The Bridge

Was i ever that stupid, lost and fucked, battered.

These things, this machination and masturbation.

This thing? This comedy? Painkiller timetables?

The anger, bitter sweet whore, unless…

A bitten apple spat upon the cobbles, a chosen sweet regained.

Brought the fifty pieces, a sudden drop, the crack of flesh.

This thing?

Sick pill look, broken head, axed, and a bridge….

It was easy to see the ease of it, the last flight.

The hidden joy, mask away, gone.

Transport of sickness from one to the abyss.

Vomit verses, platitudes of violence, a simple slip…

The coldness itself was bone deep, the metal cold.

The traffic relentless, we plot for a gap.

Fifty feet of thinking space, fifty feet of blinking arm waving joy.

A coda, a joke ending, a merry-go-round.

Steel to hand, clamber upon it and balance.

What really have they to say? Eulogy of shit, cumbersome flow…

But the enemy remains, the anger and pain, that burn, that fear.

To jump and release, a sweated hand to grip tight sheets,

a broken heart to mend or rot, a face to keep smiled and opened.

Heart bereft of  hope and of love, lasted well foul hand beast.

Scribbled hopes, diary paper, a note to the sick of mind ‘leave him be’.

Stuck upon the bridge, mock abyss, charlatan of trickery, a smashed corpse.

This thing next to me, this mocker of life, this sickener of men.

‘Trust and behold the nine fields’ he says in gentle tone,

Beware the circled veil and the seven children of Amon…

In Bilston filth, channel and change the epilogue, the stories end..

‘An end to this, a beginning’ he says. The abyss is cut through vein and splashed blood.

A battered corpse, a crumpled thing, this flesh, this stink.

To fly again, to enter abyss, to see the end again and grasp.

Shoes gentle slip, a hand held out for rescue, balance regained.

No fast heartbeat or adrenaline joy, grasp hard the rail, enjoy the rush of traffic.

Then loose your hand, let slip the feet, enjoy a quiet moment of reflection, deeds done.

Before the end we will remember, and weep.

But for an angel, the best ones are always flawed.

A diamond with twisted crystal scatters the light, it does this.

Spreaded wings encompass me, a chance perhaps, a hand held..

Forehead mopped with bitten heart twisted by fire. Angel.

That soft hand, that craven grasp, those breasts of heaven of joy and of light.

You held it tight, it was safe this scoured soul, for a short while.

The fog had gone and the far shore revealed, a gentle choke hold, the angel revealed.

A quick held kiss of simple abandon, a hidden heart, a joy to hold.

This is your legacy, a simple man held tight, saved, good of heart.

Let the musicians play, as golden hair unwrought, tumbles amid the cold and ice.

Valkyrie maiden naught but legend held here alive from history, alive, held tight.

This Superstar, this vision wracked in sweated night, this angel.

The vision is swallowed and the doors shut, locked, barred, cemented and demented.

A chance hidden hand upon the tiller, strong a savior taken away…

This thing? This awful sickness. The bridge awaits still, cold, black.

Left Field Trilogy

Image

 

Every journey has a destination. To deny that, is to deny what actually achieving something is. And to be honest any attempt to pass on this information that doesn’t involve face to face conversations and relationships with people that last over years is fraught.

Yeah, the “something” is called Foreign and Domestic Intelligence Agencies and their purpose is to hide themselves behind veils and lies while they rape you of your money and send it on up to the top.I am against irresponsibility, and against dragging innocent people into dangerous situations. 
“The ‘frozen zone’ is an arbitrary, official police business-sounding title that has absolutely zero legal merit. It’s something the NYPD made up, just as the ‘First Amendment zone’ is something [Los Angeles Mayor Antonio] Villaraigosa made up to suppress media coverage of the Occupy raids.” police had been waging a campaign of harassment against the young man (including taunting him about a friend who had died in a car accident.

l the victims of the shitstem, above the law machine of slaves castrating and berating their brethren. om 2004 to 2006 and later as the ranking member of the committee. “They were gutted in the 1990s. They were sending raw recruits in….

