hiss

a throbbing pulse pumps and pounds at walls of flesh and blood, 
a sack of scaled beasts emerge in bile that bubbles and bursts,
spilling forth from the sallow nest and steaming in the winter dusk,  
to slither and soil the sons of us, a surreptitious schism is thus.

viscous heads hiss and spit as fangs announce their presence,
snakes and serpents sneer and curse the sins of their existence. 

the sailing soulless sense the heels
of the credulous spirit,
as forked tongues snipe and slaver 
slicing across the surface,
to taste the warmth of copper 
and slug the sweetest sauce,
a kiss from venomous servants, 
slaves without remorse.

Recyclable

A great deal it is owed
For a lifetime spent following
A path trodden bare
By countless feet walked to the bone

By the nose it was lured 
Oh the scent of success
An alluring fragrance of decadence 
The seduction of a waning spirit

The perfume once filled with promise
Turns to an onerous odour

This confident conformity culminates
In a cruel castration of the soul

The stench of death pervades the air
As bloody feet near the perversion
Realisation dialates the senses
Here it has found the vaunted dream

A body of lies
Carrion
Feeding the starving god

A fraction of debt is paid to Mother
A corrupted vessel drained of life
Beetles, worms and soil collect 
The scraps it left in dust

A deal it made at birth
Forgotten in its youth
Avoided in its middle age
Too late to regret its loins' fruit

All it has borrowed with blood
Can not be repaid 

The stinking rich

The wealthy corpse rots

Heart

I put my heart in a blender.

I fantasized about watching it shred,
And imagined the sight,
A brilliant red.

I thought better of that idea
And threw it on the street,
Where my feet kicked it about 
Like discarded red meat.

There my heart collected dirt. 
So I rolled it up in my shirt.

I decided a black heart wouldn't do
So I took it to a river 
For a good wash and shampoo.

The heart soon found its rightful colour.
After a thorough scrubbing it shone in the sun of summer.

But a newly-soaked heart is a slippery thing, 
And I soon saw it jump from my grasp 
To float with the river's current;
To escape its oppressor at last.

Now dying without my pump 
I went in search of that goddamn lump.

I scoured every heartless hole,
Every filthy corner, beneath every sole;
Before finding the stubborn organ in a muddy little puddle, 
Wallowing beneath the water's surface,
Begging to renew its natural purpose.

Afraid to see my heart escape once more, I moved it to a chest;
Secured the lock, tossed the key, and left it there to rest.

In my chest it shall remain, I hope,
Pumping blood to my peculiar brain.

Stone Queen

She was implacable. Behind those sealed lips she imprisoned potential. An unknowable future straining against the leash fixed on the tip of her tongue - a ball of naivety rolling up a hill towards an unseen cliff never to be traversed. 

The war could not be won, but the thought of even the most insignificant victories along the eternal path of battle inspired him to chip away at the stone queen. 

As a determined drop digs a hole through rock he would fight without relent, without dreams of self-preservation, and break himself against the immovable façade. He would inevitably sacrifice all, despite knowing the gains were minuscule.  He would gaze upon his coming demise, smile at the angel of death, raise his hammer for another blow, and stubbornly persist...

A heroic effort without fame would be worth it all the same, if upon her pallid lips a hairline crack would appear, and the dust that settled where her eyes should be produced a single tear.

The Wall

Defending the chosen,
Leading the blind,
Along a narrow street.

Straight and true,
With walls that won't let you stray.
Straight and true,
With walls that keep the damned at bay.

Stubborn stone built to defend against the vanguard of darkness without.
An eternal battle of the mind within.
A constant barrage of doubt.

The cracks are swiftly mended.
Behind our bricks we are defended.

Safe, secure, and saved

Demons climb the wall.
Many slip and many fall.
Higher and higher they dare,
Yet the structure towers, and scrapes the air.

Serving its noble cause, 
Brick and mortar touch the sky.
The impregnable fortress stands, 
A guardian of the sacred.

But the travellers can not see the road, 
For the walls block out the light.
They walk in the shadows and slowly 
They begin to lose their sight.

The wall is embraced for guidance.
The wall will lead them home. 
Outside the wall, the sun shines bright.
In its shadow, the shining fear an endless night.

Safe, secure... enslaved

Beneath

Buried in a shallow grave
Right beneath your feet
Through ice and snow
In earth below
A home is found
Safe. Unsound.

