‘A
festive time and bells I hear, then a shadow falls, a terror is near. Are those
the wings of a dragon I hear? I give a haunted look for they sound so near.’
This
catastrophic killing field of Kakorrhaphiophobia – Is it me, is it me? My own
fears lie to me, and I claw at the darkness and wail:
What banquet of dead hearts
This iron muzzle of a Christmas
Of meanness, misery, and no good cheer
Hoarding, grabbing, so others have nothing
This wet fart of a Christmas
Served by the haves with stolen relish
Happy to see ruin born from their green eyes
Always hungry, for food no, for flabby cheques
The NHS, a horse to be shot
Trains, filthy, fleecing, sloths
Bills blasting a chasm in shattered souls
Their ill-mannered sneer watches all
Offshore parasites, drug dangling
Sterling-stashing,
sequined sinners
Sitting in their towering towers of tripe
Whilst others slouch in chilled dumps
Death their gleeful salivating fellow
The age of weasels is upon us
The age of fist-pumping Scrooge
Before his redemption
Materialism’s whores
Clamping power in their cherry
Wet fists. Bringers
of blights
The devil’s delighted deputies
of dysentery
Tipping out Pandora’s misery
These entitled, these shallow
Destroyers of Christmas’s light
Fat leeches bloated on avarice
Condemning us all as nature screams
Hidden in their hidey holes
Sniffing their powder, drinking their champers
Blistering all touched by their scorching fever
This stinking turd of a Christmas
Flatulated from their innards
Unreserved amor for them only
Amor for more always more, more, more, more
What wraith run death cult is this?
I search for hope in the glint of a child’s eye
Wounds
stabbing living flesh with blood as witness; is this madness my own?
I turn
to the vision box and my bloodshot eyes widen more:
A façade of murderous
intent
Addiction, doped up and
docile
‘We have the youngest
customers
In the business’ of
strangling blamelessness
In the business of
swindler, trickster
And carrion eater.
Smoothly we stroke
And smile and thrust the
nail hammered
And banged into the
barren wasteland
Of demanding desire,
delirious and destitute
Demons of dreary banality
capturing your
Awareness, arousing
avenues of aspiration
To choke the calibrated
chest beats calling
To awaken from this
catastrophic killing field
Of hope, adventure, and
joyful inclination
Smashing discarded waste
down the throat
Of trusting smiling
sweetness and illumination
Horror in coloured paper,
talons grip
And rip and crush the
dream of living
Loved and laughing as the
brain is washed
And wiped with blood
intent and bold gluttony
A child of God gripped in
a machine of suffocation
With hands clasped tight,
I pray for express deliverance
My mind
is ripped. I stare into my eyes and see only a reflecting lunacy!
‘L’amour
est une passion qui ne se soumet à rien, et à qui au contraire, toutes choses
se soumettent’. -Madeleine de Scudéry. Give me love in whatever form. I
remember my mother’s love for a simple plant and play its tune with
Shakespeare’s favourite form:
A
Poinsettia Christmas Sonnet
A
winter filled with chilly snappy beasts
It
falsely smiles, then bites with sharp ice teeth
Yet
bright indeed sits softly lifted frond
So
scarlet crisp in this electric light
With
kind intent, I daily drench the roots
And
pour a fresh caress of liquid lick
Then
shall you smile and sit so tall and proud
A
vision strong of dreamy leafy charm
As
night then triggers eyes to their eclipse
We
all retreat to rest in sleepy beds
You
stay undaunted, firm in your resolve
A
joyful note in life’s eternal song
My
mind can drift and deep in doubt I weep
Then
glance at you and so refreshed can sleep
With my mind calmed by this assuasive reflection
I stare outside my window:
A
branch sways and creaks
A
sparrow lands in a blink
A
brown leaf drifts down
Peace
found in nature’s simplicity. As the leaf drifts down, I slip into a dreamless
sleep where no bitter memories can trigger a flying fist of rage at the dragon
who ever hungers for that heap of stolen gold.
