Crown of Thorns

Born in a fable, someone's son, a charismatic leader

Was impaled to a gibbet of olive wood, or maybe cedar

Violated, naked, excruciating death throes shudders

Left to rot with kith and kin and Judean brothers

Nails and ropes, broken legs, tortured, scourged

From the mists of myths tales are told, scribed and merged

Bloody beads upon a lolling head, a crown of thorns

An oppressive empire suppressing freewill and raising storms

From eternally disputed lands and a realm of authoritarian ways

A seed was planted for the nativity and the passion plays

Post the ancient prose of the world of Moses, Noah, Cain and Abel

A new testament created a heroic saviour, born in a fable

Conjecture aspires to an incomparable crucifixion upon a Latin cross

And history tells of two thousand years revered, at a calamitous cost

For all those heretic souls of the Inquisitions, that no one mourns

And for the holy wars and sectarian divisions, we bear a crown of thorns

Various Degrees of Insanity

Hush now, hush now, for The World's still spinning

But our end is nigh, without hope of a new beginning

For we are the sheep; we are to be the slaughtered lambs

Our demise prescribed in barbaric ethnic cleansing plans

Terra firma's to sea, but heaven is purely vapour and gas

As ghost memories and fables (fallacious) all gather en masse

We're deluded, we're mad, we've been covering the facts of our inanity

And now it's the deranged leading the blind in various degrees of insanity

So I spoke to God and read the words ascribed to Jesus... and as one they told me...

"You don't believe us"

"'You don't believe us', are my thoughts recited," I said. "As is the Creator never was and no son of a god has ever bled."

So I spoke to Satan and found comfort in analgesia. Then I ascribed his death hallowed words on my board of Ouija.

>They're gonna fucking kill you all if you don't at least inverse the cross<

With this sentence formed I was at a loss...

When I say 'I', I mean them and me and including you; Him & Her and all our demons too.

So we called to both God & Satan and wept like Jesus; but there was no one out there to hinder or help, scourge or please us.

And now, alas, with Heaven & Hell we can disconfirm it, knowing that our barbaric tongues is the kindred language of The Hermit.

For there're those amongst us who have roamed from a different region. They have slipped into our dimension through the open portal of an internal lesion.

And in the final hours before an interminable darkness, in a post-apocalyptic meltdown. Mayhap The Hierophant will fill the yawning gap and claim what is vacant to be his crown. And then will there be a collective moment, a gathering of rational conscience, and a moment of clarity? And a 'what the fuck have we done?' After all, it has always been about, various degrees of insanity.

For there is no Magician and we've been dealt The Fool, as we conspire with Death.

And with every card that's turned The World will shrink and decrease in breadth.

We're all fucking mad, we know between nothing and not a lot. And those who think they've found an answer will eventually lose the plot.

The heavens are alive, but they're filled with dragons and harpies

As the wailing ghosts align themselves in sectarian armies

Of the crumbling holy houses, they're now renamed 'calamity'

For they spoke too long in tongues in their various degrees of insanity

Hush now, hush now, before The World stops turning

For our fat is dripping and our skins are burning

They killed us all when they reversed the inversed cross

For the crescent Moon was barren and now we're forever lost

Ligature Point

A nightmare, a night storm rages
Rattling poets in cell block cages...

And so it begins, pen and paper and then the pandering to the pixels. It's not the writing that's frightening, it's the constant search for inspiration, beyond the mental constipation. The ideas and the words, all dragged from within, the ending, the middle and from where to begin. It's all in the head and so is the dread.
Outside: The hail and rain is cascading down from a summer storm's lugubrious low pressure, the thunder rolling and crashing, as the transient lightning is flashing.
Inside: Inside a poet's weary head, there is nothing but cataclysmic cliches and the numbness that's been left behind by that which has fled.
Feed off the storm, the poet thinks, embrace the outside rage to quell the inner turmoil. Cliches, cliches everywhere, but not a drop of ink... is what the poet thinks.
'Fuck it,' uttered, as thoughts run amok. 'Fuck the insipid deep shit, let's write something really fucking gory, a sicko badass horror story!'
Hail rattles on the window as the wind howls like a banshee.
Let's have something akin to King and Herbert, maybe a crazy fucking clown killing kids with poisoned sherbet... or a psychopath stalking couples and spiking their drinks, is what the poet thinks. A psychopath who gives you no hope, just a ligature point and the noose at the end of a rope...

...maybe not, stick to what you know...
The poet shifts uneasily on a chair; outside the storm rages in the electrified air.
The block is unflinching, it's solid, the verse a curse, the rhyme a crime.
Ditch the pen and paper, maybe scratch some ink later, is what the poet thinks. AC/DC for the PC, that's what's needed. Press a switch and light the screen, outside the banshees scream.

The gale whips through concrete courses
Gathering strength for its evil forces...

