Fard

He was coloured, as in fard,

Strutting about reciting the bard,

Showing off his super memory

Of all o’the Kings named Henry.

Smugly he did pronounce the words,

Slowly building up his herd,

Of lines lodged forever in his head:

That will stay until he’s long past dead.

And right now he’s only fourteen,

As precocious as was James Dean.

Though I hope he’s not heading for a crash

Though sometimes I want his brains to dash.

Because he is good at what he does,

Such enthusiasm is rare among us,

So it would be somewhat tragic,

If he didn’t continue his “magic.”

Tweet Repeat 68

"far from enigmatic"
i have been dubbed
"less than dynamic"
i wore it on my badge

slow to move and slow to think
slow to do and slow to blink
i like to mull things long time
i like to form imaginary lines

if in person this can make me dull
if it makes people push not pull

then whatever

i'll seek to one day bring flavour
with words for people to savour

Tweet Repeat 67

I hewed him down, I hewed him good, I hewed him into shape.
I hewed him so that not e’en his mother would recognise his face.

I hewed his heart, I hewed his soul, I hewed his thickened rind.
I hewed him until he understood he would have to hew the line.

I hewed for love, I hewed with love, I hewed apart my love.
And once myself I have hewed enough, I will join him up above.

Intemperate Climate, Versions 1 and 2

I fear his intemperate climate as one fears a wild, escaped primate:
Frequent bursts of anger at his worst, never slaking his thirst
For violence of the highest order, that strays ever cross the border
Between right and wrong, something in which he claims he to be strong,
Even while pummeling my skin, even while kicking my shin.
This man goes beyond the pail, he is the definition of ultimate fail-
Which may sound like I’m taking this lightly, maybe even I’m faking,
But to come out with this believe me is brave, I am and always will be his slave.
Escape is an ongoing project, to get away and perhaps to forget,
If I can, these days of torment, or to put them aside after a period of lament.
But I have only the strength for to dream, I long ago ran out of steam,
The sort that brings action, rather than a nasty reaction,
And sit here instead thinking it all through, delaying rather than straying.
Because I’m scared and scarred, because all of this has gone too far,
As it can be when, for a job, you decide to join the mob.


*

I fear his intemperate climate as one fears a wild, escaped primate:
Frequent bursts of anger at his worst, never slaking his thirst
For violence of the highest order, that strays ever cross the border
Between right and wrong, something in which he claims he to be strong,
Even while pummeling my skin, even while kicking my shin.
This man goes beyond the pail, he is the definition of ultimate fail-
Which may sound like I’m taking this lightly, maybe even I’m faking,
But to come out with this believe me is brave, I am and always will be his slave.
Escape is an ongoing project, to get away and perhaps to forget,
If I can, these days of torment, or to put them aside after a period of lament.
But I have only the strength for to dream, I long ago ran out of steam,
The sort that brings action, rather than a nasty reaction,
And sit here instead thinking it all through, delaying rather than straying.
Because I’m scared and scarred, because all of this has gone too far,
Because I love, because I am a peaceful dove.

Tweet Repeat 66

It's all so horrifically kitsch,
I wish that I could switch
Every single item in that room,
Giving each a suitable doom

In the world beyond for furnishings.
For all items in there bugs:
The bed, the vase, the couch, the rug;
Even the bloody curtain rings.

Fauns (Don't they know?)

Always they fawn to him:
Don’t they know
They’re just pawns to him?

They bow and kowtow:
Don’t they realise
He marks them lowbrow?

They lap up his words:
Don’t they know
They’re all tapeworms?

They seek power and mirth:
Don’t they realise
He’s taking them to the Underearth?

Of course not ,
They are fawntastic fools,
Who do not know that
They’re their master’s tools.

And yet..

With this dissenting voice:
Don’t I know
I gave him no choice?

That with it I sealed my fate:
Don’t I realise 
My head’s on a plate?

Sandbagged at dawn

Sandbagged at dawn
With bullets torn
Our blood filling the trench

Lying down on duckboards
In a reddened ford
Each mind filled with his wench

Whether young woman, man
Favourite servant or whore
Each man remembers
And reaches to his amore

And clutching nothing
But feeling something
Each man expiring fast
 
All fought for something
All have got nothing
Each man breathes his last

To be replaced with a medal
A penny, a scroll
Survived by memories
In lives left with a hole

For that there is war
Repeating what’s been before
Among what are called victories

Nations built up with tors
The dead’s bones lining the floors
Bodies forming the worm’s vittlery

As it always shall be
Whether deemed legal or not
For one side or for all
This is our history and future lot