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.

A Ramble

I left behind the smoking wreckage,

Walked away from that old fire.

Oh I caught my whale alright

That was a product of my sight,

I can fake the chills in the night

Though I have never been there.

I can feel the sand on a shore

That I have never been too,

And conjure up a false emotion

Strong like a blue star.

I had a hit, or two, and sadness comes

When you realise you are not the only one.

That is not the case, however you may believe,

We are all whippets on the track

Chasing the political game

Wrapped in torchlight, melted candles

Restaurants with smiles and fake smiles,

A shiny car, belief in your fingers,

Simple breezes in thinning hair.

I am not one of their associates

I am not a corporation

But I am not an outsider like Odysseus,

I am not an open and tumultuous wave,

I will never be a Spaniard resting at midday.

Yet I can come close

In a summation approximately 12 lines long,

A parable, God I need a parable,

A world captured, it is Gabriel.

Leaders

There are those that claw to power,

Eyes fixed on the tempting star

Alight with infinite majesty

And always out of reach.

Those few with harsh blood

Who sacrifice their world

To capture what cannot be caught,

And keep what needs to be free.

They, themselves, are caged

And are too proud to sing.

Those clothed by the earth

Remain to watch the fire burn.