bcdo

the bright lights of intelligent and gallant minds
come forth under hues of salvation –
yet under raised hands and tightly closed eyes,
shattered souls press bare toes
to the harbour’s edge

on feeling inspired

with the twilight comes a new fight,
a mellowed magic
ignited afresh with matches
stole from the eyes of the enlightened.
let me be like you, my dear –
let me tread in your wake,
collecting petals that float
from beneath your steeple.

manchester

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there is a perpetual silence
that ring will out
in the final ignition
of the fires of hell.
and oh,
my human heart longs
to make you
take assurance
that your homemade, homespun cowardice
and dining-table death machine
will not create the heat
that you desire;
that fire belongs to the night
and yours will now be infinite.
my hating, human heart
wants to hope
that the service given you
by the last of your life
would be worth the tears;
it aches to hope
that a godless expanse
would be all that would welcome
the last fragments of your soul.
but who am i,
who am i to condemn
when the mind of the devoted
runs so wild and afraid?
can my belief and my doctrine
so outweigh the sacrifice and solitude
of the sacred pages –
i am helpless to comfort,
helpless to confront.
screaming down an empty corridor
will no more heal the hurt
than a plaster on a broken mind;
throwing knives
at oblivion
will only burn your limbs.
all i have is leftover strength,
refrigerated scraps that nobody fancied.
i’m clinging to the cross.

 

[p.s. sorry i’ve been gone – exams got in the way. i’m back with a few thoughts about manchester…what i can muster.]

paper protest

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for once,
could the clamour
of the coughing criminals
not be placed beside
the coffins of the courteous?
or if needs must be,
let it be a reckoned reminder
of what they might have been?
is there a space in hell
reserved for those
who walked into wildernesses
where they were not welcome,
where they stole
and staggered
the offspring
of an organism that lived before –
could we weaken the walls,
crush the courtiers,
salvage their spoils
and celebrate civilisation,
where the prefix has purpose
and precedence,
where to be civil
is second-nature,
and not a matter
of nation or niceties?

candy bar crime

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and she thought,
one day soon,
this will all be a memory.

these streets will turn to ash,
the sky above turn black.
the ocean will rise to the sky,
and the mountains will fall to the earth,

the ground beneath us split and splinter,

helplessly

one day soon, all we know will be gone.

so my answer is yes – i will have that chocolate bar.