 

 

A Forest in Belgium

The bullets were hitting the edge of the trench, powerful rounds, solid, hard, fast, faster than anything each carrying enough energy to smash my body to pieces. They were close too close for comfort. A few yards away somebody in a trench was laughing. Voices, to the field of fire ahead and from the edge of a small wood. That meant they were all around. I was surrounded. They were walking up to each trench and firing at the person left in it. One man Trench. A few bullets per trench. They screamed for mercy and were finished off. Closer. They kicked me in the back of my helmet and my face hit the opposite wall of the trench, the pebbled clay and the soft splash of blood. My blood. Bastards had shot me, it felt like a kick. I cant see out of one eye. My hands will not move. Shot again, somewhere in the back the bullet hits my pelvis and rips through my insides exiting underneath my sternum. Shit. My hands will not grasp or move at all. They drag me from the trench, i cannot see them for the sick redness of the day but one of them prods me with a boot, i think my insides have fallen out and are stuck around my legs. The sun is red.

 

Verse Crucifixion

From the path at the bottom of the steep hill a procession of people, at their front Carpenters from the barracks. A stoning they told Petalengro a few hours before and here was Eliphas and Irontius (a drunkard) carrying their tools, behind them carrying rough hewn Yew wood that leaked their blood coloured sap, fresh cut. A crucifixion. ‘Bastards’ Petalengro thought, they took hours to die on a crucifix. Blabbering hunks of flesh that would moan, entreat, offer bribes as their lives wore away. For hours! Food this poor soldier of Rome needed, and some rest. Now he gathered he would play nursemaid to three criminals. Did they not dispatch criminals with a sword to the neck and minutes later enjoy food and laughter with comrades. The wind on this Golgotha is cold. Petalengro was not happy.

 

“Petalengro my friend, you have drawn a shorter straw today” Eliphas joked. His comrade Irontius grumbled and set about construction of the cross. One length of Yew that stood the height of three men was placed in a small pit and upon it another shorter length perhaps the height of one man fastened with an iron spike. The infernal torture machine would form a T shape and the condemned were lashed upon it and left to die.

 

Behind them a rabble of Hebrews, some criminal elements, a general cacophony of wailing and hair pulling that seemed to follow these people around like a cloud of flies. More wood was carried to the top of this Golgotha.

 

“How many of these to die today Eliphas?” Petalengro asked. Eliphas paused and replied “Three criminals, robbers I suspect, crucifixion as you can see” Eliphas grunted as he hammered a cross piece onto an upright with sure swings of an iron hammer. Three men were thrown down under guard into the dust and Petalengro walked to them. There was a commissioned officer present, a rare thing, normally they sit and whore, drink wine and gamble. Brutus of Gaul he was named, he was marshalling a rough line to separate the crowd from the condemned. One of the robbers, a man lay motionless in the filth, upon his back a scored mess of flesh. He had been scourged, the other two were untouched.

 

“How so has this man has suffered scourging?” Petalengro shouted above the wind which was blasting now from the North, cold heartless throwing the dust into pillars of filth. “No worry of mine Petalengro, I cut wood, build tables” Eliphas said. The man scourged lifted himself to his knees in fatigue, it dripped from him, here was a weight that could not be lifted. Petalengro had seen this many times in my comrades tired of Empire and war. His hands were roughened obviously a man of trade now stripped. The fools at the garrison had fashioned him a crown of sorts from Hawthorn. The barbs dug deep within his scalp amongst the crusted blood. Upon his shoulders roughly tied about his neck an old crimson cloak patched and worn. He was naked underneath. Petalengro was disgusted.

 

“Is it policy of Rome to mock the condemned now?” He grabbed Brutus who was using the flat of his sword to beat back some of the crowd who were either trying to reach the scourged man to beat him or console him, either way the sword they got across the head or shoulders.

 

“This is not my doing Petalengro…” Brutus smashed a woman to the ground, she fell upon the feet of Petalengro feet imploring. “ …i do as ordered, this man has a witchery and sorcery about him and my men are want to cast their swords down and flee, I must let this be done” Brutus said. The woman was mouthing platitudes to him in her language which Petalengro did not understand.