Devoid of all thought 
This mind is set free,
To roam in a dark 
Cell of liberty

Tommy: Executioner

Click here for Tommy

Tommy's cheeks were still wet but the crying had subsided. Crying doesn't help anyone and it certainly doesn't solve anything. He was staring at his bedroom wall and tracing the edge of his desk with his right index finger. Up and down in a steady rhythm. The feel of the solid oak calmed him. Smooth. Predictable. Constant. This calmness continued to grow as his mind slowed down and found space to breathe in the emptiness. The serenity evolved and a determined focus grew in its womb. The concentration began. 

The noose loosened its grip around his throat, unraveled itself and slid down Tommy's arm to find rest in his hands. The focus strengthened with the measured strokes of the lacquered oak. Tommy's hands gripped the rope and tied it around his executioner's neck. It tightened as coherent thought returned. "A nice, neat circle. A nice, tight loop." Tommy knew the idea would come. It always did. He could not predict how or when or why, only that it would; the moment the man in black died.

Tommy continued to watch, continued to wait. "That's one helluva neck you got there." He stood amongst them, the mob, calling for the hatch to open and the big man to break. A show of brutality to entertain the jaded horde. A death to appease them, but just enough for today. They always wanted more. A quick death to distract them from their own slow demise.

The executioner seemed to stare back as blankly as Tommy eyed his wall. The black mask obscured his features and his eyes were sheltered in the dark, but Tommy could sense their gaze, could feel the bite of their beam. As the crowd's voice grew louder, the rope pulled tighter, squeezing the muscular neck now glistening with sweat. The dead man's veins bulged and throbbed in a futile effort to stave off the inevitable. 

Tommy heard the front door open and close. Frightened footsteps faded outside, as another pair headed for his room. His refuge. His time was short. There was no escape unless the man in black fell.

The mob was restless now, but a creak from the stage hushed them as the hatch began to give way. The executioner did not flinch. His hands were clasped in front of him and the dark holes in his mask bore straight through Tommy. "Fall you murderous bastard," Tommy muttered under his breath.

The footsteps stopped abruptly right outside the bedroom door, then paused. Tommy could feel the foul presence behind the worthless barrier. "Leave me alone!" It's not long now. 

"Any last words?" a voice from the sea of people inquired. There was a lull as the crowd anticipated the reply. Beneath the dark cloth a mouth stirred to utter a final curse.

First employed to bring you death
A cold hand to pull the lever
An icy gaze to stare into the eyes of the damned
With a merciless axe I cleave and sever

To bury the axe is justice to thee
Wash your hands of blood
But I am not the harbinger
Nor am I the first

Who calls for the executioner's head?
What will quench your thirst?

"Kill him! Kill him!" the unfazed masses responded. Who are you? Tommy heard his bedroom door's knob turn just as the man in black's platform gave way. There was an audible crack and a boisterous cheer. The executioner's muscles spasmed in his last moments, before his lifeless body swung gently in the air. In the instant of the dead man's passing Tommy felt a spark of inspiration. The feeling he knew would come. An idea to ignite the fire. A way to escape this horrible prison. In time, justice will be done. Patience was the key.

The crowd slowly filtered out of the town square, satisfied with the day's entertainment. Tommy walked against the flow of people and approached the platform. He walked up the stairs and stood in front of the newly dead. Fascinated, he examined the brute. A lean, powerful body floated hopelessly while the sun beat down from the heavens. Filled with a fresh supply of courage, Tommy reached to remove the macabre mask. 

His door was opening. But he did not react. First I have to see his face.

Tommy grabbed at the black cloth and pulled it away from the giant head. It was slumped forward and looking down, so Tommy crouched and gazed up at the face of the dead man. The mask slipped from his grasp and disappeared down the hatch.

The bedroom door was wide open now and Tommy slowly turned his head. The same. The same dead eyes he saw were now full of life again, gleaming in the dark. The executioner stood in the shadows of the hallway for a moment before taking a step into the light. Now there was no doubt left for hope. Tommy looked up at the hulking man's face, and saw the same eyes staring back. 

The eyes that defies the soul
The eyes behind a dark hole
The eyes of the tormentor
The eyes my father stole

Mortal

Wishful thinking dulls the pain
Of tender hearts grey with sorrow.
Love and friendship we can't regain,
Yet faith we have in tomorrow.

