The call to rage against the dying light

comes not from mouths of fading men,

but from all those who in their sight

fear that dark approaching them...

for good men know when twilight falls

the life they lit cannot be hid,

and quiet they go, where angels call

to their reward, where they are bid.

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The pen that drags my hand across

the desert of the page,

knows neither joy nor sense of loss,

no calm or boundless rage...

it's just a tool of thought and dreams

to colour in the days,

to bind their rise and fall with seams

and mark the many ways

...in which there's no predestiny,

no gods or revelation,

no saving grace for you or me,

no end, no dest...

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My meaty fingers, sausage like,

were never thus before,

they used to pull the trigger tight

and strum the strings of war…

but now they leaf through pages

that document my past,

and grip the bars of cages,

in history, iron cast…

I built the cell that holds me

there’s no one else to blame,

I did what Masters told me

a pawn within the game…

now younger m...

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It came out of the Forest with Antlers and Angel Wings,

Hawthorn and Faery Horns...

With ShotGun and Shells from the Beaches of Norman Kings,

no Nailed Palms, no Crown of Thorns...

                                    Behold, what the Future brings.

He came Up from the Ground with Molten Rock and Fire,

Erionite and Stibnite...

with Flame Thrower and Axe and Blade...

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For my Father

In dreams my father is with me.

He lives in his nightmare wide awake.

In dreams my legs buckle.

He falls in his nightmare.

I see him, we cannot speak,

his frail hands outstretched to his child.

His hanging mouth a cave

with all his life inside, forgotten.

Asleep in his bed like amber in linen,

withered by time and ages rot.

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Will they be glad when I am gone

when my bare feet float above the tile

will there be regret will there be none

will any stop to think a while

The street will stir the cars will pass

the news will come and go

the mail won't stop nor will the grass

that's how things go I know

My goodbye thoughts I will not write

there'd be no point in it

my message however so cont...

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How to ponce about with words

to aim one’s arse to shape one’s turds.

Make them pleasing to the eye,

yet still attract the common fly.

Syllable or Syllabub,

is that stanza sweet enough?

That those who pander to its taste

are far too cool to be disgraced...

by calls to gladly recreate

the chunks of words which constipate...

pure thoughts ...

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I am completely sane screamed the madman in rain

inside the scope of the trijicon

his wrists dripping blood and the money all gone.

Naked dancer on East African clay

panga smashed skulls at the height of the day

the Askari gate guard his chest "en filets".

Diphtheria racked gasps in a third world throat

promise to the bearer defaced on the note

with flood waters risin...

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