Southern Cemetery

Southern cemetery in Manchester is where my fantasy story begins and where over 400,000 rotting corpses lie and with them tales of Mancheter's dark and glorious past:

 

Tis a dark and damp and dismal place,

Where spooks and snarks and gremlins crawl, 

Don't look away, no not at all,

Lest out they jump and down you'll fall!

Shall I compare you to a death?

Of lost love and living lost.

A lie of denied heart-tugging’s, oh

how did we become so

unable to be who we are, and

 

this wrenching of the soul,

what spiteful spirit lies

within to render me so lost

it must be love, though

 

I doubt so I search and

see her eyes sparkle and

I am hooked as though

from an injection of China

 

White and I stare at the abyss of

my own murder in the caress of

her lips that grip me

stronger than a python

ever could and I am left

feeble and idiotic only?

 

A victim of passion

dreading the snapped heart and

tears and missed possibilities

and feelings of utter failure hit

 

me, yet I would die for her

crush cities for her

but truly dare not

tell her how I feel so

 

I am destined for tragedy

destined for regret

destined to wonder ‘if only I’.

 

Of lost love and living no more.

The factory

 

Smashed windows

Toilet smells

Pigeons nesting high up

Dead faces shuffle around

 

A dead body

I’ve scored though

I lie back

The pain fades

 

Numbness, bliss

 

A fight

Couldn’t care less

 

I gaze at the roof

Demons jump about

Shadows play tricks

A trickle of saliva

 

I lie on card

And drift in

And drift out

Then gone

 

Hours gone

My trainers gone

 

I get up

Hungry again

Ghosts drift by

Night cold bites

 

Walls shield little

Doors open wide

 

My tomb one day

Kozyrev’s Madness

 

Let’s do the time warp again:-

I stare at myself. The mirror is concave. My image stares back – distorted and blurry. I sit inside a spiral made from aluminium sheets 8 feet tall – not a very good mirror. The time I entered is different to the time inside.

 ‘Time doesn’t exist,’ the voice whispers.

‘What does exist?’

‘Only now. Be careful you may bend inside yourself and break - rules are there for a reason after all. They stop you from going mad.’

‘I see the future. I look sad.’

‘You are your future as well as your past.’

‘What am I?’

‘You are a time traveller floating on a river. This thing you sit it in lets you paddle faster – faster than you should. Do not be so quick to see your end and after all, you cannot change what is - no matter how much you wish it.’

 ‘I can see fire.’

‘Yes.’

‘A great fire.’

 Yes.’

‘I don’t like it.’

‘No.’

‘This spiral, is it magic?’

‘Is a bird magic, is the moon magic?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then yes, it’s magic.’

‘I think I prefer to float than paddle.’

‘Very wise. Do not spend too much time here. For when time disappears you do too.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Interesting question, though we do not have the time, for now, it is time to go. Other creatures lurk in this realm not nearly as nice as me.

Another time then. Wait I think I see one. His eyes they’re….big.’

‘Go before he sees you.’

I stand up. My heart’s thumping against my chest. I stumble out of the spiral. I give Time a warm hug and feel safe.

Let’s not do the time warp again for a very long time.

Christmas Is Here, Yet Dragons Fly

 

 

Christmas Is Here, Yet Dragons Fly

‘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:

Merry Fucking Christmas!

 

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:

The Bold Lie Young

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:

 

Low IQ Haiku

 

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.

---