Google+ Followers

Tuesday, 3 April 2018

Demons and Angels


Demons and Angels


Angel, between the bare branches
and decaying leaves
in the forests of Albion
the guardian mists exhale
your great men of great promise.
Now, each man has his angel.
A swift exit and a promised return to grace,
just cut the cord, praise the Lord,
then swab the smile from your face.
The bubbling swamp mud
has barely belched them
erect from the sludge,
when all you angels swarm
to nest them in bushes warm.


Now, Angel, my dear,
these poor old eyes are hardly fit
to see which of you is witch,
    and which is not.
You write in nothings, you speak in vacuum,
you use the language of the chatroom:
And I fear something dire
hides horrid in the ditch.
The bluebell trembles and tolls
forgotten; forlorn forecasts
of bankrolls and soiled spread sheets.
Great men reveal their exit plan
as you angels open legs, sod on polls,
until rank shit hits the fan.


Oh, Angel, with your leased love,
these feeble arms with
fists balled and claws extended
dragging finger nailed dirt from the pit
where you took vague pleasures
from ducking me in the shit,
returned me to dry land.
Where television shows the great men,
counting Dollars, Euros and Yen,
you angels, wet weeping at their shoulders.
Truffling between your thighs
for pungent sick and soured honey.
Once sexed, shrug sad sighs
to see barefoot children shiver and lunch on lies.


Within the grove, dark in the bushes,
my lady shivers at the approach:
the rustle of rutting cockroach.
The wind trembles and the ancient stag
paws the turf, chained beside the bent bullrushes. 
Great men, determined to conceive
upon which tide we should leave.
My lady stirs, too old to resist, too weak
to scream violation or report outrage:
you angels have already scratched out the page.
Gashed the great oaks from the earth
fucked the soil and given birth.
Ripped forth from her moorings; tossed;
torn out from anchorage safe;
rocked, wrenched-wrecked and foully displaced.
Angel.
You leave on the tongue a bitter taste.


Look back upon the things you waste.
Never cry. Never weep. No tears -
the trail you blaze will curdle the years.
It is as it should be: selfish, foolish, stupid,
blabber your bile like some cut price cupid.
Leave us. Go to your great men.
Oh yes, Angel, you left your scent,
It stinks of badly scrubbed gusset.
Now my trust in you I do repent.
We’re all, I suppose, fortune’s puppet.