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"The Crow Bar" she said, here I bury my dead, you can hear them sleeping somnulent forget-me-nots, snoring blithely unaware, in neat rows between the thick, ink injected lines, their soiled lives ploughed and turned over replanted sunnyside down expunged and wrung out eventually, not totally oblivious, they are found 6 feet under masonary slabs, light weights all grey rocked, the prescription inscripted, chiselled as an afterthought, swiftly in cursive memories, "too patient and considerate, this 1, holding court", the wokes a wake, The Crow Bar 2 in hand, after eating, then up the dosage, for Minsky jail birds, and other island hopping soaks, those blood sucking vampires the sharp silver, piercing stitched up voodoo dolls, the arresting spells cast, convicting, done, way too over-easy, the carnivourous gluttons, camouflaged imposters posing, the mendacious stance of a barrenless child thief spreading lilac love tossed like celebratory confetti over their misinformed flying monkeys and all the dream catchers dashing crushed souls on the rocks, trolls straddled and broke, acid washed, reclining in their lazy banana boats elucidating to their empty chair companions, just toothless saltwater crocs, disadvantaged receivers disenfranchised, all at a loss; gummy bears chewed slowly sweet jelly babies lost for words I could make of it something versatile and pretty, but the wreaths like barbed-wired crowns around prancing unicorn necks are too taught and momentarily, I consider, using the ties that bind, for skipping ropes, or a primary school game of elastics tied from one tree to the next, Yews, not oaks, the leaves boiling and dried out, turning like pages of peyote, speaking tongues the reader cannot hear, but takes in like a consecrated wafer just the same, drugged stories of ayahuasca, some nice spiritual portent all in their double D-Day cups small revelations, steeped head first, dead, played and strung, feet sky up - wicked, I know, ricochetting them with harsh wingless bat one after the other, field flying like Wrigley baseballs across the poetic parking lot; some come and some go baptised in ego, swallowing their cocktails, a mouthful of the devil's urine and ruffled feathers slightly shaken but not stirred, the novitiate poetry makes them choke, the smokescreen greased their windscreen wiper eyes, parlaying what is indirectly direct in front of them, they soo-ee like a squealing pig at the reprobates' rodeo, pistol whipped gauche, mine's bigger than yours red-necked duelling banjoes, they stand and deliver yodelling on their soap boxes gasolined to the gills waiting to be relieved in the ecstacy of vaccuous surrender swallowing their brake fluid... I smile, it’s an entertaining thought, I know, full stop. humour, is a good thing, this over time, through the best, I was taught holding court for love openers bombing their torts, idle tutors, begging for a gentle exorcising, on their Dolos dappled hobby horses apprentices lackadaisically stroking their Prometheus whips up and down the vaselined glow of their kingdom come halls, questioning their trusted Pseudea companions, buried sinners, their own matyred hung saviours, demanding some kind relief; a shout all round drink up silent applause ghosted gauntlets down the keys thrown The Crow Bar caught Love-all. No police. (LadyLabyrinth / 2023) caught. Court. "Yew is the Tree of the Dead, used in rituals of summoning spirits, restoring life, and even in the foul practices of raising corpses and creating undead servants. Wands and other tools made from yew wood are particularly common between necromancers and those who wish to commune with the spirits of the dead. Planted at graveyards, it creates natural places of gathering for lost souls, keeping them from wandering freely in the area. Yews often accompany places of worship as a reminder of eternal life." "The Yew came to symbolise death and resurrection in Celtic culture. The Celts will also have been familiar with the toxicity of the tree’s needles in particular. This may have further contributed to its connections with death. Shakespeare was familiar with these qualities when he had Macbeth concoct a poisonous brew. The deadly drink included “slips of yew, silvered in the moon’s eclipse. The themes of death and resurrection continued into the Christian era. People buried yew shoots with the deceased, and used boughs of yew as ‘Palms’ in church at Easter." "The Yew plant is a shrub with evergreen-like leaves. Yew poisoning occurs when someone eats pieces of this plant. The plant is most poisonous in Winter. All parts of yew are deadly poisonous, except for the flesh of the berry. The yew tree (Taxus baccata) and a related species common to gardeners, Japanese yew (Taxus cuspidata) is known to be one of the most poisonous woody plants in the world, with all components of the tree, excepting the fleshy red part of the berry containing lethal amounts of taxine, a toxic alkaloid found in the yew."

