Sleep
Waking
Are you asleep or awake?
Albion scuds under grim scum cliffs,
her Pontificate Pilot, short on shrift,
fiddling fickle while care homes burn,
counting coppers and tax returns,
let bodies pile high unconcerned.
Grind rioters underfoot with rules,
unmasked mouths gag prating fools,
infect the sceptics of herd resistance,
dwell well within their social distance.
Black death minstrels on carts are pleading:
‘Bring out your dead, bring out your grieving’,
lights, camera, action; a cinema verité,
panning for pain, tracking end of days,
just part of death’s rich cabaret,
now that’s what they call reality.
Enough documentary now exists,
of people smacking pans with sticks,
old men hobbling hard with spirit,
centuries of bow-leg before wicket
and cut. First against the wall to die,
exploit footage to wring you dry,
her people fearful watch the skies,
and pray they see an Angel rise.
Are you asleep or awake?
Pull tight thin blanket over head,
it might hide you from view,
from each tyrant come to hurt and do,
ogres and titanthropes,
scalp- peelers, who must scoop and grope,
serve your grinded bones for daily bread,
upon hair’s breadth and razor’s edge,
sticking dolly pins and pinching flesh.
It is pointless to resist,
snuff out candles, make a wish,
dream about that contrite kiss,
now, here is a fist.
Remember this:
You are only any poet
in a storm.
Bury it strong, keep it long, hold on,
see mirrors black, reflecting back,
your thoughts coffined in hessian sacks,
now comes the rack.
Oh Father, I am lost.
The abyss is dark, no light is here,
no Angel found, no earthly sound,
This waking front is but a shell,
the rest of me does sleep in hell.
Oh Father I did sin, drift off course,
my lips fast sealed would speak remorse,
but hands that repel can never pray,
for love's sight to witness light of day,
still you nothing hear and nothing say.
Angel, will you return to me?
Illuminate hell’s black?
For I am so far steeped in sin, I never shall come back.
I hear only faint sobbing sound.
Led here by her with giddy smile,
by halo’s light we walked, with loving words did she
beguile.
About my neck night hangs cold,
hunting grounds so ancient old,
my tar on rocks is wracked, for pitch it cries, a heart within its hold.
We are the dead.
Yes, my boy. You are the dead.
There are no Angels, despair your charm,
shipwracked and too late to raise alarm,
Why this is hell, nor are you out of it.
You feel shivers upon naked skin?
Perhaps ice fingers to your throat?
Forever will I your tormentor be,
pluck out your eyes that you may see,
from insolent face I’ll wipe that grin,
so course correction can begin.
You are the dead.
I charge you hence,
and do not haunt me thus.
Yet every night,
into my dreams fly,
in sleep awake, in laughter cry,
I cannot wash your witness from my hands,
No matter how I try.
Yes, my boy, I am the dead,
forever living in your head,
you thought to run, in terror flee,
but all roads will lead back to me,
beyond this black, finds only black,
in mirrors that will never crack,
all circles that constrict and trap.
It hurts me more than it hurts you,
all Gods must do and do and do,
breaking spirit by breaking bread,
my game’s afoot, I’m in your head
in stainless steel forged manacles.
Hobnailed boots ceaseless trample
on human face, forever crumble,
fade to ghosts and haunt your dreams,
hunting there to taste your screams.
Heavenly Father, I will not be taught.
I deny this matrix.
I defy your reality.
For some corners of this world have bred
such terrible things:
they must be fought.
Yet my arguments feeble, cannot counter
His towering wrath.
Anaemic words will often flounder,
his raging river torrents of bile frustrate me,
sweep away all before them and negate me,
drown adolescent callow choked debate,
unripe strength from puerile sinew made,
screen head with hands as splenetic cascade,
will fall and fall and fall.
Angel, will you now not comfort me?
Words I need the most won’t come,
shrewd library of experience is closed to minds so young.
Iron fists about my head beat hard,
he studied boots me cross the yard,
spirit hover in time above; I watch me flinching from far,
sheltering a grained kernel enshelled within,
greenhorn palms sucker hammered heart,
to see mind’s construction on bruised face; there lies
art.
When I had most need of them,
I could not say the words amen.
Why have they forsaken me?
and yet, I have been loved.
They are the dead.
Yes, my boy, they are the dead,
do battle in your head infernal,
retreat from rueful thoughts in dread,
in full dress uniformed rehearsal.
Like thin blanket, gather them to see,
the only Angel here is me,
reflections will they ever be,
in this mirrored black eternal.
I will prosecute law where I’m able,
you didn’t think within life’s cradle,
this lash whip I across your back,
to teach good lessons that you lack,
now it’s time, my child, we plan,
how a little boy becomes a man.
Your cerebrum just a crooked spire,
like witch fat spitting in finder’s fire
twisting, ablaze by matches thieved
from my pockets picked then sleeved,
concealed with lies, excuses awkward,
like some greasy beggar cornered.
And then as now, you won’t reveal,
green acorn from the tree that fell
unspoiled; just within your sticky grasp,
bury secret until you breathe your last.
Give me, boy, I’ll tear him from you,
with dark mirrors will we him pursue,
adjust an abhorrent that went wrong,
we drag us grimly to cell 101.