Petalengro turned back to the condemned. The ‘Sorcerer’ had been lashed to the beam of the Yew with rough hemp rope. The crowd howled with the wind. The sun had begun to set behind the black clouds that rolled from the North. A torrid night this would be, and this Petalengro was too much of an old soldier to complain. He had walked the world for 30 years with the empire of Rome. Fought so many battles, killed many men, spent a near lifetime on watch. There was argument, a Hebrew priest spat upon the prone figure of the sorcerer upon the crucifix.

This day again?

 

The Happiness of Michael Petalengro

“Your God did this to you….your number was never 333 as your Priests said, it was 45 as always” I told him, “I am not part of this drama, this funny interlude…”. The same words I had spoken for some four thousand years since I despatched the Christ into the cold bosom of his Father. I become a parody of myself, the eternal juggler, the clown, the puppet and the Prince.

 

“You are the last man thing, no more time for riddles man, you are to be dead, the last one on Earth, and you are to be dead” A spasm…Arthnat again, this shitty place of whores and fly blown turds, why here again? What great Finale has this Omnipotent God thing propose at Arthnat….fucking armpit more like

 

(The Prince? Long dead….why is their reality so warped? Number 444)

 

The electricity of atmospheric madness made glowing plasma flicker from the edges of my spearhead. A beautiful electric blue. The man at my feet was drowning in his blood, it spilled from his mouth a little, what foetid air still remained in his lungs were forming bubbles of blood that popped and foamed. Arthnat…..maybe, perhaps it’s just a final laugh at Longinus, me. A subtle tease after the pranks of the last few thousand years that cosmic bastard had me jumping around the filth of this earth.

 

“When you see your God,” I asked him, “..when you see him tell him that I await nothing, tell him I await NOTHING!”. I raged a little, those years upon my back weighed heavy, I could stumble with the bulk of them.

 

“He is not funny your God any more….seriously, from my perspective his humour is puerile and shit” I lectured.

Am I still a man? Can I still rage and wonder at Justice, at my sentence, at God? It didn’t matter any more. The man was dead. The last of mankind. Their God had destroyed its plaything, it’s pantomime.

 

(Nothing? Why nothing? I saw a bird flying there…in the sky, survived, this man not the last)

 

I leaned upon my spear and wrapped my cloak around me tightly and waited. As I shivered slightly in the coldest of winds I thought back along those hard years. I knew a man once. Long gone into the mysterious and the arcane. There was a way out and he showed me this in some vestige of perhaps sympathy towards my plight. This man John Dillinger, a bank robber, I thought of him now as I have every day…..

 

(Dillinger? I remember him…Black parliament and Hopkins)

 

Hopkins, Matthew Hopkins, Wytch fynder. Brought back from the abyss for what purpose?

 

A gravelled voice behind me, I shiver “Petalengro the Last”, The Satan.

 

He was dressed in his armour, the touch of a dandy perhaps in the overly dramatic sword he clasped casually point down idly spinning the sword so that the sky flashed into my eyes. In battle with his angelic countenance slashed with the skill of a mortal…..i would destroy him in battle of course. But he was always so interesting, and this is what made The Satan dangerous, he was borne of men and humankind were a little crazy at times….perhaps.

 

“Lord Maggot. Filth Hound. Hollow man…i saw your Aerobic show on some New York local cable channel….i could not move for laughter” I insulted him, I noticed he was spinning his sword in the eye socket of the last man.

 

“Eodim. Brightstar. Ugyadum…” He whispered. “… the cable show was just a personal thing, nothing to do with Gods or tramping, vamping humankind, just for me, it was fucking fantastic, I love aerobics”. The Abyss awaits.

 

Here Petalengro stood, and has stood for 14 hours as a sentry, this hill is called Golgotha the natives and his fellow soldiers call it the Skull hill. Hollows had been delved upon it, workings and filth where people buried the dead without ceremony or left the poor to expire upon it. There were bones underfoot. There has been trouble all day amongst these people. Stones thrown, whispered curses as they patrolled the narrow streets at some point a pot containing excrement thrown from a doorway onto their feet. Alas they were not allowed to remonstrate with club and sword, mores the pity. This City was filth, there is an unwholesomeness within it. Some secret.

