucifixion,
The ghosts of the living
are just as impolite
when it comes to invading
your dreams
as the dead, the dead, the forgotten
and those that were never really there
but whose screams and howls
carry the night
like a matted grey she-wolf
giving birth on a deserted snow filled
field.
The ghosts of the living
taunt you, they criticise and in dreams
their punches, fully weighted,
leave bruises that grow black,
that insult and mock,
even when you know you were right,
The long since decommissioned steam train,
is only hauled out for public displays
and the for the chance to show
an audience just what was once
freely given, the age of beauty wrapped
in a sheath
of experience
and dedication to service;
now all that is forgotten,
all the crowd see is a relic
from a bygone period,
a shiny vessel primed to fail at the first breath
of electro glory and whose
soul, whose better days
of glory
are left behind in a once mighty shed
Feel the sweat
drain off me, pulse,
back and forth,
the body slamming sideways
into the fear of the awkwardly
thrown punch,
stop, no breathe,
searing heat exploding
as fear takes hold,
walking slowly in a daze,
my thoughts unclear
as my head hurts
and the safety of home dying
in my arms
and unconsciously I mouth
for help.
The blackness came quickly.
The shaft of bursting light
from the draught excluder
strip light above my head
I gave thanks only the once,
over a meal hosted by my grandmother’s
cousin in a small town near Philadelphia
and the small party of four, a second cousin
twice removed
and his wife both took a hand of mine
and prayed.
I was silent, but acknowledged their words
and I thought of home
as we sat in the heat
of a crowded restaurant,
the steam of the passable gravy
warming the inside of my nose
as I prepared to smother the turkey.
The bucket list always grows,
for what else is the point of being alive?
From the insane to the rationale, the desire
to the humble and all via the avenue
of memory and atonement,
I wish to tick every single thing off my list.
I have kissed a thousand women
and loved a few thousand more,
I have scored a solitary league goal,
right foot volley, very lower league,
I keep the press cutting as a souvenir, August
1989 against the Salisbury Deaf,
I have no memento
The steely eyed glaze of righteous wrath
passed over me and stopped,
biding its time, patiently building up
dark eye shadow glory
and then like a meteor
over slow ice fields and the mindful of their own
business trees of Tunguska …
she let loose with venom and destruction
telling me I had to live in the real world.
A resident of such a world I am
but if I choose for a while to revel
in a place where smiles are seen,
where the friendly knife doesn’t cut you
There must be a way
to hold the world to ransom
through the medium of peace
rather than allowing the distance
between us,
between ideology,
between deeply engrained and terrible dogmatic belief;
which allows the spread of fear and suspicion
in all things in the name of national blanket
security
and the wrath of your god.
I dreamed once, half asleep, caravan dust in my eye
the bed clothes strewn
to all corners of the narrow bed and leaving me
cold and naked,
The worship of the gun, the religious zeal
of caressing the weapon and praying
over its deliverance is just as wicked
as holding a Bible or holy text up
and proclaiming that you take a life
because your god told you to.
Yet we do nothing, the death toll keeps rising
year on year on year on year,
like a man addicted to powders
that boost his sagging virility, his prowess
in the bedroom assured with a fully loaded
and cocked ladies pearl handled gun
He brought out the best in you
and the courage you displayed at the end
I wish I could see in me too
impossible companion, a saviour, a friend.
The finest of companions, you dared to believe…
you dared to make me believe beyond your physician
and now you leave
the stars dying light, a glorious mission.
Yet what if you have not died, what if I find
I can still kiss you for evermore,
hold the best in my solitary single ravaged heart,