The Orator

This orator,
His words are stout yet beautiful,
Vigorous yet codling,
They are forts for good people,
They form bridges to understanding,

A maestro of the spoken word,
His tongue orders charges of sonic armies,
At such decibel,
As to wake even the dead,
And crack the sky,

We all hear him,
And witness his war on the silence,
His syllables the troops,
His words the tanks,
His utterances commence artillery strikes,

The still is the enemy of learning,
The quiet a cruel dictator,
To stop would invite the enemy back,
The icy silence,
So he cries ever on.

Work Is Life

Such childhood dreams I remember,
Of artwork and vividity,
Smiles were the way,
But then the conveyer belt fired up,
Careening me through a decided life,

It appears to this dreary soul,
That a lifes worth,
Such as it is,
Is merely based upon ones employment,
Dollar and stirling signs,

To contribute is just of course,
But life is not purely about what you can give,
In terms of finance,
We should follow Euphrosyne,
Not remain serfs to Plutus,

You are what you earn,
Does a bad back,
And a full pension,
Mean a life fulfilled?
Should respect be dependent on vocation?

We live to work,
And work to live,
But what about the end?
Will I too have to build my coffin?
Dig my own grave?

Battle Dancer

As I lay incapacitated,
Upon this grassy knoll,
My shoulder and lung run through,
By barb of crossbow bolt,
I spy my Lady-General,

A maiden of war,
This carnage is her dance,
Dashing from dance partner after dance partner,
Bestowing upon them crimson terminal flourishes,
Spewing ribbons and pyrotechnics to applause of screams,

This theatre,
Spanning over ruined meadows,
With fire and arrows overhead,
A charnel drama,
Host to my Ladys baneful ballet,

Chinks in mail,
Gaps in plate,
All find spots for her blades,
She leads the way,
Bringing the wardance to the enemy,

Morosely she kneels at my side,
“We are War”,
“But your dance is over”,
Wistfully pecking me farewell,
I fade into the abyss.

Dissecting A Demon

I slew this demon,
By my own rageful hand,
Within the swamp of a stuporous night,
To study its vile anatomy,
Work out why devils play the way they do,

This scalpel shall cut hotter,
Than any inferno of hell,
Such is my conviction,
I feel the arcana swirl about this cadaver,
This is the one,

As I make my initial incision,
A cloying ooze of sins drips out,
Infantile shrieks as it hits the floor,
Why continue to bear such filth?
I bottle it up for further inquisition,

Prepare the rib-spreader,
Let’s see this things core,
Stinking heat emanates like breath,
Yet only a void hides behind ribs,
These beings have no heart,

Saw the skull past the jagged horns,
Expose the mind of evil,
How does devilry conduct its plans?
The neurons pass only sick ideas betwixt,
It holds naught but the stench of malice,

So what have we learned?
Devils will always be devils,
Evil will always be evil,
It is intrinsic to their souls being,
It is proven,
If you witness malevolence within a man,
Just remember it is root and stem.

Tumour

I have a tumour,
I feel it pulsing within my skull,
A neoplasmic fiend,
A frankenstein creation of my own heart,
My cells joining its unholy legion,

I know from whence it came,
I breathed in those cancerous cells,
They breached my lips,
On a vessel of her red lipstick,
Her nightly ritual,

She drew me in,
Like a spider playing a violin,
A trap of an embrace,
A witch in white gown lingerie,
Obsessive oncology,

This amorous disease ravaged my form,
Playing jukebox romance ad infinitum,
My humours sent into spasms,
My virtues turned askew,
Blurred eyes,

I ought to be alone,
Give me a bottle of amber,
My own radiation therapy,
I’m unclear of the prognosis,
But this love is cancer.

Strike Out

Dust settles,
I’m out,
Of this El Dorado,
I fear I never learned the rules,
Of rather never heeded them,

Alas I speak not of baseball,
But of a home,
Knapsack at the ready,
Full of filthy guilt,
My human mistakes,

Was it my unwieldy and sickly countenance?
Did I spend too much time in my head?
My unkempt den?
My friends in the night?
Strikes one and two,

This haven,
Of Bavarian design,
Strike three is called,
And I’m out of here,
The sidewalk beckons.

Flocks

I am not a jealous soul,
But I stare green-eyed at birds,
Those avian aviators,
Artists of the blue,
I envy them their wings,
I write you true,

Soaring the skies,
It must be such release,
Such catharsis,
They are not bound to one another,
Why do they stay in throngs?
Are they not individuals?

Do they not know they are free?
My envy screams up at them,
Predation should be no deterrent,
When the flock flies west,
Why not fly east?
Don’t waste those wings,

Coveting their feathery prom dresses,
I call out to them,
Please take me away,
Imitating their freedom,
I reach skyward,
Yet they flee in flocks.

War Chest

Each leader has a war chest,
Millions,
Paid for with blood and limbs,
The gold of the chest,
Pounds and dollars and roubles,
Minted in hells flames,
Emblazoned with skulls grinning,
Baying for oil and miles,

The true fuel for warfare,
The ammunition of conflict,
As the chest opens its charnel maw,
Arms dealers rub their hands,
And children cry in droves,
The drool of the chest,
It looms over free lands,
And shadows of bombs fall soon after.

Pageant

The human race,
Society,
It’s all a pageant,
A beauty contest,
An insipid affair,

A masquerade on the streets,
We all put on glam dress faces,
Makeup over the tears,
A plastic smile for outside,
Who’s got the most beauteous mask?

The worlds a catwalk,
Fake visages,
Fake selves,
Objectifying each other,
Intoxicated on one anothers lies,

A smile on a polaroid,
Selfies with stupidity,
Interaction through a screen,
Charity for the likes,
Grovelling before the cyclopean god,

The human race,
A comedy,
A race we lose everyday.

Monopoly

I’ve seen the elite,
A cartel of tuxedo players,
Vultures around a board held aloft by we the people,
They play monopoly above us,
Playing for borders and lives,
Among red buttons and whiskey,

An oligarchy of a smoking room,
Perfume of toxic fumes,
Product of industry,
A effluvium of poor mens moans,
Sounds of pickaxes and canaries,
Walls of blood diamonds,

The pieces are made of flesh,
Shaped like batons and warmachines,
And cry for help as they shift,
Beholden to old men,
Liars in chief,
Tycoons of trepidation,

They have played this boardgame for centuries,
From pyramids to railways,
From aeroplanes to the moon,
We have been pawns for too long,
What happens if we all stand up?
And knock their game over.