A stream of tears from the clouds above;
The departed share our mortal strain.
We shout at the heavens for one more love,
But only taste the salty rain.

Our sincerest efforts appear insane,
Yet love does not end with a sigh.
For those of us who still remain
Do not need a loud reply.

As long as memories and words survive,
The fallen will not be slain.
To keep our greatest friends alive
Means no one dies in vain.

Fire

Hope comfort me in my time of need.
A hearty fire that glows and grips.
Away my fears to the hearth I feed,
My icy doubt melts and slips.

Fiery coals steam the damp away.
Embrace the warmth that gives me grit;
A dauntless blaze asks man to stay;
Emboldens my timid spirit.

But Fire serves not thee,
And swiftly takes control,
A reckless spark roaming free
Could burn the very soul.

So temper hope and check desire,
Ere all is lost in the fire.

Wink

The wet soil stirs. 

The pink now writhes from the earth with determined twists and methodical contractions. First a pin's head, then a pencil's lead; the worm pushes on and breaks free from the muddy grip of its sodden cage. 

Grey light oozes through black clouds. 

The worm eeks an inaudible shriek as it raises its head in defiance to the ignoble sky. 
The clouds slowly swirl in reply. 

The pink perceives the gesture but hardly finds it threatening. It hugs the earth with its moist body to crawl on comfortable cold. Slithering, the visitor from below feels the soil roll off its skin while vibrations draw it in.

A strong and constant beat holds the segmented explorer's attention.

It slides towards the source. The string thing, now positively trembling, anticipates this new experience. 

The vibration's intensity builds and grows as purposeful steps bring leather and doom
in an indifferent boot. 

Harsh soles meet soft soil in a contest made for fools. 

A vague shadow in the soft light envelops our lowly friend. 

It's found the source (the one it seeks) but does not have a clue;
the sweetest pink,
the briefest wink,

Will end with a dirty shoe.

Drops

Words that once burst with colour

At the height of our sunlight blaze,

Turn grey in my mouth

As my head bends south;

The letters blur and haze.

Memories lose their edge.

Flashbacks come and go.

Photos curl and fade. 

Pages scatter and tear.

Time will find the cracks,

Seep through to chill the bone. 

A steady drip, 

A tear, 

An inky river, 

A stream to my fear.

Frantic I am to remember;

Futile my attempts remain.

A memory lost 

in an ocean's despair.

Today I may remember,

You will not be there.

Trash

Flyers strewn across the street

A night's ideas dispersed 

The morning breeze

The winter's freeze

The trashman coughs and croaks

A scattershot of paper waste

Nothing of value here

Stabbing trash to turn to ash

Just waiting to reappear

Collecting thoughts 

The trashman laughs 

Oh what wisdom to be found

While behind his back 

He senses that

A presence lurks on the ground

But when he braced to face a foe

A flyer was staring from below

The trashman, through broken teeth

showed relief and a bitter smile

Then deigned to kneel and tell the soul

Rest there a little while

Yet flyers are a fickle bunch

and this one more than most

Without the wind to lift the page 

The flyer broke from the gravel host

Whipping and weaving 

Cutting, deceiving

The flyer flew with force and grace

Frozen in time, this trashman of mine, 

felt the flyer cover his face

He gripped and ripped with all his might 

but the flyer clung to his nose

Losing his breath, seeing the light

His eyes began to close

The fight is at an end my friend 

This thought won't die alone

You gave life to me, your fecundity

Now both will turn into stone

Nethermost

Shadows crawl and shivers creep. 

Find your way into the deep. 

Seek the one the darkness hides. 

Ignite his lamp before he dies.

Offer the spark.

Cover your eyes.

The father of fear.

The lord of lies.

More grotesque could not be found;

Down the spiral,

Round and 

Round.

Now you taste the breath of plague.

In the dark he's been remade.

Will you climb?

Will you fall?

In the Nether,

Fear is all.

Tommy

Once upon a time there was a boy named Tommy. He lived in a house, wore clothes and ate food, not unlike his peers. However, he was a focused young lad with a special interest and an unyielding will to pursue it. The childish running and jumping and chasing and bouncing of the other youths, that inevitably led to falling and crying, did not appeal to this particular whippersnapper.  Oh no. This was a boy with a purpose. A boy who knew the meaning of discipline. A boy who had experienced the pride that followed diligence. This boy had talent. This boy threw sticks.

