My corrupted conscience,
a gift to gods at odds
with their religion.
The shrike strikes
a bargain,
the grim harvest,
offered
to the empty coffer
at the alter,
altering the faltering footsteps
of a faith –
fallen on hard times.
Again, the view of empty pews,
greets the chaplain.
Extricate the extrovert,
liberate the liar,
hyperventilating hypocrite,
inspired first-time-buyer,
the science of mythology,
contradicts the smitten,
the chance to dance
with all, as yet unwritten.
It’s just my bones that lie here,
I want it written on my grave,
as my soul was sold so long ago,
so keep your prayers, and save
your tears; for the years I gave
you are worth more than the loss.
Wherever I am, I love you,
don’t be cross. I ask one last thing
of you, my one wish, my final boon,
live your life, be free and please;
don’t come and see me soon.
For reasons I am too frightened
to acknowledge,
a ridiculous sense
of over-salted porridge.
My eruption, all destruction,
some would say, volcanic,
and flee from me, tempestuously,
my overture, titanic,
the rage of my delivery,
the salted, milky tears,
empty of life, a cemetery,
pearl necklace still appears.
Damien Davis has provided another stunning picture for me, capturing the spirit of my second collection, Legacy. Approved by my editor at Black Pear Press, Damien’s masterpiece will feature as the cover. I am getting excited now!
I looked into the urn, kissed
you goodbye and saw,
something previously missed,
that I could not ignore,
a tale told twice
with an alternative ending,
your ashes were a story,
with an epilogue, still pending.
Legacy… Coming soon from Black Pear Press!
We make-believe in monuments,
training our brains to torment ourselves
with potential, demanding
impossible legacies
be left in the wake
of the destiny that could never manifest.
We murder metaphysics,
psychoanalysing philosophers
in an attempt
to eradicate the contemporary,
seeking stranger bedfellows
than the psychopaths
who helped us hide the bodies
(of work).
Do we burn the books?
Or bury our ideals?
Stairs that lead nowhere,
dead- end corridors,
blind doors
heighten confusion,
a frightening intrusion
of the soul.
Stone walls, cold,
false floors
and mirrored rooms,
that lead through
to brand new
ideas for tombs.
An architect in retrospect,
can detect illusion,
fall through
the man-whore trapdoor,
and cancel conclusion.
Panelled walls,
the smell of walnut,
and a sense of antiques,
priceless, but only worth
what opportunists
will pay for them.
Brown sugar cubes,
served on the side of a saucer
of a milky coffee,
though I asked for it black.
I attacked the pretentious sandwich,
forgetting all etiquette
as my stomach reminded me
it had been almost as long
since I ate,
as when I last slept.
I kept my hunger at bay
with a book,
swept my memories away
and took
one last look
at the things I wanted,
before retiring
to the other room,
with the tiled walls
and the smell of chestnut.
Baldypoems 