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The last place I remember before all this occurred

A darkened prison of existence

Where only the good things got slopped out

Last rites for a tortured Man

The last dance I remember before all this occurred

A sweetened sashay across a silver dance floor and a hand at the base of the spine

What nectar I recall on lips so encrusted by the sands of time

The conversation carried on regardless whilst the only sounds remain industrial harangues

The last beats from a tribal drum that remained unstruck

Heart rending notations of nothing ever endeavored

And now new mornings side by side

New plans, new speak of something to be done

A purposeful intake of reinvigorating breath to dissipate those cobwebbed passions

All this before a choking start to nothing ever done

Before you crossed the floor 

 


If the heart was more than blood and metronomic certainty

In which each pulse only scarred further the futility of its action

If it could strive with better purpose, producing with each pulse a unifying voice,

Describing of a single, shared moment

Entwined as veins that carry out the actions of our best intent

If it might imply a moral certainty that overrides your lusting to belong

But through that heart you wear your failings on your sleeve  

Whilst your eyes portray a thousand aortic piercings

 


 
the mangled star banner

Oh, say how can you see with your head up your ass?

What so proudly you hail leaves the rest of us seething

Those broad stripes and bright stars take the cowardly fight

O'er the whole world we watch, it lies broken and bleeding

And the missiles red glare, cluster bombs burst the air

Giving proof to the rich of their compassionate care

Oh, see how that star-spangled banner does wave

O'er the intelligence-free and the economic slave

 

On all shores, blindly walking in defence of the weak

Seeking foe's worthy evils to silence the banks

Now the wall has come down, and the arms trade looks bleak

As the wind of change blows, you expect the world to give thanks?

Now it catches the mood of a TV generation

In full glory the media propagandas the nation

Tis' the star-spangled banner! How long will it wave

Should we bother to fight is there anything to save?

 

And who is this band who so clearly proclaim

That the havoc of war and a populace unfed,

is the price to be paid when making money's the game

Their hand never touching the blood of the dead

No refuge can save those who will not conform

From the terror of warfare in the next Desert Storm

And why does that star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

Whilst the children lie dying and the planet's a grave

 

Oh, thus be it ever whilst businessmen shall stand

Between democratic principle and oil exploration!

Claiming victory and peace having destroyed the land

Praise the power named Globalism that crushes inflation

Then conquer they must, claiming causes are just

And this be the motto; "cite God when we must"

And the star-spangled banner in triumph is waved

When this war is over and the economy is saved

 


I pity the man who only sees the sun as yellow

Or he who sees only the greenest trees

What chances for those who speed by with rooftop open to the elements

He who seeks gold in the sufferance of others can only ascend molehills

Not the acme of true mountains

How can the rubbish heaps of consumption re-burn the wastage of spiritual want?

Dissipate your vintage wines on evening by the television not the fireside if you will

And cleanse away your dreams of virtuous pursuit amongst the grind of having more

Beguiling yes but begetting not the visions which ignite future firesides

Ozymandian memories whose hoary shouts are drowned by the winds of what will always be

And parched lines of true become circles trod into an arid wasteland

 


All that wasted intangible endeavor

All those ships that sunk within harbour walls

Choke yourself through sepia histories of grizzled faces in oppressive uniform

Cleanse your polluted palate a stone's throw from that success

(Or failure) in blood wine from distance shores

Await that metronomic ebb and flow that alights bounteous residues

Whilst painting darker hues along its wake

Respond as only humankind makes possible with wonderment and awe

Respond as only humankind makes possible with indifference or maybe just more of the same

How many splendid bridges are required to transport us over the Styx

How many Babelian structures will enable us to harvest the fruits of contentment and reach out beyond

How much constant travel will bring us to break virgin sand and blow conchs that tell of our arrival?

Line up, line up to record your own sepia histories cast the painter and remember to smile through it

 


It's as if fury is infectious

As though we all store up frustration

And vengeance in winter silo

To feed the bones of malcontent

Saving the seeds for future bounty

Sewn in symmetrical fields ploughed

As though bitterness and pain are mutual companions to human endeavor

And we farm out our lives to feed those ideals

Leaving fallow all that we seek to harvest the most

 


 
What unhappiness might wreak such an outcome beneath such splendid moonlit night?

Might he ever have been truly happy they would ask,

Hoping reasoned gossip might offer glimmerance of light

But true foresight stays blind

Whilst we adorn ourselves in dark. secretive veils drawn tight across the eyes

Happiness? What sacred winged messenger brings this sensation to the fore

As we maintain ourselves in ignorance and lies?

Happy he was, perhaps for an hour but not for the full day as clouds ushered in the night

Contentment is a better word or phrase when describing caught moments of love and lust,

Fulfillment for that hour or so might be right

But merriment is born in wine and exuberance of dance and shout

And dries as residues upon the glass and we remain seated as the last song fades out

 


Even the sharp end of a bullet when pressed into the end of a finger

Removes all trace of blood from that finger

The surrounding area whitens as the blood gets dispersed

Along the network of wrinkles which individualize our pain on hands capable of much damage

With the release of pressure the blood flows inwards in denial of the bullets true resolve

Like in the movies the bling-bling bullet gets slid into any old chamber and spun theatrically

The musical soundtrack of the mind then quickens

Like in life the true soldier doesn't flinch,

Like in life, for those who die each and every day, the silence deafens

If I hold the cold black steel against your temple

And if I close my eyes on death as I squeeze the trigger

I know I'll only blow myself away

 


And so you burn again, as you hold again fresh cut flowers to place on your grave as you die again. As she walks away, again, in the opposite direction. You remain, directionless without caress. Again.

