Hymn For John Dillinger

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he sat and listened to them talk, and he was full of doubt, again. shuttered up sitting down. overhead and back again they flew, these dragons fighting, for what he didn’t know. but they fought all that night, and their fiery breath burned the top of the mountain. it looked as a crown of fire, but nobody took much joy in it except him and he darted from place to place following the destruction the dragons fight had wrought upon the land, he hided he did, still at night and stiller by day, by the sick moons light and the suns last ray.

for the city in front of him he would leap in happiness and fly a little in joy to see it burn away, lost again in the smoke. it stunk of piss and he knew when she walked past them their hands would reach out and squeeze her tits and her ass and her cunt. she would like it, or she did, or would. but barbed wire always cuts in the most tender places and we hang like plastic bags in trees while they laugh.

to pull out all the stops and then what? sodden written lies in lines and able stops? they fought and the skies were red and he found he stopped caring and sat upon the rock at the top of the fiery mountain. he stopped and looked at the anger and the strain, the thousand yard stare and the hateful refrain, and he laughed and he cried and he shuffled his feet again, lost in the netherland and fucked off again. for we learn the best ways are to quiet and settle your hated glance, put it the fuck down right on the ground, walk off and let it go, walk away and forget the whole fucking show.

what is the burden of this? he asked. to sit upon the walls and survey the wooded valleys below, with the birds that fly and the animals within it, fresh, alive and green, so green, all greens alive. he looked to the south and the sun that would alight upon him and laughed. on the hills and mountain tops six golden beautiful angels given in love and understanding, in pure love and the depth of knowledge. what burden is this. and upon the top of the greatest among the mountains a golden tree grew and blessed it was. the sun shone upon it and it glowed. it shone into the valley and lit his face and he laughed. what burden is this?

You opened your wardrobe door and i saw your boots
those tactical cop issue and your uniform. hanging up
i was a bit sad, you were a cop and i hate cops but i love you
those boots were black and polished. you polished them
blondie. you took pride in how you looked
but didn’t give a shit how you were fucked
i lacked the strength. the will to see. you and me
how still we were in the night holding. cold
the houses crumbled away to dust and lay Birmingham bare
we stayed in bed. it didn’t matter. we didn’t care
inside was colder than outside. your cool flesh
my hot skin fevered. close to death.
we lack the capacity to produce steamed breath
stretch and close your eyes let me look at you
it’s not all you know.

i stood outside for half an hour afterwards
leaned up the cold icy van and smoked weed
just warming down. thinking about nothing
the weed was sweet as fuck. taste sensation
manipulated realities as real as what?
my feet in the slush. laughing. checking myself
in the mirror window. motherfucker
she had the blinds half open and i watched
as the slut stopped all the clocks

but the higher you get the righter you are
and the feeling gets you by
then as i watch you feather the air and sigh
inside your flat. bedsit. heating’s shit
you jumped in the van and smiled.
i am going to try and get back someday and see

You Cant Always Get What You Want

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There was never a sunset reflected anywhere
and no great saviour appeared with bleeding heart
just another day spent living the years
underneath me you come and give a little
as i smoke weed i stare at your arse
a thousand scepters raised for Gods
we shuffle our knees along the church floor
we lack social graces we do, we are blinded
the tighter the strap and harder to bite
i bite my knuckle and shut the voices out
blessed the six golden angels on the six peaks

the rolling stones can fuck off, they should have split up
they should have fucked off in 79
died from the lack of skill show business fucktards

you listen but dont as the pills i gave you bite
and the darker the heart the brighter the light

fuck Mick Jagger the cunt, and Bono and fucking Geldoff
the lost, the bitter, the clown show

my voice glittered and poets woe
fire up your sweet arse to me again
you fucking slut
you cant always get what you want

What’s The Worth Of A Poem If It Isn’t About Love?

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It was the driving rain took me it did, a little
tuck in your hands as it would be a tragedy if you broke a nail
but you look pale and i just carry on
666 verses for solitary confinement and 777 for all lost loves
and fifty blackest hearses for the loved and 23 flying doves
it would alright if there is something inside
for we took the purple horses and the bells that rang out
the sound of them flat against the low clouds and the snow
but, if i had something to hold, something to know
I can’t see. But in my ears i hear you scream
but i fell asleep again before you keep it all in
we rail at the locked gates. we wail our failure
our ignorance compounded, the lights are on
and everybody’s there. you see their shadows
and your smile on the picture didn’t seem real
didn’t seem right, my hands are red from the nearby traffic light
swipe and rewrite your message your useless prose
for the sick at heart and the made up hoes
your face said you were scared and this wasn’t what i thought
the nights are still lonely and the need for you is shattered
for whats the worth of poems if they aren’t about love?

Ledge-End

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So it was and is maybe perhaps
He didn’t know or want to care
Just to fly for a second through the air
Fingers spread out and anger damp
The greater good forgotten
Gods vengeance in bitten nails
And as you lay your head to sleep
I’ll take on the cursed deep
It’s what I am and remain an unsettled mind that’s fast wearing out
Demons nibble and on the back of the bus they scribble
Love and hate in a permanent marker
Art of the wipe clean generation
The slick hands wet perspiration
The idle thoughts up here so high and lost
Sit and wonder at the cold air and the lights below
Too fast to live? Too tired and slow
Slip your shoes and tumble a loose button an awkward fumble, a tired voice that whispers ‘enough’
Break down the walls and take a peek, a little look
See the people run. I’ve slipped haven’t i? Didn’t even know.
But the screams rush from those below