I shout with the 99 percent that you sir are wrong.
Your misguided belief that we dislike, abhor, detest and despise
you, some would say hate but I would not want to
see you put up against the same crumbling
partition that is in some measure destroyed with the bullet holes
of the lesser dead, I would not see you strive for martyrdom;
is born out of jealousy,
a suspicion of covetousness and envy,
that your singular belief
that if we don’t have the same level of money as you
A hundred days of solitude, she whispered,
time to take back what was yours, peace in your time,
time in which to breathe easy in the dying decaying air
and kiss me,
truly kiss me, not with passion or with hunger for what
lays beneath the ragged shirt and muscles betrayed
by the press of a button somewhere by a young kid
with sweating palms, but kiss me
though I was once loved by Gods,
one adored by the sound of a cello and violin
teasing each other back and forth, true love in the balcony,
Into my own personal and despairing Room 101
I would place you, for the lack of noble spirit
you betray, you seek to deceive with
and place any type of good will towards,
your disloyalty to the abiding
clarity of Human spirit
is but a disease, a smoking stain
on the face of the Earth
and I judge you unfit
to be smiled upon.
I would place those loyal to black raging heart,
I would consign to nothingness
those who seek to destroy all that is good,
I am not a man
who understands the big deal
of being able to travel from nought
to blow out
in under five seconds, nor the allure
of looking under the hood
and seeing an engine needing
complete overhaul when a sparkplug
splutters and groans at the thought
of an electrical impulse gone wrong.
I have no care for how far a drill bit can go
into a wall without the plaster cracking
and then requiring further work
to keep it level, I have no care at Do It
On the day a good man dies,
the memory of your worthless life
is brought into focus
as if the
eye test
you have been putting off
because you know how blind you
have become, confirms your worst fear
and the slow satisfying nod of the optician
as he tells you of the need for two sets
of new and expense ridden glasses, that
memory of the good man’s life is all
you can see…
and the memory burns shame and insignificance
into your eyes.
All I hear in far distant voices
is the complaint of Echo
as she strives to have Narcissus look
upon her tender loins and sigh
for one such as her, one such as her.
Echo, child of damnation
of her own accord, never one of
punished sound and fading rememberance
as the words splits and catches,
slowly disintegrating, integrating, grating, rating
and ever slowly decaying, just saying nothing
but I love you.
Echo, child of spirit,
I implore, do not play with the boy
Do not ask me,
for I wouldn’t give it up for roses.
Do not ask it of me
for I would not put my life
in your hands and I would not
let the lingering taste of over friendly perfume
seep into my pores and cloud my judgement,
do not ask it of me.
Do not ask it of me,
Do not sway my mind with temptation
for I am but a weak man,
like all men, once ensnared
by the thought of the price of Heaven
How can Time play tricks so vivid
that the man with a voice of golden hue
can suddenly transport you
with tears dancing on the edge of burning Efrafa
to the ABC and surrounded by school friends
laughing, joking, ice cream spilling delight
and the tale of an ultimately doomed rabbit
which makes you weep so passionately
and with despair…
that the first looks of being considered fabulously odd
are to be heard and seen.
Sensitive…
too sensitive but for the man with
My darkened room,
it was once the sanctuary in which music
sang out with fury and blasted
with intense and beguiling beauty,
a song for each occasion and with the speakers
encroaching as near as possible to my ears
and laying eggs
of a foundation to keep me sane,
in my darkened tomb.
Curtains never opened, they remain shut now,
closed to make sure the mole like sun
never peeks its snout through where dust clouds reign.
I like to see in the dark and let my eyes not
The constellations shine in the heavens, bright
and beautiful with the grace of powerful harmony
installed into them and the perfect stillness
as I sit and watch the glowing embers of the
three dozen blazing forty watt suns
in my view puts serenity and hope into my very being.
I wish you could see the five star domino,
Copper ringed Saturns I reflect upon,
the golden hue which is impossible to ignore
as they suspend themselves in the heavens
and give off meagre heat but to whom