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.