World-Ender

The Land of the Free quakes,
Disaster looms above,
Or so it’s said,
Many believe it to be so,

Neighbours look sideways at one another,
Rights become targets,
For the firing squad that is corruption,
Few tears are shed,
Even fewer protests are uttered,

Division and hatred,
These weapons of mass destruction,
Maybe orchestrated by a court of white,
Filled with a rogues gallery,
In business suits and colourful badges,

Led by something of a jester,
With delusions of grandeur,
Possessing a nationalist baton,
And a dangerous red button,
Poking the bear and dragon,

The time has come,
A red mushroom cloud erupts,
In the shape of a pachyderm,
The Land of the Free is no more,
The world is ending.

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England

Three lions weep,
An English rose wilts,
Saint George hangs his head low,

Have we lost our way?
A lethargic populace and uncaring elite,
A blight of bigotry,

England is drunk upon past glories,
Like wines taken from distant lands,
At sabre point,

Empire is dead,
We are the ashes,
Soon to be scattered,

Our brothers of the Hills,
The Lochs,
The Isles,
And across the sea,
All creeds and ways of life,
All forsaken,

We are part of this world,
We do not hold thrones above it,
Humanity is our real flag,
Hubris has painted a sorry picture,
Something akin to a red cross.

Moths

I often feel,
I’m surrounded by insects,
Moths specifically,

They flutter in office spaces,
Flitter sullenly about suburbs,
And drift carelessly along sidewalks,

They commune briefly,
Then fly on,
Towards their each own light,

We’re all moths you know,
We flutter about on frail wings,
Fragile aimless things,

We don’t even know we’re doing it,
We all have different wings,
Yet we all strive towards the same thing,

Towards a light,

At least we believe it’s the sun,
But as we draw closer,
The sun is peculiarly crypt-shaped.

Reminiscing On Previous Madness: A Second Maddening

Hello inmates.

I haven’t done one of these in a rather long time. Not since 2014! I’m not sure why, I suppose it simply never really came up. Maybe I haven’t been reminiscing as much recently. Anyway, I quite liked the idea of it before, So I’ve decided to make another with some of my older poems in it. It seemed apt with the new year looming in the horizon. Mayhap a little self-indulgent, but I don’t want my older poems to be forgotten. So, I would encourage any newer inmates to take a gander, You might see something you like!

The Clockwork Dragon – A tale of a frightening mechanical nightmare.
Internal Hydra – A poem, or perhaps an introspection, on humanity’s inner monster.
Red Stamp – An experimental poem about the horrors of fascism.
Night Sky – A poem about my adoration of the night.
Shotgun Romance – A twisted poem about love.
Sorcery – A poem about the magic of our own potential.
Beast of Eyes – A story of an otherworldly being.
Dirge of the Jester – One of my few forays into rhyme.

So there we have it. Just my personal picks from my archives. Every piece of writing I create is important to me, so I’d appreciate it immensely if you would let me know what you think. Here’s hoping that you won’t regret having a read.

On a side note, I hope you’ve been enjoying my more recent works! I’ve been getting back into the routine of writing daily, and I’ve been feeling so much better for it. Thanks to every one of you who takes the time to visit the asylum!

Until next time, have a very crazy day inmates!

Manhunter

Death is my lord,
I am his reaper,
And his scythe,
My blade is his,
I am the Manhunter,

This long coat hides a herald of death,
He pays in cold coin,
And I pay in cold dead eyes,
Those whose time has come,
Those whom have his icy hand upon their shoulder,

My life was already taken,
Eons ago,
A bloody wedding gown and an empty crib,
Death made a joke that day,
I couldn’t help but chuckle,

I am the Manhunter,
Nothing personal,
Just business,
The cycle of life,
Even monsters must eat,

Do you feel his gelid breath?

Fortress

Welcome to my home stranger,
Wipe your coats and hang up your shoes,
Make yourself at home please,
It is my fortress,
My sanctum,
My workshop,

Within its walls lies wonder,
And a hint of madness,
Here manifests my literary alchemy,
My lyrical experimentation,
It is a realm of perpetual loneliness,
But also true clarity,

I write every colour under the sun,
Angels in freefall playing violins,
Ballet with stars,
Dragons saving damsels,
Ghosts in pitched food-fights,
And heroes with villainous grins,

Stories and sonnets,
Poems and poesy,
This playground has all of these,
And so much more,
This is my castle,
This is my fortress,

Safe from the siege of outside rationality,
Safe from the slings and arrows of the world,
Safe from sanity.

The Procession

There’s trouble ahead,
There’s hellfire on the horizon,
The drumbeat continues,
Humanity marches unabated,
Craters and mushroom clouds ahead,

Out of tune,
Ragged drums and dilapidated regalia,
Painted-on smiles,
Out of step,
Unwashed humanity parading ever onward,

Cracked lips and grazed knees,
The drumbeat continues,
Complaining of weary eyes,
Insanity personified,
Driven on regardless by the beat of life,

The state of this world,
The state of this procession,
Mired in misery and dissention,
Enough for a thousand dirges,
There’s trouble ahead,

The drumbeat continues.

The Unknown

I gaze out of my window,
And up into the sky,
That sapphire display of experiences and worlds unknown,
That projection screen for hopes and fears,
I see other worlds that are out of reach,
Or are they imaginary?

The great azure sky looms over,
Acting as a backdrop for my minds eye,
The sun illuminates it,
Acting as a catalyst for what I see,
The clouds act their little plays,
Trying to obscure the enigmas I see,

I see worlds of splendor,
I see nightmare-scapes,
I see fiends and seraphs,
Horrors unbound,
And otherworldly monsters,
Oh the monsters,

Alien worlds that are wholly unknowable,
Stars shimmering every colour of this world,
And many that are not,
Worlds of untold beauty and potential,
And worlds of misery and black lightning,
I’ve seen these before in my dreams,

Then I become cognizant of something,
I was staring into a mirror all along,
A window into the human soul.

My Second Moon

I gaze upon the moon each night,
I sit in the dark,
Staring skyward,
My eyes reach out,
They can’t reach her,
They’re not worthy.

Crescent full or gibbous,
Her dazzling form lights up the dark,
An astral goddess,
An empowering icon,
A source of inspiration,
Playing kiss-chase with the clouds.

So why do I see a second moon beside me each night?
And beside me each day?
A moon of such astronomical beauty,
That it blots out even the lunar goddess,
Earthly yet still heavenly,
A goddess of a different kind.

Then I realize,
You are my second moon,
Superior in every way.

Absinthe

When life bears down,
I retreat to my old friend,
A tonic they call Absinthe,
A soothing barrier against life,
It dulls the edge of the world.

I slink back to my den,
My haven,
The candles burn softly,
As they waltz to an inaudible beat,
I begin to take my remedy.

That emerald nectar,
With all the qualities of poison,
Each sip instills a viridian shade of inspiration,
Each bubble is a window to worlds unknown,
Each gulp is a shot of escapism.

The room spins violently,
Like a portal to a new land,
The night distorts into flashes of green and black,
The remedy works its magic,
My old life is soon forgotten.

What will the morning bring?
Who knows?
I could be in a new world,
Or beyond the grave,
Absinthe makes it all possible.