Cigarette-stenched couch,
How he lays there with a slouch.
His blue-striped sweater
So warm and comfortable,
Any weather, good or bad.
Going home
across the Shard bridge
spanning a rattle-snaked river
that bites into the Irish sea
cold-bloodedly pumping
into Fleetwood's gaping fish-mouth.
Here birthmarks
are branded with icons
like beach lighthouse at Rossall Point
as Northwesterly winds
whistle across the dinosaur ribbed sands.
Yet towers still sentinel
over the dark valley
riveted in iron, rusted russet
like warships wrought from steel,
but aspire
like a winged-spirit
above backstreet's cobbled lanes
that echo with drunken frenzy.
The river's stenched breath
perfumes the breeze with sewage leaks
as passing tankers head north
and farm slurry seeps into pure veins.
Distantly,
Alveley's coalfields fade
whose ashen sides once licked
red ulcers with embered tongues.
Their slag banks were stacked
near St Michael's
whose hidden eddies still swollow
many a beautifully troubled mind.
Now the future skies
spread star-spangled
glowing with fractured light
sparks that guide strangers
embracing Morecambe bay's wide
open seas
A brutal murder in portentous chill
A helpless life, under butcher's will
An ominous spade digs soil in till.
Buried in dark secret, an aghast kill.
Corpse stenched, languished still.
The cops nab smite, in strokes of grill..
Shoveled out of dirt, brown bags fill.
The body unearthed, with shovel skill.
Scraping in shudders, foreboded ill.
A chasm of bare bones, lie dead still
Exhumed out promises, none to fulfill.
Playing labyrinth of hell, media score bill.
Dreams of trepid soul, to ash burn until.
Shovel and rake, witness of blood spill
Underneath the field..beside a distant hill
A lonesome weeps, grave in teared frill.
Winter in cold-blood, killed spring of daffodil.
3rd March 2019
SCRAPING OF SHOVELS CONTEST
Sponsor John Lawless
Shh! Here comes the Civilian general
My black-master to a black-master
On whom my boney back bent
On a twenty four hour daily chore.
Planting happiness on Masters vegetation mind
Reaping sorrows in my vegetable mind
Commands he always bark not shout
Where be this boy, this orphan, this ill-fed scoundrel?
Me and my orphaned enslaved soul, he referred to us
You wallow in the fat brewies of my bounties
Centuries of your worked pennies cant buy
And licked up crumbs off my silvered table
Yet will not rise to see my works glister
Though pennies and cents be wasted as wages?
Me think and my battered orphaned soul
Deep down my battered breast aloud
Else Master is of Femme-fatales offspring
When his tobacco temper cunningly flares
In a venomous rage of hurricane
Threatening my dual starving slumbering soul
Whom fear shadowed in my weak ribs
Master always come snorting, swearing
Under clenched, stenched breath
At one weary, boney, pitiable carcass
Peacefully snoring his sorrows away
Only Master wouldn't take that labor break
Else, my crumbs be forfeited by half
Rest comes to clothe my dual naked soul
Only under white scorching sun
The only shelter Master ceded to me.
Soup kitchens,
holed shoes, torned pocket
Shared bed,
stenched wall, damped floor
City siren,
whispering ally, neon glare
Brown bag,
trembling hand, goosed skin
Silked lined crombie,
blackened nails, matted hair
Stray dog,
molded bread, scavanged bin
Lost lust,
torn soul, wretched hope
Dedicated to "Boxcar Brian"
tiny words
'went to the gas station
and opened my mouth
filled my stomach
with gasoline
lit a match and
swallowed it in
burned myself
smoked with fire
i spread like charcoal
smeared in a kid's hand
stenched and charred black
i spread to the pristine clouds
deploring the blue vault
like a black shiitake flower
suffocating lungs
with a dire myth
then went to the ocean
and devoted myself
to no resistance
and drowned .......
'cut my lips with sharp
visceral shale and waited
for the sharks to gnaw
my weightless lips and
useless mouth ..........
while the rest of me
traveled in the bellies
of fish ..............
......................
.......................
.......................
fed by tiny words .
........................
When time has shifted
white gates lost
passion and
rust-ruined rivers
run before your door
false truths be thrown
to lie upon your floor
nasty, dead fish -
stink, as lies, no more.
Stenched karma from
which liars smell -
dipped in batter
deep fried in hell
forehead branded
recipes of blamed
lies, you deny-while your
tongue chokes as
it swells
bones swallowed of
which fish you forgot
you had long ago caught;
truth's vapors seeping out
your pores
rust-ruined rivers
rush in once more
as the sea greets the shore
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