Snow

Snow, like a waterfall in angelic form,

Or like stars drunken and moved to dance.

Jagged air carries these sprites

Across an ocean of winter night

Until they are laid on the earth

And are at rest.

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Churches

I took tea in the drawing room with Countess Butterfink

And her incessant ramblings really made me think,

“Do you know why churches come to a point…” she said,

I suggested that it could point the way for the newly dead,

She laughed and said “no, I beg your pardon,

Steeples represent the thorns in Gods precious garden.”

I knew then she was insane. I nodded and sipped my tea

And replied “well, my dear, it seems to me

That the world is then surely full of pricks.”

Assassin in Training

Go for the throat and tear it out,

Do it quick or else they’ll shout.

Then stab the heart and twist and turn

Watch them plead, watch them squirm.

Watch the light drain from their eyes

Listen to their muffled cries,

Their blood flows free and crimson and cold,

Just not on the carpet, you’ve been told.

 

“Yes Grandma” I said.

The Arrogant Conquest

 

In the winter Kings will fall

Watching princes take the shore.

 

Immortal fingers clasp the wild winds

That weave around like golden string.

This, a quiet call towards the maelstrom

Is taken by the foolish king.

 

Pride call upon your vessels

Spirits take your place;

The armies of approaching chaos

Will steal the wilting waste.

 

Cling now to the remnants

That bare the royal name

Defy the voice of thunder

And let the bastard take the blame.

 

For he is no impure desire, no,

He is the brightest jewel;

This sordid crown will conquer him

As he leads his band of fools.

 

“Sisters take your shields now

Children take your bows,

Prophets are just mortal men

Who keep from us all they know!

Trust not reason my heir

For that will be your death

Face the beckoning eyes of fate

And draw a defiant breath.”

 

And here I wait with the Seeing Eye,

Perched atop an obelisk

To watch the last king die.

From the Bar to the Bus Stop

Let us be merry my photogenic heart;

We’ll wander the sodden streets of Manchester

Like a starving rat.

We’ll stop at the train station at midnight

To watch the first train pull in

With a river of refugees from the fringes of the town.

Wastelands hold no joy on a Friday night.

Cut, Paste, references, images,

A split second of a dancing girl,

A snapshot of a painter colouring the sky,

A Gypsy playing the accordion,

Cut, Paste. A scent remembered, the violent exchange,

The moment one flash of love dies and reignites

Like a wishful child.

All this in an hour walk,

From the bar to the bus stop.

Nostalgia

I’m a sucker for nostalgia

It makes me cry in defiance

Of my age; I don’t need to be

How others feel they should be,

Instead I can lie to the world

With eyes uncaring and tired.

Childhood… man –

It was good while it lasted

And I’ll be damned if I don’t

Make it last forever.