Mourning Wood

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Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

He scans the bereaved for available gashes,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Grief itself inflames his lust,

Black is such a slimming colour –

How’s your father? (And your mother?)

Tears lend such a delicate hue,

(Come now, this day’s about you)

‘She’s laid on the wake and made me a sandwich,

Surely that’s licence to make her my bitch?’

The pain on her face lends a peculiar grace,

Silent permission to give an embrace.

Was he very close to the deceased?

Not at all – just there to get her on her knees.

(Come, now – don’t play hard to get,

He knows a way that’ll make you forget)

Oh, it’s sad that you’ve lost your spouse

But honestly speaking, aren’t you a little aroused?

He’s there to fill the hole that’s been left,

To observe the ritual and her breasts –

They’ve laid her husband to rest in his plot, Now he’s straining to rest in that slot.

Death becomes her, it has to be said, He’s not resting ’til he gets her to bed,

He’s intoxicated by the scent of death in the air,

As he gently strokes her face and her hair,

(There, now – doesn’t that feel nice?)

He’s determined to please her once if not twice,

‘Don’t worry about what they may say,

Your husband has gone and is in his grave’

She leans in to him and it feels so good

As he leans into her

With his mourning wood.

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Words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission

Done

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No delicate brush

Met my palette of poetry

Fingers dug

And flung

Straight at the canvas

Creativity ravenous

To be done and hung

With a plaque reading ‘Raw’

Perhaps somewhere near the door

Where my family

And others too poor

To pay the entry

And mingle with the gentry

Could see.

Words and images (c) of the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015

Words Like Strings

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His fingers play words like strings

And when his scribing sings

It’s like a siren on the rocks,

And every comma shocks

Me to the core –

The perfection inspires awe,

The constructions are a pure

Testament to his genius

He is the nemesis of Aesclepius

The feelings inflicted can never heal,

And each syllable is so real –

Like black magic cast on a page –

A page, a sage, a gauge,

Letters to shape an age,

Subtlety that needs no cage

Already executing perfect restraint

In a divine refrain

That leaves echoes of sensations on your soul –

Fragments that plant themselves and grow,

Images that fall and tickle your existence like snow –

Belief is frozen

Suspended and broken,

Taken somewhere else

As you crave shelf after shelf –

The untapped mine

Of a golden mind –

Sublime, divine, eternal prime.

‘Does it make it ghastly to read?’ he asked:

How could I even word the unsurpassed

Class

Of what I had read?

The pinnacle of lyrical pleasure inside my head?

And he plays words like strings with his fingers,

And the echo of fascination lingers and lingers.

All words and images (c) of original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015.

Becoming

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In a quiet corner

Of my existence

You bring order

Without persistence –

You’re a hoarder of resistance

And

It’s not a story of holding hands

But of holding our breath

As you implore me

To become my best.

This is how you show you adore me –

I’m blessed.

All words and images (c) of the original artist 2015

Winter Sun

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Cold and broken

Free of emotion,

He would not love anyone –

He would not thaw in the winter sun,

There would be no commotion,

He’d won.

All that was left for her to do

Was to become frozen through too,

She would not love anyone,

She would not thaw in the winter sun –

This was the cost,

She’d lost.

All words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission.