in the dry grass next to The Bull
once every year the ground would shake
and scream “faster”
while our fingers grew sticky from the company we kept
here to win fish as golden as we wished
what of the gypsies
what of their king
what of the grave thrice danced around
finished with a pin?
Saturday 22nd February 2014 7:16 pm
Twisted Maleficarum turned abomination
desperately seeking a return to one's humanity.
pumping passion like the blood that summoned them.
Bleeding tears, sweating fears
soaked in trepidation.
Summon some feeling
no time for healing
when paint is just pain with
twin pronged brush strokes.
Tattered, trying, tonal
Tuesday 10th January 2012 6:11 pm