Loose-fit Lucifer

The ice bergs rattle

And the glasses chink,

And the party's swinging

And I'm on the brink,

All along, in the old cold throng,

Banging head, pumping songs,

Something dead, something wrong

Joyful noise, smoking hard,

Sunken, gone,

Is this it?

We're having fun

But I'm apart

I'm on the run

I'm fish-guts rotten,

I'm Jonah, son,

And this doomed boat was damned 

And Far from home:

 I'm damned with you

And I'm damned alone.

This boat was damned,

And I'm sinking

In the scummy sink,

drowned in sorrow,

Downed in drink.

And the ice bergs rattle,

And the glasses chink,

And the party's swinging

And I'm on the brink,

The edge of nowhere

And I can't but think,

This thing you crave

Is this it?

I mean, is this it?

I took the shot,

I shot the hit,

But, still, is this it?

Is this it?

Is this it?

Is this it?

And I drank

and I sank,

And I was thrown overboard,

I'd cast the dice

The chink of ice,

Sucking on 

The shorter straw

There ought to be more

A surface loose-fit lucifer

Falling from the shimmering grace,

Sinking away from her.

And a month or two later

I was spewed up on the beach

And all that dog-vomit

Was out of reach,

The waters have passed

In between,

And birthed on the beach

I'm caked in vernix

And shiny and clean,

And I'm looking back at my life

This side of the divide,

This side of the shine,

And I'm asking

This IS it?

Right.

This is it.

It is this.

Annex Us

Annex Us 

And move in next to us

Make yourself a nexus

That connects us 

A central focal.point

To permanently bless us

make you the next us

And protect us

Move in, peaceful King

conquer, annex us.

I Taught You To Punch

I taught you once to punch

Perhaps not hard enough,

I taught you to defend yourself,

I taught you to be tough,

I taught you to lash out

But I taught you other stuff,

And in the end, my little friend,

You punched me in the guts,

A rod for my own back,

A baby-dividing sword,

An offering to the Lord of lack

(Was all I could afford)

Just enough hanging slack,

To adorn my neck with chord,

All these things I made myself to crack

The vessel's treasure horde 

And from the crack it poured.

I guess I should be grateful,

I guess I need to wait

I guess I'll give up hateful

Stand and watch for you, from the gardener's gate,

But though I live, for now,

This is a living death,

And the punch I caught,

Taught you to throw,

Separates us till my last breath

I made my bed on this canvas.

Time to Time

Cleaning the weathered laboratory 

The story is the same 

Abandoned utensils and fosty beakers, lonely from their night on the shelf. 

I place myself, just inside.

A low-level hum from some sort of monitor machine, 

Passing the neglected minutes till nine,

The corner webs sit fine, unbothered by the dirty cleaner in the starch white coat.

He's here for the bins only.

And to pass the moments.

I see for the first instance, 

This lab has a clock

I had not clocked,

In many appointments,

And it is halted.

Digital imposters 

Impose on every surface

And the old fella has stopped to watch,

As if stunned by his replacements.

Suspended,

High and lifted up

For every blind eye to see,

The curse of kairos:

A Portal into eternity

And just to mess

I touch the tips of his digits

And slowly swirl the hands

to 11:11

A number that I notice on a regular basis, since some film inserted it into my brain.

And I smile at the thought of the scientists pondering the significance

The significance of this coincidence,

But their sceptical brains will filter out the mystical nature of my prank.

And conclude it was just a coincidence.

But it wasn't.

Because it didn't.

And I did.

And maybe no one will notice. 

I didn't, 

Until I did. 

And I think of all the years later. The facility being abandoned, 

or the Lab being refitted,

Whatever chronos allows

And some clearance company employee (or facilities staffer),

Simply plucks it from it's perch.

Noted that it is no longer running,

But pay's no regard to my prank,

Or the reading on it's decades addled face,

And throws it in a skip,

11:11

It came to mind

And I,

In mine,

Pay in kind,

And think of the clock

From time to time.

Spiral

The sirens screech announces

The spiral staircase down from heaven

Jacobs Twisted Ladder

The skies shed themselves

Of their carrion angels

Falling to earth

Feasting on flesh

They murder the burden

They bid with their beaks

Like rapturous raptors,

The meat from the marrow

They unclothe the overdressed of their finery and furs

And bring home truth and death 

Bring them down from heaven,

Death descends down the staircase,

Glamorous as a gilded girl at the gala,

Buoyed up by the whirl of wings

Brings by it

A Carcass cleaned

Leaving

Only the thin truth

of thin air

As flesh breaks down

A soul ascends

And only the truth of bones

Remains

Flesh and Blood

We wrestle not, dear sister, against our flesh and blood,

But I find myself these days, swept up in that flood,

For the violence of that separation, making you my enemy,

Could force me to bear arms, or to get down on my knees,

I'm trying hard, dear sister, to embrace the fight,

That rages against my darkest urge, and steps out in the light,

So I lay down my high and mighty ways; lay down my badge and gun,

I'll no longer be your sheriff, I'll be your mother's son,

And I will love you sister, as though you were my enemy,

Though the waves of lies come over me like the overwhelming sea,

I will remember that my battle, is not against flesh and blood,

But it is to offer up my flesh, and to embrace the Son of God,

Love is sacrificial, and I love you, my little lamb,

But I'm caught up in the thickets, a twisted-tangled ram,

Get down from that altar, away from the glinting of the knife,

That knife is meant for me, and I offer you my life,

And yes this martyr talk, paints me as a saviour,

But the truth of who I am, is written in my behaviour,

And I try to choose the path that leads me to the top

Of the mountain where my ego dies, and at last, I stop.

We wrestle not, dear sister, against our flesh and blood,

But my flesh has choked me out, face down in the mud,

And I embrace true love for you, though it makes me your enemy,

And enemies are for dying for, and so I die, to me.

Unreliable Narrator

This master-work of yours,

This magnum opus,

This poiema,

Is sat in his underpants

In a neglected and untidy flat,

Typing on a laptop he bought with some of his redundancy money.

His youth: behind him

And an early grave ahead

And all his aspirations

Have become expirations.

And the divine light came to him one day

not so long ago,

As he questioned your artistry,

As he judged the fruit of your work,

'What the hell kind of poem is this?'

A masterpiece? Seriously?

And the light whispered to him,

Breathing illumination

Into his stopped up ear,

"It's more than a poem"

It's a story, and it is not over yet.

Moreover, it is a story, You are a story,

That I want to read.

As an author, you can appreciate that.

And I promise you,

Though you may never see it,

There's one Almighty twist,

That spins all on it's head.

I'll let you tell it from here