New life is rooted from the sanguine seeds sown in my destruction
And death inhabits the sacred temples of my creation.
This duality that sits upon the throne of my nature
Is both the curse and the cure,
But in recent millennia
I am perturbed by the growing force
That steers my hands towards the course of absolution;
To absolve my being and enter a true and final death.
Tell me not to raise the final hand to close the crimson cloaked curtain.
Tell me not to raise one final blanket of violent silent breath.
Tell me not that all my light has perished into the bow of this sinking ship.
Tell me not that I am too far gone with the wind.
For there are labyrinths of wounded tombs
That incarcerate my womb
Speared by the Minotaur
Who holds my organs to ransom;
Castrating my lungs
And muting my sonic mutated tones from ascension;
Foot peddling with my emotions.
And yet there you stand… idle
Magic is a shamanistic rain dance
Heard on desert island disc albums
Found in our summer seasons.
Olivia and the lost children of the black night
Listen to this playlist
To find solace at Fagan’s round glass table.
Ingesting sharp stabbing snow flakes that travel
Both lanes through the flesh of the Dartford tunnel
That drip down from their throats
And land at the base of their navels.
Conversation sparks lightning rods as senses heighten
And false enlightenment forms with each inhale and exhale
From chain smoking fumes that entangle
Forcing their jaws to quickly quiver and tingle:
“City Nature is the display of the polluted and blemished.”
“Man is god – creator’s image.”
“God is a mixed heritage hermaphrodite – a celestial ‘Sheman’.”
“Woman is the echo of man’s woe
And a man is just a man,
And ‘just’ men sit lawless in their towers
And build for themselves walls to separate strange nations.”
“Higher consciousness is vanity disguised
When proclaimed by celebrity gurus
Seeking engagement from public eyes.”
“Perfection is the ant-eye-climax
Seen in tv advertisements
For the female pursuit:
To be younger than their waistlines;
Asphyxiating their grey matter on art-eye-chokes”
This disjointed, loquacious discourse disbands
Leaving only the smoke filled air to circulate the room.
Horizontal bodies lay frozen
And eyes stare into the distance –
Lost in far out dimensions.
Olivia awakens scanning the seemingly lifeless crypt.
A whisper emerges and invades her ears:
“Chemical consumerisation no longer feels divine
Amidst this community of lost children
Who remain lost in the black night.”
Please sir, can I have something more?
You have stolen all of my seasons,
My summers, my autumns, my winters, my springs;
An unshakeable force born not out of nature’s palms,
But from the wild fires of the heart.
Betraying all sense and reason
Like a magician who deceives his audience with only sleight of hand.
Melting the ice from the bastille of winter’s long lived days,
Shining love’s light to spring like a painter’s canvass
Renewed by the illuminated birth of a new sun.
I am unravelled and undone at the seams
By the the majesty and glory of you.
I am in awe.
How is it that one can be both free and yet bound to another?
Love is now my only season and you its architect,
Who orbits grand spirals of my imagination
By manifesting the alchemy of my dreams without sleeping.
Let us steal the night away.
via Daily Prompt: Confess
There is a woman who stares out of windows.
Her frame frail, her hands withered,
She slowly traces the lines
Reflected in the distant misty meadow;
Determined to sketch out phantom figures
And etch them onto the glass.
Her lips mimic the shapes drawn by her fingers.
Words that are mimed but no voice to confess them.
Everyday she repeats this ritual
And everyday her confession sounds no syllable.
There was a woman who stared out of windows.
Her chair sits vacant – waiting patiently for the next individual.
Living flowers I do keep presented
On thy simple stage; an alter
For mine own eyes to praise and weep
And would in thy soul be thus contented
I offer up tall arching stems; heaven’s portal
Flowering cherry blossoms in bloom on earth o’er
My mind that do shy away sweetly
Intertwined are their branching hands; cemented
Scene in nature reflected inward I capture.
Long roads I have travelled
To seek the four silent standing brothers.
Forsaking the comforts of home
In exchange for untold arduous adventures;
To peak beneath the veil
Of what may be concealed
And harness what may be revealed.
And what is there to uncover?
This question still remains
Blank on the page
Twigs break under
The weight of my heavy burden
And journey’s end
Is not without hidden dangers.
For no mortal weapons I possess
Can protect against
The will of nature.
Her white cloak drapes
This seemingly sleeping landscape
Like fine silk that moulds a curving body shape.
An inviting dream,
But for the biting breath of winter’s day,
Then hope springs as the clouds part
Shining sun’s kiss to beam
And lighten the way.
It was on calm black waters I set my ship to sail,
Slicing through the midnight abyss
Where no compass could direct my course
And where true north could not be cyphered
From the celestial goodnight kiss.
All attention converged to the fractured opening
Like a beast whose slumber is disturbed from within his dwelling;
His eye-lids reveal an unknown darkness in his cunning,
Showing the universe is torn
And in its wake a new storm is forming.
As I sleep I breathe in a dreamer’s dream
To seek rapture in uncharted pathways
And make pilgrimage to the forest of Arden
Against the wits of winter’s end
And find solace in the golden world.
Here, I am guided like the ink written on a blank page
Driven by the hand that holds the pen.
Eyes open at the first dawn of today
And grey mist holds the sun’s rays to ransom;
Suspending breath across the world’s stage.
I walk through a cobbled town
To hear the klaxon howl the echo.
Revealing relic remnants of the old Victorian philanthropy sound,
That gave rise to the ideals of social responsibility,
But now a hollow distant memory
Shackled by the irons of the privatised trickle down economy.
Cadbury’s workers’ village,
Scattered garden cities;
All once held the promise of a society
To encompass the poorer communities.
Now they lay waste to myth and urban legend
Cascading amidst a daydreamers vision;
A landslide of Utopian ideas
Found in alien derivative alternative dimensions.
27 years surfing rapid rapids declining local skylines
Of working class young adults.
Forced out of London’s
Mathematical formulaic enclosed price brackets.
Eclipsing our stars and the sun and renting out
Cardboard box rooms to gaze at the moon on pay per view.
Honest conversations with dishonest hands
Watch with itching fingers to pull socialist triggers,
That rough the winds to shake false foundations.
Inhibition takes flight and lands on the stage dressed in moonlight.
Place my heart to rest with the anarchists, bandits and thieves.
I remain pacified with a book of prose and verse instead –
These scriptures write better truth
Than the parliament of owls pecking at borderline, bottom-line threads.
Time is a deceiving song;
Manacled constructs that constrict the flow of the now.
I cannot perceive the past or future;
It is inconceivable when living moment to moment,
Hand to mouth,
On a knife’s edge;
My thoughts are consumed by an unceasing melody.
I live life like a musician, who composes a song which falls on deaf ears.
I write by the stream of consciousness
Like a bird who scours the heavens for food and shelter.
The power of my conviction,
My will to create shares the same forces
As the tides of the sea’s tempest.
I am an enclave of soul and rhythm.
My poetry is improvised jazz that stirs to orchestrate
Hidden universes residing in the cerebellum.
Aligning your spine and opening the third eye
To see what affronts your internal remedy.
I don’t know truth but I do know the art of lies.
I can dress a beautiful lie and sew golden laces
And fabricate fiction if that’s what you want to hear.
I cannot strip day to day truth; it remains hidden from view.
Time is a deceiving song,
But now is my gift to you.