 

House of Maggots (Crawling space in the roof of the Black Iron Prison)

Laughter coughed up like blood spilled in the air,
another hacking humerous tirade.
Brilliant spiking giggle stabs the ribs and penetrates
the heart, he speaks…..
Of Bombs and guns and knives and swords and every word
loaded with maggot and fly.
With kind words and solace a comforting hand upon the shoulder,
a brushed away tear of acid fear.
Of peace and fulfillment of joy and rage of love and honour,
he lilts and tilts clownish humour.
Violence soothed with soft hands and mellow voice of sickly
vomit tainted breath of apology…he soothes too hard and breaks
the spine with pats of sympathy.
Hot spread of semen seeks a place unknown of love and joy broken
upon a stoney desert and sand itching upon soft tissues.
The Joy once deserved is broken never healed splashed upon the
cracked pavement, insect ridden, a palace of worms, a barbed wire
halo of pain.
A trickle of whispers becomes a beating of rumour begats a phalanx
of fear…a river running sheets held tight in the rictus of release.
Beyond all a web of string from cotton frail to thickened wire expanse
and light blocking onscures the sun and tugs the nerve and the sinew.
Jerk and bluster and giggle at the pull and twitch.
A place lies hidden built upon foundations bereft of splashed joy, of
long nights when whispers strong float upon the stairs.
Hide and seek of glimpses, dreams and knowledge ignored, the Lamb butchered
and made real again…
upon a mountain side he waits and sits upon a rock he watches the ebb and flow
of the river.
The wind blows and he laughs at the simple twitching of the stalk and seed and fallen petal ruffled.
There is a place beside him,shown by calloused hand strong with labour of scrabbling upon the rocks scarred by the sun as hands beseeched the sky.
Knowledge and peace the sword abandoned cast down and broken never cutting the swathe
of wire.
Sit and gaze upon the land below and a hand upon the shoulder presses once, everything is shown true the giggler unmasked shrugs and wanders away.
We watch the sunrise, i am home

Desolate the BEE EYE PEE

White feathered wings blood spotted hang desolate as eyes of brass review the plain.
Bring him heads and arms and legs and viscera, hang them upon him.
Let no insect settle and know peace here, let no flower grow, only subtle whimpers here.
Bring baskets of rotted flesh in offering and cower at his feet, bring laments as gifts, petty sorrows as payment.
Pull out the dead and turn their heads to him upon the hill above the fields.
Let him see them look upon him so he may know exhaltation and worship.
Do not let the death rattle of spent shells littered upon the field distract him from his vile feeds.
Pull out Augustine from the heaving crowd so he may bear witness,whipped with cords of sharp barbed steel and the shadows of his laughter grow long.
Let his Knights bring pestilence drove in beats of music harsh to ear matched to the cacophony of rifle, revolver and automatic.
They smile with teeth of gold tipped with diamond to rent and tear the willing flesh a machine gun tap dance.
“There is no other” They cry as dancers hit the murder floor and tip toe through the fetid blood. “Golun, Shamshead, Treuk and Balshem”
He smiles and rips the air with fear driven hordes before him implore hands above their heads, silent and then screams of desolation…”We offer all” the mass cry.
“But i offer everything….” he replies in ten thousand tongues and ten thousand sighs and ten thousand signs.
Heavy with flesh and prophecy instilled deep within and twisted by the earth his hands reach out to touch the sky and awful hail falls upon the ground.
Hordes build for him a throne of welded metal and battered flesh of dust and skin and hair of powered men and governments and laws. He sat and watched.
And lands below consumed with fire and peopled by the vain stopped by preening mirrors and choked masturbation.
“Let us enter here” they lament to him throned and proud and he picks a horned nail in feigned interest.
“Have you not built this house…” a reply as a thousand cutting slabs of glass fall upon the worshipful pinned horror.
“Did you not prepare the mortar…” one million stinging flies trapped in idiot drool.
“Did you not put a hand upon the mantle…” One thousand Popes dancing and singing.
“Have you not intoxicated yourselves here…” and they sawed at their ears with shards of razor glass.
He spread his wings of deep sea black where stars whirled and danced upon the velvet night and between the feathered filth she came…
Daughter of Loab and Enthemom a thousand tongues to pleasure bare breasted heat and men and women wept again to gaze upon her flesh and all murdered to gain her favour.
A hand delicate a touch so sweet in glistened latex tight and neat all laced with soft velvet bottomless heart.
She swept and filled those near with pleasure so great they fell tumbling into abyss and shaft and pit.
A touch of whip and strap so sweet they treasured every welt and scratch an exhibition, a trophy, marked.
Tender kiss so light and teeth so perfect nipped the skin and nipple twisted ache of joy and pleasure passed.
Of cordage lashed still upon the shaft ignored and left for flies and reptiles kiss hair brushed and satin smooth she laughs and all weep.
“Did you not cry for her in long nights warm in bed with busied hand?” he asked and tenderly wiped her bloodied breasts.
“For this we suffer gladly” some cried.
“For now my friends, for now” he laughed and took the sun within his hand and threw it upon the fires aired by gasp of tortures.
Darkness lit by fired pit gloomed smoke and terror ripped hair in fingers sagging flesh and germ he spoke….