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The Crow Bar

"The Crow Bar" she said, here I bury my dead, you can hear them sleeping somnulent forget-me-nots, snoring blithely unaware, in neat rows between the thick, ink injected lines, their soiled lives ploughed and turned over replanted sunnyside down expunged and wrung out eventually, not totally oblivious, they are found 6 feet under masonary slabs, light weights all grey rocked, the prescription inscripted, chiselled as an afterthought, swiftly in cursive memories, "too patient and considerate, this 1, holding court", the wokes a wake, The Crow Bar 2 in hand, after eating, then up the dosage, for Minsky jail birds, and other island hopping soaks, those blood sucking vampires the sharp silver, piercing stitched up voodoo dolls, the arresting spells cast, convicting, done, way too over-easy, the carnivourous gluttons, camouflaged imposters posing, the mendacious stance of a barrenless child thief spreading lilac love tossed like celebratory confetti over their misinformed flying monkeys and all the dream catchers dashing crushed souls on the rocks, trolls straddled and broke, acid washed, reclining in their lazy banana boats elucidating to their empty chair companions, just toothless saltwater crocs, disadvantaged receivers disenfranchised, all at a loss; gummy bears chewed slowly sweet jelly babies lost for words I could make of it something versatile and pretty, but the wreaths like barbed-wired crowns around prancing unicorn necks are too taught and momentarily, I consider, using the ties that bind, for skipping ropes, or a primary school game of elastics tied from one tree to the next, Yews, not oaks, the leaves boiling and dried out, turning like pages of peyote, speaking tongues the reader cannot hear, but takes in like a consecrated wafer just the same, drugged stories of ayahuasca, some nice spiritual portent all in their double D-Day cups small revelations, steeped head first, dead, played and strung, feet sky up - wicked, I know, ricochetting them with harsh wingless bat one after the other, field flying like Wrigley baseballs across the poetic parking lot; some come and some go baptised in ego, swallowing their cocktails, a mouthful of the devil's urine and ruffled feathers slightly shaken but not stirred, the novitiate poetry makes them choke, the smokescreen greased their windscreen wiper eyes, parlaying what is indirectly direct in front of them, they soo-ee like a squealing pig at the reprobates' rodeo, pistol whipped gauche, mine's bigger than yours red-necked duelling banjoes, they stand and deliver yodelling on their soap boxes gasolined to the gills waiting to be relieved in the ecstacy of vaccuous surrender swallowing their brake fluid... I smile, it’s an entertaining thought, I know, full stop. humour, is a good thing, this over time, through the best, I was taught holding court for love openers bombing their torts, idle tutors, begging for a gentle exorcising, on their Dolos dappled hobby horses apprentices lackadaisically stroking their Prometheus whips up and down the vaselined glow of their kingdom come halls, questioning their trusted Pseudea companions, buried sinners, their own matyred hung saviours, demanding some kind relief; a shout all round drink up silent applause ghosted gauntlets down the keys thrown The Crow Bar caught Love-all. No police. (LadyLabyrinth / 2023) caught. Court. "Yew is the Tree of the Dead, used in rituals of summoning spirits, restoring life, and even in the foul practices of raising corpses and creating undead servants. Wands and other tools made from yew wood are particularly common between necromancers and those who wish to commune with the spirits of the dead. Planted at graveyards, it creates natural places of gathering for lost souls, keeping them from wandering freely in the area. Yews often accompany places of worship as a reminder of eternal life." "The Yew came to symbolise death and resurrection in Celtic culture. The Celts will also have been familiar with the toxicity of the tree’s needles in particular. This may have further contributed to its connections with death. Shakespeare was familiar with these qualities when he had Macbeth concoct a poisonous brew. The deadly drink included “slips of yew, silvered in the moon’s eclipse. The themes of death and resurrection continued into the Christian era. People buried yew shoots with the deceased, and used boughs of yew as ‘Palms’ in church at Easter." "The Yew plant is a shrub with evergreen-like leaves. Yew poisoning occurs when someone eats pieces of this plant. The plant is most poisonous in Winter. All parts of yew are deadly poisonous, except for the flesh of the berry. The yew tree (Taxus baccata) and a related species common to gardeners, Japanese yew (Taxus cuspidata) is known to be one of the most poisonous woody plants in the world, with all components of the tree, excepting the fleshy red part of the berry containing lethal amounts of taxine, a toxic alkaloid found in the yew."