Old man Maloney was a bitter old man
Who lived on the 7th overlooking the plan
All he’d do was stay in and winge
If you looked up to the 7th you’d suddenly see his curtains twinge
He was a skinny old man, bald except in the back
They were like slopes of snow, with liver spots dotted around
And a long beak of a nose, upon which moon sized glasses rest
I never saw him take them off, with them he probably went to bed
And he’d always wear the same coffee cardigan
Beige trousers and white shirt buttoned to the brim
He was a walking cappuccino, his face always bored and dim
And always locked in his flat, weekly we thought he died or tripped
But one day he miraculously appeared out of the ground floor lift
Hunched over, cane in hand, moving his creaking limbs
I couldn’t believe my eyes. Is it his ghost or is it him?
We were playing football, he called me to kick it to him
So I did and amazingly he flicked it and kicked it with glee
I still got it kids, he said grinning, glasses twinkling brighly
Pass it again, but harder I want to volley it
My friend kicked it hard, too hard old Maloney couldn’t follow it
It sped like a bullet and nailed him in the face
Hes dead now.
Brain Haemorrhage.
Black ravens blacken the dull blue sky
Bells echo twelve
Trees cut above like veins growing upward reaching aimlessly for a sombre height
They will never reach
Ever reaching with no reason and no purpose
But maybe not.
At the bottom of a hill, a womb
A safe sanctuary from the crisp bitter November wind
Rock, chalk and moss pushes her out
No purpose. No reason.
Out of the moss covered ground
Gripping and grunting
Ravens call, disturbed and delirious
A brisk wind cuts through the trees
Disturbing the willows and the overgrown trees
With a shiver and a tiny sigh she crawls up the hill
Following the path laid out before her
Grasping and gazing at the moss
Jagged rocks and beautiful willow trees
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then what my eyes have beholden cannot be described by words
Transcendent, cosmic energy of a thousand galaxies shot through the universe and meeting the mould with which the divine shapes with intricate hands.
A rose the colour of blood wine dripping onto the mouldy green moss and aged stone
Plucked from the earth, for what reason only she knows
A helpless innocence lost in the foggy dew of dreams and rose coloured petals
Dancing on gangrene rock singing a tune only birds could hear
Her long chestnut hair
Blowing in the wind like an elegant violent whip
Crows still beckoning.
Further up the cobbled path
Seemingly stretching to the ends of the earth
Lined with willows and intricate carved stone
Her feet now bloodied and cold
Blackened like charcoal in the night
Roots are starting to grow
Earth is a cruel mistress.
Covered like leaches.
The mould is creeping.
The devil has his work cut out for him.
On the edge of the meandering cobblestoned path
A tender caress of her hardened feet to numb the pain
Of a thousand lifetimes and ghostly children in the rain
A shadow overcasts.
A velvet cloak gently whisped down from the branches
A silk rose, dancing like a ghoulish demon
How peculiar. But then what is not peculiar?
Wrapped around her with a mind of itself
Like a mother reunited after an eternity
Unconditional love that has been forgone and forgotten
Rushes back like a warm rush of heroin
“Warm enough?”
A black clad man with a wooden stick in his hand asks
His cloak flailing in the wind
“Yes. Who are you?” she asked her voice trembling
“No need to worry. I simply was compelled to return your cloak”
“Why?”
“You’re not asking the right questions”
The deep growl shaking to the bone from the faceless black
“At the top of the hill is where you’ll find the answer”
His long skeletal finger points up the cobblestone path
Like the crack of a whip she turns her head and back
Gone.
Anxiety takes its grip.
The first cracks start to show.
Hurriedly, hurriedly lumber up the hill
Observing the uneven masonry and cautiously sidestepping
No further harm will touch these bare feet
Higher, higher something is in the air.
Decay.
Fear.
The sky blackens.
Chestnut hair turned sand to stone
Flailing in the wind, unable to be tamed like the spirit of summer nights
And careless days
Never has she felt a wave of pity so forceful
You mustn’t.
You must.
Shuffling higher and higher
Blustering bloody silk a cocoon
The weeping willow branch her sole companion
Caverns and cracks are all that she knows
Will it ever end?
Never ends.
Trickles the sound of life
Never has she heard such beautiful music
Tip toeing in her mind
Two bright fairies playful in flight
She gasps.
Hurriedly, hurriedly
Blood now stains the stone
Smeared with tears
Stamped with wood
And a gasp of cold fresh air fills her lungs
A helpless innocence lost in the foggy dew of dreams and rose coloured petals
The devil has his work cut out for him.
With all her strength she pulls herself up onto a plain
And carries forward
Blinded by an in quenchable desire
Exhaused pride
With a sigh and a step
Earth is a cruel mistress.
Gone.
Into the glistening midnight stream
Back into mother’s arms
Moonlight illuminating the haunting willow trees
Carried off into unknown lands
Where the sun meets the sea
A crow perched on a branch has its fill.
Decay.
A growing tree.
My eyes burn. Body aches. Face tight as a drum.
Temporary relief from the barrage of reality every time I close my eyes.
Absolutely drained. Absolutely fucking drained. I don’t think I could lift a finger if I wanted to.
Every fibre, every atom inside me is lead. I’ve become lead.
Even blinking is more effort than I can handle. Blinking.
Flying through the jagged mountains overlooking the muggy sulfer stained sky
and a city paved with bright neon lights and fireflies, barflies and butterflies looking for a good time.
Smell of salt and dry sand in the air.
Soft violent rumble my lullaby swinging me to and fro mesmerised by the 100,000 stars on earth.
Rocking to sleep.
Sleep.
Awake.
Blurry renditions of déjà vu hazed in darkness moving swiftly and quietly past
faces of angels drifting off into a faux reality into the unknown.
Where are they going? Where are they coming from? The lonely questions of a traveller.
Why do I care?
I look behind and see the angels asleep. Oblivious.
How I wish to be in heaven again. Not even god can wake them.
Blood red splashes across their face and disappears into the night.
The eyes of a madman’s dream and the eyes of god illuminating everything in its path.
But they’re not coming our way. Why would they?
Rocking to sleep.
Sleep.
Awake.
At long last, a sigh of relief and a swift final surge of fleeting tangible life
With one word in my mind.
One feeling.
One necessity.
I am a fetus, free of all bondage to wriggle and crawl into my haven like an injured animal.
The heat, a warm blanket trying to crawl inside my body.
My warm breath cascading over the cold pillow hugs me, cocooned in a womb.
Future long distant memories floating around my head burning themselves into my subconscious.
With a sigh and a smirk.
Asleep.
Rainbows are beautiful, don’t you think?
Like God dipped his paintbrush and slid it across the sky for me
It’s a shame he only paints when he gets sad
But I guess even God gets depressed