For each a doorless cell lit with cracked tube
For each a thousand wires delved within the flesh
For each a whore of maggot flesh
For each a spider full of venom
For each a basket of once loved dead
and for each a sum of ten thousand things to tantalise and suffer for ten thousand years and for each day ten thousand fears and for each fear ten thousand pains and for each pain ten thousand laments and for each cry a fine of ten thousand days and listen to me….my hate for you is not one ten thousandth of the pain you will suffer……

And his wings spread wider and all was under his dominion,
rain of fly wing and scale of hurtful dust of beaten wing,
borne upon the ether.
Cracked nail and twisted tail beast of man, cut skinless vessels
upon wracked dissolved frame….

“I am the way, The Great Web, The Whisperer, The Counter
The Bringer of gifts, Bearer of Bad News, The Poisoner, The Latest thing,
The Shell maker, The Gun Bringer, The Butcher, The Scientist.

I am the Desolation.

The truth about Yody Petalengro

Yodi, your scent enrages me with violence.
Perfect skin glow and eyes so deep and lost.
Let me touch your brow a slight fingertip.
A beast i am hidden in undergrowth,
startled as you dance in sunlight ripples.
Goddess untouched my forehead grazed the brittle floor.
A Benediction to perfection my hands a thousand cuts.
I build a shrine within the twilight vegetation,
of sticks and stones and broken bones.
An altar of fantasy, of fouled deeds and fine.
Veins woven into tapestry a scissor nick like kiss.
Bewitched scent blown by danced wind my wrecked hand
shoved into ill fitted glove.
You dance into moted air jeweled toes scatter leaf mould
the glade alive with your laughter.
My hands grip the soil within the darkness as air disturbed
tendrils of heaven through bough and knot.
Hidden i am and yet yearn to burst through bush and hedge,
I am here, it is me, the world i offer to you!
A sullied hand outstretched touches a pearled nail as you dance,
and laugh and are gone.
The sun speckled earth is torn by rage and sorrow so imperfect.
The childish rage of beast denied this thing of beauty.
The small beasts laugh and titter disguised hilarity whispered
jokes in bole and hole.
“He who is imperfect, wrecked of arm, crooked jester, float foul smelled”
they giggle.
“Dragons i would fight for her” i whisper head bowed.
“Your own serpent wracked in dark holes” A squirrel mocks.
“A sword i would wield, brave and true” finger traced in dirt deeds heroic.
Laughter “a twig to beat the pigs home” they cry.
“Shakespear i would quote, love an awful labour….” Hand aloft i cry.
“With cracked tongue, grunting beast, awful platitudes, servile animal” They shout.
An acorn thrown, a stick to beat upon the spine, of tugged hair, of spiteful kick,
of mockery…. a voice.

A knight you would be to her locked in chalice, bound gagged and tarred silence, better a wrecked arm to bear a shield to defend her.
Better a beast to wield a sword in violence and face the bitter horde.
A face that will not turn from the ugliness of battle.
Three times the call of horns upon the field and three times the cutting edge sweeps
the fouled air.
A chance seldom offered to bright armoured brilliance, of stainless flag, of bright coloured standard.
Servitude offered or ignorance chosen.

