Last One out

Cancel that, the myths over run

the deities shake off their auras
sigh and slink sadly away.
This then, is it, the end of days
No explosion of light, No last judgement
No singing choirs, No brimstone, No fire,
just turn off the lights, last one out
Shut the door. We came to a garden
And in our childish greed all we saw
Was wasted space and weeds, all we left
was crumbling concrete, cancer, rusting steel
toxic waste, spent oil, sludge and despair.
It’s not a religious thing, its not a matter of faith
look what we had, see what we’ve done
It’s over finnito, fin, leave ‘em to it. Shut the door.

last tango in the lot of abandond truth. part 3

The prince on the hill at mornings wars contest
sketched the change of the age with elder eyes;
the death of the garden, the fallen fortress.
In battle mid-res great warriors die
Apollo hails Ares “ You’ve just killed Love”,
“I slit her wrists. To watch crimson to sepia dry”
at the feet I might kiss, to change just enough to
alter to the past. Adrianus sang Alexander -
one line remains. World makers and word shapers
wish scream for time. As the sun seeks to rise
the daughters of Zeus flee from a modern chorus
till night and posey reside. I sit and rest my eyes,
left alone till dark from the suns first light rays
so many minutes, hours and days.

last tango in the lot of abandoned truth. Part 2

In the ruins, let ghost rhetorically glide

and daub word warnings with child’s artistry,

vivid faces look back to present and guild

the thoughts, the feelings of their ancestry.

In the scent of the shadow of the south eastern wall,

Boy form traces tomorrows words that tyrants scream,

chuckling at the unifying sorrow of great meanings fall.

The death of arts dawn faces the silent unseen

as the suns sky crests the wave of the midnight stars,

the morning-tide tugs on the throws of the night.

Raping some meaning from the dead lips of babes.

Else who from the void of east’s shade, cry for sight?

Un-reckoned, un-heard, half remembered un-rest

the prince on hill at mornings wars contest.

last tango in the lot of abandoned truth. Crown: 1

On these Shores the bones of thought rest,

grinding meanings under canons heal to sand.

Catches in the breeze, fragments the Greeks forgot

or burnt with heretics for insights to grand.

I wander these shores to find somewhere to pray

a space apart, inspired but un-shadowed by fate

a way to the words that dry on my lips like salt spray

and dance away, white chalk foam, across sea grey slate.

It’s only here that the bones become revived.

In my howl to the ocean, the night and the wind.

New flesh wraps old remains, remembering lives lived,

to stalk from the sand to search out dead kin.

Away from the water its whispered poesy has died

In the ruins, let ghosts rhetorically glide.

Why does it snow father?




Far from the warmth of the sun, in a frigid realm of the solar system
a billion kilometres beyond earth, lies a ball of ice called Enceladus.
A snowball’s Antarctica is pumping plumes of water reaching hundreds
of kilometres into space. Ice particles fall like fine snow, Cold
Faithful, painting Enceladus pure white. Long cracks, geologians
Tiger stripes, potential oceans, meters bellow, hidden life.
Where is the engine hidden? “there are no goblins or demons”
says McKinnon, but what does he know? No one knows why
for millions of years on Enceladus it has snowed.

Lascaux

Great Hall of the Bulls,

rehear our land speak

eminent spirits of night sky cave.

Awake, waken, awaken now

to cast through the Chambers Engraved.

Hear, horn lord of a hundred warriors arms

and pause and flavour the Painted Gallery

live, steaming under natural star maps

last great pride of the old ways.

O’ god flesh tribe tribute I humbly summoned

For the wakening of old ones heart strings

Banish the dark and walk among

Us, O’ rise now under world sleepers,

Leave that dry rest to set scales aright .

Last pride of the old ways

Sleep no more, hear my cry.

Old as Bone

On a corner rests an old warrior
calloused paws hang to the ground
cropped hair not hiding many scars
In the night he sits as old as bone.

In convenient store light guarding time
he had a name, time old, another.
land unknown, time stole that
and bone and flesh and youth.

let's call him Adam or Abraham or.
couched in steel and crucifixion
his cape, the night knows him,
in these silent streets another echo.

A strength time and rip torn flesh
could not dampen or temper with
shrapnel. Speaking as the grave
with a voice that once knew joy. 

But forgot in the statistics of 
a ravaged land. in beacon breaks
and broken bones scream laughs
that echo in the night, his badge
his body and his cape,
whisper of another land.