Tread Softly

I just dummy up these days. No one cares to hear what I have to say. But I have seen what I have seen and I know what I know. I have witnessed our faint progress beneath remote uncaring stars and I know that we are bound to them by forces beyond our comprehension. The life of man, a single man, is of little significance in the great tide of events. Epochs have come and gone to leave no trace but fossilised remains in The Museum Of Natural History.

What shall I bequeath I wonder to those who come after me? Will some trace of my love linger still in the hearts of my progeny? I have no wisdom to impart them, no great insights to share. I doubt if I’ve had a single original thought in my entire life. If I could leave them anything it would be this advice; tread softly through this world, but don’t take the same route twice.

.

Sacrificial

it’s the stony silence
the morning after
a savage beating
the night before

it’s that fragile feeling
of quake and tremble
and those crimson stains
on the killing floor

the dawn reveals
the shameful secret
of blackened eyes
and fractured jaw

the sacrificial lamb
was led to slaughter
under dismal skies
by a man of straw

it’s a mouthful of ashes
and a handful of nothing
but the familiar lies
from his bloody maw

.

Shadow Dogs

for those we are about to deceive
may the profits make us truly grateful
and though we have been known
to fold our cards too early
we still catch them worms
cause there ain’t no flies on us

we was gifted twice in this life
as exponents of those killer graces
that grant us immunity from persecution
and with the promise of our chosen names
sanctified through industrial language
to never reveal our source code
or the identities of our sponsors

we was once foreign to the combine
and now we are its masters
long may we continue thus
in the pursuit of power
through knowledge
and to orchestrate the game
from the safety of the shadows
.

Arsenic

There was arsenic in his voice, boozy and bitter with recrimination, dark and foreboding as a winter storm. He was hostage to his fate; tied down by a wife and mewling brats and locked into the mundane drama of domestic life. His only succour was the drink that made him mean and the memories that only fuelled his dissatisfaction.

He was something of a philosopher when drunk – but his homilies smelled of meat and murder, and his declarations were as brutal as his hands. His facts were plain as his daily bread – his fictions as transparent as his liquor. He seemed to sup from that poisoned cup that twists at a man’s insides. He spewed forth a venomous mixture of sarcasm and bile that burned the ears and shamed the listener. I can honestly say I never knew him. I never saw beyond the disguise. He was an enigma to me and a puzzle to my heart was my old man.

.

Jesus Is Waiting

3 am again
and my mechanism
is stretched to breaking
tore a line from scripture
blessed are the poor in spirit
for they are on their tod
they haunt the early hours
searching for their God
but you know what they say
you’re never really alone
when you have a good book
solace comes in many forms
so I read the testaments
in search of consolation
and have been informed
that Jesus is waiting
but he can’t come
to the phone right now
.