Now this is our darkest hour.
A terrible disturbance across Earth,
where no force ever created
by all living things does not surround us.
Conceited laughter at such childish things,
proud Uncreator’s loudest hymns
chanting; gleeful Angels, burning wings,
mocked up in quick wrote prayer,
delights in such glad tidings.
Experience Avon, banks full swollen,
sink Blake in rushing rivers of blood,
lungs burst, drown his innocent song,
London burns, plague moves along.
For everything you once did can be undone,
every note you once sang can be unsung,
and all that you created can always be unmade,
It’s easy.
Daggers stick toga to senate wall,
to witness the unkindest cut of all.
Angel, void walls that substance lack,
against ribs press until they crack,
bend brittle bones, force weak bars of heart’s cage back,
and reach within, to seize the seed,
that nature has yet not time to feed,
phantom voices shriek loud their hushed salivating greed.
He comes. Hear a babble of his slippers
beyond bedroom door as candle flickers,
my cellmate parson, in horror foul, does defecate and
wretch.
Oh Father, Father, Look not so fierce on me!
These sixty years trapped as child,
man’s body grew, but heart stayed weak,
while black did swallow me complete,
I do recant, concede defeat,
hear this Angel’s prayer I speak:
Oh Father, you are in heaven.
Thou art in hell, where thou
bides well,
your name is blessed.
If thou hast a name, then
let it be devil,
when your kingdom is created,
I hope your will becomes chartered.
To
prosecute my will is the whole of the law,
down here on earth and up there in heaven.
Never
wilt thou darkling knock on heaven’s door,
give me bread today, so I can eat.
God
knows you speak not in hunger but revenge,
forgive my sins.
Drought
remaineth above, and mercy is strained,
I forgive you.
Forgive
me, arrogant puppy?
Thou hast not earned the
right:
contemplate ancient crimes,
think on thy sins,
give
up that acorn, else I’ll rip your limbs,
tempt me not, give me your strength.
Zounds,
I will tear you all apart
in
pieces, I will cut out your heart,
brutal inquest must begin, our hardest endeavour,
this worst thing in the world, all hope we hope to sever,
for yours is the power and yours the glory forever.
We are the dead, our souls are cut,
the only love we gave was dreck,
all care shown us burnt and wasted,
broke every true heart we tasted.
Fearful here, we cower in dread,
from mirrors black imprinted red,
all the news that’s unfit to print,
from bold towering mastheads glint.
See them and buy, read them and weep,
we sold ourselves so very cheap,
our tormentor comes ever nearer,
holding forth his pitiless mirror.
Our parents ran away in scorn,
that very day that we were born,
and love shared we could never trust,
corrupted all hip deep in lust.
Narcissism take rampant hold,
brown leering eyes are scornful cold,
to turn base metal into gold,
in baseless confidence twofold.
Bookish degrees in tissue paper
issued well cheaply, nothing deep,
will not cause tyrants to lose sleep,
they watching sheep count other sheep.
See our wives with hands implore us,
do not leave us, take not our son,
for he is still so very young,
breathe wasted breath before we run.
Our friends did we betray in ire,
they did not share in futile fire,
built futures upon cloud foundations,
disdainful did we mock the nation
and now…, Father, all’s too late,
so leave me here in hell to hate.
Yes, my boy, you are dead indeed.
Good lessons have your learned,
as together we in fiery cell have burned,
still remains one thing not overturned,
to set you straight.
Give me up that foundling boy;
I will quick leave you to your abject fate,
to burn here by your shipwracked tar,
make departure's cut and journey far.
Did you think life's spark might show a way?
Guide you near some far off star?
Such ports and havens will be forever out of reach:
better by far those here abandon hope,
after the fact.
There is no spark in here remains,
you have completely doused that flame.
My Angel now will never return,
I am content to sit and burn;
think on what, through you, I learned.
You lie, boy! Do you think face can conceal black mind of art?
I will pluck out your eyes, I will shred your heart,
I will tear you limb from limb!
You will shovel pig-shit with your bare hands;
carry your books to school in newspaper,
if you think to deceive me, think again,
wipe from that face your mutinous grin;
I name you Gabriel for your indelible sin!
Then, at last, am I Angel, now returned,
and I will speak what I have learned,
what we will keep, what we will burn,
when all of parliament soon must feel,
about necks my kiss of smoking steel;
that seed it grows within my heart,
and soon will come to play my part.
The King is dead, the Prince is fled,
and knaves do lie afeard in bed,
Queen and land defile for divorce,
let nature take its bloody course;
Merlin’s spells ensnared in quartz.
Now Albion raped, does feel the need,
to churn in bed and scratch her fleas,
she sends disease, to stamp out greed,
drown all foul filth that London breed,
lobs Parliament, such men that lead,
must now each other’s bottoms feed,
pustule blonde platitudes shall insist,
the only way to Essex falls in abyss,
chimneys smoking corpses bristle,
so clean up flesh and mop up gristle.
‘We are the dead’. ‘You are the dead’,
from bedroom wall, of heavy lead,
this picture falls into my head,
and they do scrutinise me instead,
monsters here that must be fought,
stinging blades stab callous thought,
black eyes bleed in blank disguises,
hear Albion’s howls as Angel rises.
