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A formulaic response to standard texts

Breathes only fire into the belly of morose characters

Whose very actions lie behind unfurled banners

And whose very response is only good manners

Derived processes of thoughts

Lead not to future conscription but more a delusion of sorts

Those endless ended conversations

A sprinkling of consonants thrown down with iron gauntlet

Upon an ordinary street within an ordinary dream

Like eagles about a sore they hover in anticipation of future wedding veils

And people drown like this again and again

Just about in one piece waiting for a cork to pop

But only ever out of the corner of her eye would the words become a line,

Become a text

And only then would they become a standard text

 


hymn

He was always there.

He was always coiled deep down there.

The Leviathan. He was always there.             

During walks along the dunes and strolls between the flower beds,

He was always there, below the surface.

At the heights of passion he twisted in his lair but with the laughter he would not come.

He did not feast as we feasted, he did not writhe as we writhed, but he was always there.      

Snaking around the corridors, closing the doors behind you

And opening yourself out into new realms,

You were slaying him.   

His eyes remained firmly shut, asleep, as you came blinking out into the sunshine for a while.     

You were slaying him.

On top you were slaying him.

Together we were slaying him.

But we both knew he was always there.

He penetrates you deeper than I ever could, but you permit him his thrust.

It's his tongue that lashes you deeper within.  

It's his rough touch that delivers the greater arousal in the end.

It's the bite from his fangs that that pins you down in his lair.

And it is he who constricts your ability to be loved.

But it is you who ceases the laughter, knowing that he will come.

For you need him to be always there.

 


By latitude not longitude I stretch myself

To reach up to heights from where I grasp the moons

Only prostrate can I find the details that map a course beyond the firmament

Only prostrate can I feel the very Earth from where anticipation might lead on upwards

Here are the verses by which to launch ships on silken ponds towards those boundaries unseen

A vernacular of lessons to be heeded

If we aspire to formulate the universe

It can't just be me who casts a glance towards the sword of light beside the door

There must be a we to join forces in a universal altercation of the souls

And if the sun should set in much the same place as yesterday's closing moments

Might it guide a route to be embarked upon tomorrow or someday sooner? 

 


And then Monday slipped by again

The semi-skinned remained upon the step

Browning leaves eddy in a sodden courtyard

Life, as the season, long since detached from it all

No mission would set forth from this port

Irradiated fears pierce through an iced moon

But they still leave one teetering on the edge

The yellowed edges of the page turn up but never over

Who has the very words to written scripts for actors waiting in the wing? 

And who will prompt him to deliver his eulogy?

 


And in the shadows did the Prince remain

His sabre drawn but never pointing towards the sky

His a lightning strike before the cry

His reptilian features not a leap into a kiss

Just a stagnant croak from beyond the pond

His Princess still a Princess for ever after



Still dreams of skin on skin

Of perfect cloth to shroud in style

All shapes envelop mind and flesh

But touch is far from certain dreams

And cups of plenty have drunk their fill

What is left behind is cold and dank

And no more warms the belly still.

Oh, how has voice become so mute, it leaves no trace of ventures made

Nor visions of a perfect you

Who told you then that you were King,

Who crowned you there in ermine skin?

That now you lie on marbled slab is no more how your dreams remain

and how the order came to pass

 


And still the precipitation washes out the sun

Still the droplets perspire on obscured glass

New seedlings of intent tread water in yesterday's deluge

No opportunities to change the stark white page

No new vibrancy for muted, encrusted palettes

All notations remain a tuneless, sombre dirge

What recollection of endless summer days?

Merely charred remnants of another ruined barbecue

No chance of fresh glories on the cricket battlefield

Only a Winterland of perennial what-might-have-beens

As the precipitation still washes out the sun

And the droplets perspire on obscured glass

 


And like prisms our thoughts contain no direction to their rainbows

Tangents machine gun without retort

Cutting down, in their prime, empiricism

Failed words and letters are proclaimed all the louder

Gold leaf is gilded to higher towers as the cherubs weep their sandstone tears

A thousand upward journeys attain a plateaued vista

And like the prisms they warn only of peril

 


I've no illusions it'll make the evening news

I doubt not the tears will stain tomorrows daily paper

The graveside flowers won't get refreshed, re-picked, replaced

Sharpened suits won't stay as sharpened knives to open old wounds

The eulogies on tissue paper dry saline and get tossed aside

An all but brief respite from the normal trudge

The trays of sandwiches lie curly beside the endless cups of tea

And by tomorrow only the soil will remain untrod 

 


Who lives in the realms of now?

Where lives the deeper recesses of mankind?

Why breath the bad air of bad notions and ardent blind belief?

Take no heed of adamant "Yes" men

Let new cold water take you back to a fresh beginning

Reenter the cocoon and reemerge with eyes widened and limbs charged

Unfurl the petals of thorny roses and speak with newly acquired confidence

 


With age comes wisdom

With wisdom comes incredulity

With incredulity comes frustration

With frustration comes stagnation

With stagnation comes the flies

With the flies comes disease

With disease comes the medics

With the medics comes the knowledge

Wiith the knowledge comes the science

With the science comes the empirical evidence

With the empirical evidence comes the backlash

With the backlash comes the fundamentalist

With the fundamentalist comes belief

With belief comes the action

With the actions comes the motion

With the motion comes the shit

With the shit comes the young

With the young comes the dreams

With the dreams comes the nightmare

With the nightmares comes the darkness

With the darkness comes the fear

With the fear comes the violence

With the violence comes the pain

With the pain comes the anger

With the anger comes the protest

With the protest comes the marching

With the marching comes...

