Tuesday, 14 July 2020

Saturday, 30 May 2020

Let it burn

Let it burn, like the gaping wound,
as scarlet tears yearn to fuse a land
divided, deluded, ruined

through the unjust rule of a white hand, 
one kneel to the ground in protest 
in spite laid back as the flip of time's sand

never ceases. 1992, gone west,
disgrace upon disgrace, slavery gone
but never can hard won freedoms rest

when the fight is still young, 
justice excruciatingly far from done. 

Thursday, 28 May 2020

Ooze, schmooze, ruse

Can you see it?
the stochastic ooze?

Alas, not my bleeding head
as I lambaste the wall.

No.

It's their lies,
and the void into which they schmooze;
grey matter no sponge
for the willing.

The noise;
the bluster;
merely a ruse.





The Coronavirus Chronicles #8 - The Wail of a Weeping World (Ignorance in the Sun)


 





The tempest hisses back its spit-laden rage,
terracotta buckles in its wake,
scolds this land whose bluster
is met with forceful retribution.

Many panes have rattled
since the last gasps of Blitzkrieg ailed,
none the better judged,
the inhabitants
no longer know
the scratch of malnourishment,
the gall of a trench,
the tearing of flesh,
the grit of the fight.

Worse than forgotten;
reduced to vacant vectors
they fill the air,
curse the streets,
proclaim this is their freedom won,
ignorant in the bank holiday sun.

Too late this wail of a weeping world
when the damage is already done.

The Coronavirus Chronicles #7 - Was it fever or drunkenness?




Was it fever
or drunkenness?

In doubt,
in vain,
I barricade the door.

Cummings and conspiracies



Insidious, these aphids
appear green as the stem,
shaped like promising buds,
trail their sweet honeydew:

deceived, the ants lap it up,
ignorant of them sucking at sap,
draining phloem, spitting disease.

It takes hold. Rusted leaves
yellow and curl at the tip,
wither.

Spring meets her premature death.

---

Just noticed I spelled deceived incorrectly in the picture! What a daft language English is.

Friday, 22 May 2020

Where rainbows fly

Where rainbows fly
proudly
is where I want to be,

strewn across the sky
for all
not merely constitutionally.

I would manifest prisms,
sunbeams
scattered into jubilant stripes,

then every window pane
would know

what it was to hide in the light.




Monday, 27 April 2020

The Coronavirus Chronicles #6 - Contrition



Through calmly carrying on
into the ferocious storm we face,
heads once buried now suffocate
in feverish fits of contrition.




The Coronavirus Chronicles #5 - It's the stasis which sickens me



It's the stasis which sickens me;
each day, the invisible killer
feeds off blind belligerence.



Saturday, 11 April 2020

The Coronavirus Chronicles #4 - the Pazzo Biondo



They’re of this world still,
yet the pazzo biondo blabbers
of collateral damage,
loved ones mere slaves
to the bottom line all along.