Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category

When you imagine an artist,
You do not see me,
You see a noble practitioner of the word,
Your Tolkiens and Pratchetts,
Not me,
Not this freak with a pen,

I’m no artist,
I’m a monster of art,
My process is more of a hunt,
Deranged savagery in each stroke,
Less the orchestration of an artistic vision,
And more the dismemberment of prose,

The words I scribble are the meat,
The meanings behind them are a bitter aftertaste,
A happy accident,
Rending phrase from stanza,
Mutilating rather than composing,
Poetry coming from a state of psychosis,

I’ve read the greats,
My fangs were cut on their work,
This creature is a deviation from their ways,
I write because I must,
Perhaps one day,
I’ll write this monster a happy ending.

Like gravity or time,
Domination is a force of nature,
A state of mind that crawls in insidiously at first,
It is a kind of madness,
Corrupting the souls of powerful men,
Leading them to utilise that will against lesser souls,

They become cold tyrants,
All meat hooks and whips,
Little Kaisers commanding grey legions,
Dominating the masses with the force of steel,
Turning neighbours into archenemies,
Fear of the ball gag and boots heel,

The desire to impose ones will,
It is a plague with no cure,
To which even the virtuous hold vulnerability,
It is a fact of life,
As long as two souls remain on Earth,
Somebody will wish to dominate another.

This battle has ground on too long,
Our leaden provisions are loaded,
A thousand metal hailstones,
Placed carefully into our artifice of death,
Our own mouth of hell,

The power I have at hand is grimly palpable,
I need only turn this crank,
And hundreds of lives will end in gore,
Rotate sight and fire,
They told me there was honour in battle,

The order is given,
It’s us or them,
Rotate sight and fire,
Our engine of death rattles in rage,
Cutting down uniforms like chaff,

Despite the hellfire,
I feel cold,
There is no honour in this,
Warfare has become manufacture,
Rotate sight and fire.

There is tell of a fallen angel,
Feathers replaced with horns,
Some epitome of spite,
And of this we are taught to fear,
Lauded as some ultimate enemy,
But I say different,

The devil is an amateur,
Way out of his infernal depth,
Ultimate evil sits in coffee shops and sips lattes,
A creature as studious as it is destructive,
Whose ingenuity has moulded countless systems of abuse,
It chokes the land not in lies but toxic waste,

The devil should just retire,
Last I checked we wore serpent skins,
Extinction is just in a days work,
Even Lucifer ought fear the mailed fist of man,
Both in location and scale of evil,
Humanity is punching down.

I heard tell of a witch,
A maiden in this harvest season,
A lady in an obsidian regalia,
Where she walks the flock congregates,
A winged host of subjects,
Upon her word do they fly,
She walks paths lost to man,
She is the mother of ravens,
She is never alone,
She is nature,
She is death,
She carries the murder in her soul,

The Morrigan

There is a weight upon my spine,
I don’t recognise it,
A small body holding twin instruments,
It feels primate in nature,
A simian struggle exists on my shoulders,
A quaint fez and maroon waistcoat,

The beats of its being ring true,
I recognise every clang,
They scream in my ears,
Every hateful fact I have embodied,
Each fault resounded in shrill tones,
Every tone of my inadequacy,

Nobody deserves this fate,
Not even this ghoul,
Profound cymbals against my temples,
Trowels glancing off block,
So in rage I hope you’ll endorse me,
F@#!?!K that monkey!

Is there herd immunity to loneliness?
I find myself something of a black sheep,
Not in familial terms,
But societal ones,
I find myself overmuch grazing alone,

These ebony rags of wool grow tiresome,
I hate how they suit me,
Like this I despise my form,
The mealy stench of my visage and attitude,
The feeble and disgusting sound of my bleat,

I have played the misanthropic loner for long enough,
I’d much rather be part of that herd,
Their grass looks far greener,
I don’t want to be me,
Can I instead be one of them?

Under thundery skies of white,
Came the rumble of tracks,
And the boom of gunnery,
A boreal front is rent open,
An iron cross enclosing upon an eastern jugular,
Hammer and sickle on the backfoot,
Surrender was no option,
And so flesh was ground against iron,
The blitzkrieg was on,

Two flags spiral around each other in dispute,
Cities and fields become their shrapnel market,
Lives were the currency paid in full,
But both fate and snow had other ideas,
The winter came to its sons aid,
Freezing fuel and choking soldiers in grey,
Another weapon against the iron cross,
Like the little emperor before,
This evil could not weather the winterstorm.

There’s a fine line between justice and crime,
And some walk that line haphazardly,
They choose not to defer to authority,
And take matters into their own hands,
Vengeance rarely looks like a courtroom,
And it is never a portrait,
More often it is spent cartridges in an alley,
Bullet and hammer and blade,
These are the tools of the vigilante,
These are the judge and jury,
And the will behind them is the executioner.

These two vocal veterans,
Battle-hardened are they indeed,
Atop opposing monolithic podiums,
They are upon the field of discourse,
Wielding scholarly tongues as arsenals,
Knights jousting in the air before them,
Fleur-de-lys amidst silver,
Words as blades,
Morning stars in each argument,

Parry and riposte,
The fronts shift as voices are heard,
Aural dogfights between gentlemen,
Neither giving too much ground,
There is decorum in this violence,
This is no bloodbath,
Who shall concede?
It matters little,
As long as knowledge is garnered by each party.