Alt-Prayer

 

I hope he wakes screaming with his teeth all fallen out

on the pillow of the dreams that were stolen overnight.

I hope the taste upon his tongue is iron mixed with salt

crossed with brickdust, faulty locks and crucified hate.

 

I hope for him a long life, epiphanies of bad faith.

I wish for him a hunger never silent or asleep.

I hope for him an ever present thirst to be included

on a menu made of marching leather boots.

 

May he swallow hungry tongues caked in sand, clay and dust.

May he feast upon a million futures.

May the throat of a stoat replace the brass neck of greed,

may it tighten and suspend every morsel.

 

Then we'll put him in the shadow of the wall and the world,

cover up the blowfly binge.

Open up the eyes to the wind and the wails,

and let the last minute be infinity.

 

 

🌷 (4)

◄ River Estate Retrospective

revelations ►

Comments

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ken eaton-dykes

Wed 22nd Feb 2017 14:59

Wouldn't like to fall out with you

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Laura Taylor

Mon 30th Jan 2017 12:28

Wow, that was quick. Thank you Colin. Came quite quickly this one, funny how that happens eh?

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Colin Hill

Mon 30th Jan 2017 12:16

Excellent. A well worked and finely honed poem, sharpened to perfection. I guess time will tell although it seems to be moving at a rate of chaotic knots.

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