And now you've turned again, breaking bread with those who've hurt you so much before, again. As they walk, again, over and over your grave, again. You remain, directionless without caress. Again.

And how your face, again, shows once more, again, the deep lines of bad faith you've shown in others. Lines forever remain.  Directionless without caress. Again.

 


 
Alone. Perhaps never alone                                                                                                      Always a
 
Voice to offer a viewpoint                                                                                                            Stuck
 
Perhaps always stuck.                                                                                                               Always
 
stuck to the same viewpoint.                                                                                                    Silent
 
.............................                                                                                                                          Until the
 
next voice chimes in.                                                                                                                 Never too
 
long to wait until then.                                                                                                               All I see
 
and all I react to.                                                                                                                         Leaves
 
me always never alone

 


 
 
Beneath a blue blanket I can only make out cold silhouettes
 
They hurry; Concerned
 
Blurred colours like an Arran sweater, Kaleidoscopic in hues
 
Sound suspended eternally
 
Bubbles rise and release themselves into the cosmos
 
Containing my neutered screams to the audience above
 
The arms work frantically as pistons
 
Greater handfuls of the soup are dispersed only to reunite themselves and envelop further
 
Other hands grapples from below whilst those above close ranks and apply more pressure
 
With great surges I rise to the surface to tumultuous effect,
 
Knowing that I'll probably drown again tomorrow
 


It's a lot darker now than say when summer yellow bleach out the chintz

And the sand encrusted the scalp and navel

November tides punch above their weight

And white skin shrinks and wrinkles with the cold

It's definitely colder and darker now

New opportunities to think as well

As if it's all locked into something grander

Perhaps A big day out

Or a boat ride across the bay

 


We walk the same pace you and I

To destinies the same distance apart

We share the same naivety of hope; expectant

You and I for better bounty

We match in reams of prose a dialogue that speaks silent of all that we both aspire

We daub lines into distant sand before the tsunami cleanses deep another challenge

I in the carriage and you by my side we roll gently to another Shangri-La

As all the stars align they spell your name

And I catch the fallen in the pocket of my heart

 


Various time we communicated, but nothing was ever said

I felt we embraced often at that time, but nothing was ever touched

We might have kissed perhaps but never were those moments cherished

Dance we did, but always to differing melodies

Walked a while, I to my destination and you to yours, we did

Slept side by side still dreaming of different Shangri-La's, you and I

Finally we connected and said our goodbyes

 


I am the marked man in sights of purposed killer and I have fallen far

Far deeper than his soul permits

Cautious to a generosity towards those upright gentlemen

Beyond their chains or burly wrath

But I have long since left this place

To purposes to which my life had selected for me

And which negate all promises of sanctuary

Beyond the pale the foreman calls

But I have long since left this place

And all my dreams remain on shelves

 


A glistening tide of foam and mood

That shapes and talks a journey bold

From deep a chasm walled and dark

A strident sense of past regret

We catch a zeitgeist from beyond,

Yet fall in spume on timeless sea

And last no more the final thrust

Cast out into a vacant tomb

 

If not just another puzzle to be jig-sawed over

Then passed over by greed and apathy

We sought the right horizons

Yet drowned within the harbour walls

Cast upon a placid blue

Then flung against the moralistic altar

Left devoid of feeling in shadow lands

Stretching out beyond all universal systems

In which understanding and regard goes unrewarded

Caught vacant staring across placid waters

Once desire ceased to spur the soul

A darkness descending the canvas

Brought forth with lethargic strokes

A cause starved thin of wanting

Yet aspired to all the more.

 


Burnt by the talisman that all men seeks

To soothe frustrated lives

Denied the passion of the soul

The Aesthetes and the Weak

 


Beyond the call of ancient soul

Caught abreast of stolid surrounds

I catch breaths off ardent wings

Flown wearily towards my shores

I rise and fall on capricious seas

That exudes the blue and greens of life

And other days I am the soldier

Bruised and bloodied by foolish conflict

Desperate for home and the arms of passion

But falling deep on draining terra

 


All we seek is the justice

All we desire is the opportunity

The justice attained because it is accepted I am right

The opportunity to respond to cloak and dagger tactic

We'd all like a little bit more we'd all like more than a little

Centuries of denial to overt responsibility

Centuries of tragic inconsequence

The layman the scribe, the preacher's daughter

Taught the correct response to obtuse question

Unable to question irreverent answers

Forgotten passed on moved on quickly shunted on

The history of the victor denying truth to the victim

Centuries of caustic submissive aggression

Centuries of golden era oppression

We'd fight if we could; we do when they ask us

But it's their fight not ours so it's got to be won

We all have a role in the centurion theatre

We all have a duty to believe what they're saying

The butcher the sadist the judge and his daughter

All become complicit in the Millennium Slaughter