As sure as his father beat his mother, Tommy threw sticks in the park. Every day after school he would walk the same path home. This was not the shortest or even the most comfortable of routes, but it did wind through the only park in town. The park where Tommy perfected his art.

It was Monday morning and Tommy methodically worked his way through his bowl of bran flakes. The ones shaped like the object of his obsession. As he was taking his last few mouthfuls of fairy sticks (as he liked to call them), Tommy's favourite TV program came on. The Weather. The Weather made the call. It just wasn't the same in the rain and wind would ruin it all. Tommy needed the skies to be clear and the sun to shine bright for his friends to take flight. The weatherman came on screen and Tommy moved to the edge of his seat. That four-letter word would make it all work out. The suit-and-tie prophet shifted his hand to Tommy's town and did not let the lad down. He described the day as fine. A fine day. A fine day for making arcs in the sky. A fine day for making sticks fly.

The boy's excitement grew throughout the day and when the school's final bell rang Tommy was away. You would expect a youngster as excited as he to run and jump along his path to greet the park as soon as can be. But Tommy walked in silence with a determined step and an arm tingling to loose that first stick. Along the way Tommy observed his usual routine. He would scout beside the path for any promising contenders, for only one stick would be chosen, only one stick worthy of the ritual rhymes.

Countless candidates were cast aside. Some were bent and some were bruised. A few were too short or too long. Others were too weak or too strong. He found a number that seemed to be just great, but turned out to be a branch or a twig, a stem or a stake. But Tommy was unfazed by the paltry talent, for fine days always delivered what the weatherman promised.

Tommy was almost at the end of his walk and could see the park clearing through the last of the forest's trees. He went down on his knees to continue the hunt for the elusive wooden projectile when he spotted a beckoning tip poking out from under the dead leaves. Tommy grasped the protruding end of the contender. This is it. He gently pulled the stick from its leafy bedroll, sat up on his haunches and caressed it in both hands, admiring the even distribution of weight and smooth, almost shiny exterior. Tommy stood up and held out his hands palm-up in front of him, allowing the stick to rest evenly on both as he started a slow march past the trees and onto the park's greens.

As he walked out into the warm embrace of the sun, Tommy recited his liberation rhyme. 

The Chosen is freed

The worms will not feed

Take heart, I have spoken

Your bonds are now broken

Tommy stood on the park's soft grass and surveyed the surroundings. He only saw a few souls strolling around aimlessly. This pleased the boy. The others would only distract him from his task. Tommy took his throwing position, leading with his left foot and gripping the end of the stick with his right hand. He closed his eyes and seared his focus onto a single point in his mind, cutting a hole through the center of those nasty black sheets of doubt.

With his mind clear and ready for the throw, Tommy recited his maiden flight rhyme.

Shame the bird's feathers

Mock the bat's wings

You are the king of the sky 

You are the stick who will fly

Look up to the sun

Sprout wings of light

Burn an arc in the heavens

Take your first flight

As the last word was loosed from his lips, his arm sent the stick on a familiar trajectory perfected by hours of training. Tommy observed the glorious flight as the stick toppled end over end with the sun glistening off the surface in a string of bright winks, and contentment tickled the corners of his mouth. 

In the last few moments of the stick's descent Tommy saw movement in his left periphery. A dark shape was speeding towards the chosen one's estimated drop zone. Tommy tried to enjoy the fleeting seconds of flight right up to the end, but the blur broke his meditative state as it leaped at the stick. Tommy heard a snap, shook his head and tried to make out what had happened. He saw the shape turn and surge back from whence it came. Tommy followed its movement, spotted a bald man wearing glasses and a beige pullover and realised what had occurred. The young boy turned towards the man and started that purposeful walk in his direction. 

When Tommy came within 10 feet of the man, he stopped and stood staring at the sun's gleam on the stranger's forehead. The youngster then glanced down at the dog with the chosen one between its jagged teeth, slobbering all over it while the man stood there smiling at his beast. Tommy waited patiently until the man turned to him, then pounced and said: 

"Leash your fucking dog, asshole!"

Click here for Tommy: Executioner