So today is the day,
The occasion we have all been awaiting,
Oh yes we have,
All of us little people,
In line for the foodbanks,
The coronation of the next figurehead,
A party for the elite,
Lo they deign to include the serfs,
To witness his golden carriage,
To shower him with tribute,
I think we’re all just the new court jesters,
Dancing gaily with our bunting,
As he takes his throne,
Wearing his golden dunce cap,
Worth more than our lives.
I’m a merchant like any other,
My stock is simply more dire,
I’m dealing in hollow-points and land grabs,
Peddling grenades and blitzkrieg tactics,
I’m a soldier for hire,
Some would say a monster,
But a man as got to eat,
For the right price,
I’ll holiday in any time zone,
My merchandise is open to all,
A suppressive tide of lead,
Or a shot through an innocent forehead,
It’s a sincere day of work,
With some sin for good measure,
And if I fall,
In some backwater abroad,
None shall mourn for me,
I’m just a tool,
And it’s just another transaction,
At least somebody is getting paid,
War is just business after all.
You moved forward,
Healed and loved anew,
Built this cottage of a new life,
Thatch of new beginnings,
Timbers of healthier boundaries,
You found pride in this new homestead,
Yet spectres of past creatures encroach,
They want to haunt your new home,
Wailing falsities and evaded liabilities,
They scratch at the windows,
Caressing the glass,
Begging to access you once more,
They’ll offer apologies and sugary tongues,
But like the vampires of old,
Don’t let them in,
Withhold your invitations,
Close the curtains,
And sever the ties.
The moon has only one companion,
To which she shows her whole menagerie,
The Night Watchman,
With lamp and cudgel in hand,
He snakes through the alleys,
A silent and aged guardian,
He sees everything the night does wield,
Shadows hiding just around every corner,
Spectres waltzing in the city smog,
An orchestra of human dreams in the air,
Cats playing tag up on the guttering,
Unholy chants from the sewer grates,
These things were not to be witnessed,
A lesser man would go mad,
But he is the moons companion,
She embraces him with these gifts,
To be witnessed in lowlight,
To show there is magic at night,
And when the morn comes,
And his shift ends,
He goes silently back to his hovel,
He’ll never tell of the night,
For he is only to watch,
He’ll keep her secrets.
Those relics of the past you excavate,
Brought to the fore,
By brush and pick,
Sweat and appliance,
From that dig site in your heart,
A quarry of harsh truths,
Forget them,
The scars upon your brow,
Every cigarette burn and police report,
The words still anchored in your flesh,
They’re not fit for a museum,
Not deserving of conservation,
No glass cabinet will contain them,
Forsake them,
They are not precious mementos,
Tokens of a past age,
My friend,
Shatter them with a hammer,
They merit a morgue,
Not a podium.
Beware that reef child,
It is a graveyard,
A hodgepodge of stony dragons teeth,
Full of great timber titans,
The sound of torn sails and creaking hulls,
And salt-wrapped spectres,
These wrecks are a diorama,
Skeletons still at their posts,
As if frozen in glass,
Awaiting orders that shall never come,
Sailors picked clean by the reef,
Feed for the crabs and fish,
It’s a morbid monument at sea,
Whorled in mist and deathly cries,
It harkens back to a past of seafaring,
Of piracy and exploration and glory,
A time now only whispered,
Upon dead men’s tongues.
In a dozy West Virginian town,
An urban legend takes flight,
Holding dominion over a pleasant night sky,
Over highways and young couples,
It’s never in true focus,
A humanoid shape obscured,
Huge crimson lanterns for eyes,
And wings shimmering with prophecy,
Bird or moth or demon?
Nobody shall ever know,
Wings simply flutter,
And bridges fall.
You must be a cartographer in this life,
Despite what some say,
You have to find your own way,
The years offer no signposts,
Nor safe havens to rest,
You’ll concoct your own journey through decades,
The good and bad,
Plot a course to avoid the Bermuda triangles,
Those treacherous reefs of liars and hurt,
Serpentine sharks and heckling jackals,
The need for navigation never ceases,
The years want you to be adrift,
Will you be lost like Leichhardt?
Or will you be Amelia Earhart?
A failure or a legend?
Oh women of Italia and beyond,
Do you suffer in your daily lives?
Bruised by the fists of an abusive spouse?
Is even your home an unsafe arena?
Rush ye to Lady Tofana,
She may hold your salvation,
Though it shall cost you your virtue,
She shall offer you a deadly solution,
The poisoners bounty,
Lead and arsenic and belladonna,
All wrapped up in cosmetic mask,
With St. Nicholas presiding,
A tasteless and crystal clear death sentence,
For that special man in your life,
An unsavoury state of affairs perhaps,
But when a woman is pushed too far,
There may be no other recourse,
Than to call on Lady Tofana,
And her Manna di San Nicola.
That humble little beetle,
Oft regarded as vermin,
A shoveler of dung,
But it’s a talisman,
A pearlescent amulet,
The god Khepri on Earth,
An icon of regeneration,
Carved of stone or faience or jasper,
These creatures are the heavenly cycle,
Day to night to sunrise,
Life to death to rebirth,
The inescapable truth,
Indeed,
Even within your funerary casket,
You’ll still find a scarab,
Sewed on to your chest,
Wings splayed,
Waiting for your return in rolled dung.
WorldofHarley 