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.

2 responses to “The Bridge

  1. Pingback: A Report | lovemachinegun

  2. Pingback: Eris/Dillinger/Rome/Eigen/ and other stuff concerning my Comic Script | Songs from the Black Iron Prison

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