My life offered for a smile, in a touch a thousand joys, a Goddess served, a Princess
of beauty unsurpassed.
No one will offer you violence.
I serve sharp bladed nightmare and you will wash in their blood.

The Sea Eye

Three sons alight vibrant energy still
A hand afire hangs upon the sky directs
Be quiet listen awhile the sea laps the soaked plank
and birds flock upon the oars.

Converse and battered opinion lie shattered here
as thought flicks uncomplicated knowledge as deeps sigh
Twisted effigy floats licked by salt mantra confined
to muddled head and furrowed thought.

“Be still” Barry confides “and listen”
“My Fathers house sits within fields of corn” Joe remembers.
Mo hands plead “My hands, my children soaked with blood”
A finger points and wanders never steadied.

Never lost, always found, always kept, untouched.
Withered never, word pronounced and held tight to chest
A truth half heard met with shouted denial closed ears.
Always blessed, lie at peace the battered boat.

Essex Boy

Cold bleeds the sap and crushes the bark.
Every step moves leaded foot and stumble.
Bound hand unfeeling trodden and pulled beaten and kicked.
Hair grabbed a stolen view of a sodden grave of winter sun warmed frost.
Militia hop in vigour and subtle joy fingered trigger guards.
Knees scarred and let loose vile rivers of gravel blooded serum.
A victim placed to the rear of him, a quiet gasp of revelation.
The old man whisps of greyed hair blown by frosted air.
The Captain looks upon the burning sky and sees his will be done.
Two men and a woman bound upon the edge of unexplored shore.
A desperate touch between them stolen from the barrel twisted and oiled.
Justice or vengeance they could not tell in court rooms of jeering juries.
Mind addled unfeeling the litany of charge and counter charge.
A finger raised in protest and broken upon the bench.
‘My life stolen’ a witness screams.
A plea to court, Judged by the wronged.
The Screams of brothers imprinted upon cold damp plaster.
Scratched surface testimony of pain celled and locked.
No saviour for them riched and finest rags soaked in oil and fired.
Their burning bodies flung into the river.
Scorched eyes reveal their seat of power now fired itself.
Fawkes himself would weep at the crumbled brick.
A click of weaponry a sudden awakenening, a quickening, gasp cold breath.
The cold soil weeps into his body a corpse already dampened.
The Captain eased lights a cigarette and blows upon the breeze.
Bound and chastised a final indignation a breaking of a law.
Roped man rattles and his companions weep at him in fear.
They grasp they think a final rescue a mercy forgiven.
The Captain stops a second of time and speaks confession.
‘A thousand corpses froze by cold and uncounted unburied dead,
unpeopled cities, unworked factory floor, cast away unwanted life,
unwanted uncultured history, an eye for every crime of government lair,
unpunished you were, unthinking animals, an excuse unread paper and thesis,
an undoing, untied unrestrained besuited demon, vile seed upon a fair land.
You were judged by those untouched by your policy they sit upon cushioned seat
as is their want and needs. I care not for them’
Three souls upon the edge of hasty grave.
Bittered and chastised no mourning for them.
Your offspring lie upon rusted hooks.
Your colleagues upon damp concrete.
Yourselves upon Essex mud.
Militia rip his shirt from him mask reveals his fate his wife bound weeps.
‘No’ the awful vision as the bullet rips her face and jerks upon the soil.
Blooded river steams upon the morning.
‘An Essex lad, a fitting thing’The Captain ponders.
‘My Mother jailed and murdered within her courts of law’he says and steps back from the vision.
‘Spurter of filth’ another cries and shoulders weapon.
He rests six rounds in her inert chassis.
Bounded man twisted agonies mouth raised and bidden to cry and God takes his last
confessional whisper.
I shot the round that killed the man that governed the law that held my family guilty that wrote the note that broke the spoke and turned deaf ear as he counted the money and fingered the power that knocks at night in awful fright as booted besuited animals of policy and fear……
He twists in pain with half a brain cold twisted muscle unaimed round we leave him in the Essex mud….i spit upon him.