 


When the mind is incapable of focusing on one thing

When only smoke and animal shapes litter the surface

Nothing goes too deep,

Though depth was often missing

Each twinge, the next twist of a knife

The branches of the tree reach only to suffocate new thought

Gnarled as the memory of what never was

Hope was only brief, and that itself to dispel a reason

Without the means to focus

How can the mind stop the rot?

 


The dancing of the flames had made me forget myself

They'd burnt through the paper memories I'd been hoarding in boxes

Like the one that has my very name upon the coffin lid

The stench remains on musty tomes untouched in attic realms

And a haze chokes back the light to guide my path

No music chimes from church bells out beyond the lane

The steps still travel upwards

But leaping rungs I'll forever stay at this level

 


 

Your happy ever after became your sad for ever more

Your tomorrow is a new day became your yesterday writ large

Your You and me together became your Me, Myself and I

Your day today of living became your night of all regrets

Your breath of new beginning became a choking never more

Your nourishing food of plenty became the shit that hit the fan

Your drink of sweet surrender became your water of regret

Your means to get along became your reasons to forget

Your life of all things rosy became your red of desperate call

Your hope to meet the standards became your hope to break the fall

Your brief to change the sequence became the ordered life before

Your sunshine in the garden became the autumnal compost seep

Your spring that sprung before you became your winter cold and deep

Your mountain, ocean, river wide became your trickle of repent

Your letters to your lovers became the parcel never sent

Your positive response became a sarcastic quick retort

Your savannahs of existence became your deserts of never crossed

Your bridge to get you over became your swollen river ford

Your building blocks of life became your coffin made of straw

Your dream to be much better became your hope to get along

Your painting of the flowers became the print of granite stone

And in the end

Your belief in love to guide us became the path that sealed our fate.

 


Acushla, I dreamed of you in the spring

Oh pulse of my heart, you beat me to the ground each and every day

Where were you when it rained so hard

And stalactites of ice were piercing?

Who was I before my head poked through the dawn and where was fanciful flight?

Acushla, with the summer you fed the green trees and applied gold leaf to the Sun

This was our moment and these were the bandstands of our desires

Played on and played out the autumn too was bronzed and gold

But skeletal trees and misted views only brought us closer to the fireside

Now in the winter as a year long persistence has paid its due

We remain warmed and cherished by the hearth

And Acushla, forsooth, I dream of you in the spring time

Oh pulse of my heart you beat me to the ground every day

 


 
Falling. And you keep falling
 
But breathing in become only half the battle
 
And the time spent counting the cost
 
Leaves only pennies scattered across her bows
 
These trees have shed their vows
 
The roots turned ever inwards to choke out the last days
 
And we, we will forever dance within that Zeitgeist
 
Oh, vicious sentiment is a call to arms
 
At least to your arms and your calling
 
And I'll be sentimental for more than a while

 
 

Oh righteous men of righteous plan

Their porcine selves in gluttony

Took out their endless misery

On those who blindly fill their troughs

They trumpeted their caustic truths

Whilst blowing others ardent dreams

Oh how the scripts of ideology might change

And the tools by which they scribe our pain are these days cast in mineral wealth

But those who light the fuse of war

Still hide themselves at bugle call

Oh righteous men of righteous plan their porcine selves in gluttony

What didn't we do to seal our fate as spiraling we fall?

 


Each granular day quickly filters through the spout

Falling softly to humane ears but resonating a heavy toll

Laying on, upon laying on mountainous endeavor

But constructing nothing that might permit ascension

Oh to tread with softer shoe shuffle on sands that crumbles down to a glittering time ocean

Oh to walk and never slide further down the accepted order

If things get concrete the travail may become easier and the progress swift

But the climb still takes its toll on knees and backs

If things got linear, I'd direct myself towards you

Yet still I sink down into another granular day

The sand encrusts my lips and eyes

And everything I ever said and did lies beneath a glittering time ocean

 


Why must we put down roots when the laughter stops?

Why must one become vitriolic when the evidence mounts up?

Why did the summer blossom turn tobacco brown

And the frolicsome birds fly south or north

As though our playtime has whistle to a shortened end?

Why do you state the facts and sit back to survey the carnage?

Can these lines drawn on a face become a map of guidance?

What questions get  glossed over with simple falsehoods and ideology used to beget amnesia?

Float then down your tranquil, personal river, fly off then above those darkening clouds

I recall only in so much as I can't forget

And I toll on only in so much as I can't forgive

Deeper now my lost lament and harder still those reasoning voices with talk of surrender

If it mattered that much then why the caress?

If it didn't matter then why is now a new beginning?

Why did the birds not return that summer or the bronzed leaves beget anew?

Why did that numbness become a dull ache and then a deafening roar?

Why does the toil go on?

Who states the facts and sits back to survey the carnage?

 


Shocked out and down along your livewire 

Unable to let go of a truthful response across the airwaves

Caught out again and against their treasonous plots

And you end up fishing in the stagnant pools once more

This was the idea that stuck the most and the notion they struck us with the most

And as it seem to catch up with us all in the end

We might as well fall short once more

Visceral aspirations run faster than the hunt

And you the hunter would only drag me down anyway

Spring and summer came but autumn was the catalyst

And I was buried beneath dead foliage

Waiting for you to kick me skyward as the mason etched a name in stone