Motorway Poem

I was under no illusions as we escaped the city

Watching the night and lost in the wisps of live music.

I thought of the Jetstream of the 60’s dream

A concrete moment in 1967 that cracked by December

When flats grew cold and the hippies froze

Then the dream deferred leapt into the sordid 90’s

When cockroach parliamentarians were as drunk as Withnail

And I saw the final remnants of peace and love in

The cocaine afterglow of cool Britannia

With flags plastered on champagne skin

And close fitting ribcages. I snapped from my remembrances

And naïve theorizing as the motorway lights blinded me

And I grasped my knees in fear thinking

‘Oh god’ but father began to harmonize as I considered

The majesty and mechanics of Nick Drakes right hand

Whispering William Blake innocence in the haze of Jane in autumn.

No need for obsolete baroque impersonations

The fashions of a company bleed into the rebellion

Streaming through the veins of psychedelic teens

Who wear bellbottom jeans to compensate for lack of personality

Could I borrow something as simple as a cigarette?

A line of code or a coda in the delicate prayer of jazz?

Or can I weave words into days, hours into ribbons,

Dresses into snow. Sudden stops. Can’t see

The traffic cones five feet in front of me

Sudden burst, could cold thought

Be any cheaper in city brains?

False nihilism, dust on wooden floors

A disease tended to with ennui

And nobody stops to care.

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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.

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.

Soldiers

They told me statues would weep for me

After I lost my heart in a foreign country,

They told me the Gods would offer me peace

But they lost me when I heard them speak.

 

Venom, hidden poisons on their breath

Like thunderclouds around my head.

Lies are always told to solders scorned

By the deathless tide of tired war.

Cheap Street

We all rest on cheap street,

Some convulse in wasted anger

Red eyes shot at the rain,

Those that succeed do so in silence.

The brave seek the jungle,

And move like they were born

To the scorn of the ones

Who refuse to believe the street exists.

Red wine rain on New Year’s day,

The first bell and the street turns crimson.

Catch what you can, they last.

Cold War

This world is not as cold

As its endless war,

That festers like a black heart

Below its surface.

Its people are not content

With fighting for the heart

To continue beating.

Instead, the exploding star

Like a substitute sunrise

That encapsulates the consciousness

Shared between us paints

The volatile sky yellow,

So that even in winter the hidden figures

Cannot hide their games.

Yet we abide in the false knowledge

That to be apart is to survive.

Were we Worthy?

The sea turns to royal red

Under a high cliff covered with green,

The fire of the divine torches the sky

And time stops to breathe.

 

Those with compassion cried

As they joined the thieves in their game.

And kings will kneel with their subjects

When they recognise that we’re all the same.

 

A watcher on the shore stays

To watch the ashen winds circle and fly.

Ember rains pour like open veins

Or like the tears that the innocent cry.

 

Their money can’t halt their end

Caught in a tempest that will never rest

We joined hands like we thought we should

And gave in to the final test.

Salem’s Fools

We are Salem’s fools

Fearful and hollow,

We are cruel

And born to follow.

 

Our eyes are bright

With firelight,

And our devils die screaming.

 

Our village unbound and

Our vision blind,

Our victims are found

To be our kind.

 

It is too late, for their blood

Stains our hands

And we cry to ourselves at night.

 

Yet we are still sure we are right.

P.M.Q’s

The House of Commons

A chamber for the boorish and unwise,

A diner for the infantile and desperate,

A congregation of ego and fear.

One thinks they hold victory

Their voice picked up by the camera,

A sad and oafish cry of ‘loser’s weepers’

Or, occasionally, nothing more

Than a beastly grunt or theatre howl.

Snide smiles and cravings for power,

Each believing they have the answers.

They all lie within the tight fist of the people

Who hold a power that they could only dream of.