The weather is a horror of symbolism and has been used too many times before, is what the anxious poet thinkety, thinkety, TH!NKS, staring eyes eventually succumbing to the inevitable blinks. The poet is so tired, head pounding after too much thinking, always thinking. Heavy eyelids and the poet is close to napping... on the window, outside, is that a finger tapping? Or the hail from Hades borne by the beast of the gale?
Lightning flashes, the power crashes, a PC fades to dim. The poet thinks this is slightly scary and close to grim.
Thunder rolls with the next electric bolt, as one, conjoint; walls and windows shaking and illuminating the place of a ligature point.
'Fuck it,' uttered, as thoughts run amok. 'Fuck the poetry and fuck the horror story!'
The power reconnects, a relieved intake of breath; breath rhymes with death, that's why rhyme is a crime, although transitory. A screen re-enlivens and a bright light is back. This is all too sapping, the poet thinks. It's there again! On the window a finger, or maybe a talon, tapping!

The night thickens to tar as the storm abates
A pause in its course, but it merely awaits...

There's a tap, tap, tapping on the poet's window.
'Let me in, it's me, I can help... just let me in,' whispers an all too familiar voice.
'What the fuck!' The poet declares. 'I'm so tired and now I'm fucking wired!'
Thoughts are racing, as they run amok. The horror cliches live and the poet's mind is leaking like a sieve. The interred rhyme is the crime and the verse still a curse...
Fuck! Silence...
There's sanctuary in the silence, but the silence is leaden, oppressive and cloyingly aggressive. A minute passes, then two and three and then...
There's a tap, tap, tapping on the PC's screen, on the other side, on the inside of the screen... from within.
"Fuck," is the thought and it is a thought and not a dream, for the poet's awake, wide eyed and alert, of that there is no mistake.
'Let me in,' is a repeat of the improbable request. Then more urgently...
'Let me the fuck in!' It's the poet's voice, of course it's the poet's voice. It's not some fucking demon, thank fuck!
...when the pressure's on you'll be observing that there's far too much fucking swearing...
Someone's knocking on the door, knock, knock, KNOCKING.

The eye of the storm has passed and the wind is howling
As the petrified poet sits there, slack-jawed and cowering...

There's a knock, Knock, fucking KNOCKING on the poet's door.
'Let me the FUCK IN! You know who it is and we'll know where to begin.'
There's no lock on the door, because beyond is the hall. There's no key to turn, no bolt, not even a wedge, there's nothing at all.
'Oh fuck,' the poet reiterates, as a racing heart sinks.
There's a bang, Bang, BANGING on the fucking door!
This has to be a nightmare, or the poet's imagination running wild, detached from reality and completely out of sync. And so many fucking swear words and cliches; cliches, cliches everywhere, but not a drop of ink.
The keyboard's clicking; click, click, clickety click! On the screen letters and words appear within...
>Hey, cunt, open this fucking door and LET ME THE FUCK IN!<
Fists and talons are pounding, Hammering, BATTERING the door!
The poet might be you, but it's certainly not me...
So, just open the fucking door! Honestly, there aren't any vampires in this world and the insane don't really wander around in storms knocking on windows and doors.
There's a pungent smell and a pregnant pause...
Get a grip! There's a hand on a handle and the turn of a knob, the poet opens the door.
Why! What the fuck for? Another big mistake!

A nightmare, a night storm rages
Rattling poets in writer's block cages...

'FUCK!' Is screamed, and rightly so, for before the poet stands a fucking monster!
Cloaked like the reaper, its hooded head is a feather and tar skull with a raven black beak; soulless pits for eyes bulging, remorseless and blindingly bleak. Of course it's an impossible creature, but it's there and it's happening and the poet's high in the air, impaled on talons. Ribs are cracking and crushing as the blood is flowing and gushing. There's the smell of piss and the touching of cloth. Spinning around a light bulb there's a mocking moth.
'Hey cunt! I'm everything you're fucking NOT!' The words rage in the poet's head and more words are said. 'Is this fucking dark enough? I said is this FUCKING DARK ENOUGH!' And then in a barely audible whisper. 'Is... this... dark... enough, for you? You're a fucking clown, but there're no jokers in the pack; no jesters. So let's have a look inside and see what fucking festers... and then, perhaps, I can put you out of your wretched... fucking... misery.'
And it's all there, from the Hanged Man tarot to a hooded figure on the boards of the gallows. Horrific creatures are rising from an open deck... and there's a noose around a poet's neck. And the smell... the gagging, fetid, stench of putrefaction and the rancid sweet sweat, purging the venlafaxine.
New words are hissed and the world is spinning. 'Die, fucking die, you fucking faker! You can't see it, but inside I'm grinning... that should unblock the block!'
The poet is hurled across the room and crashes, outside (symbolically!) the lightning flashes.
And there's no more silence, just torture and gratuitous violence. A beak plunges into eye sockets, devouring the juicy morsels. Guts are ripped out and blood splatters walls, floor and ceiling and the screams are soul wrenchingly revealing. But there's no rush as the poet's head is slowly cracked until it snaps and implodes. Fuck! There's blood and guts everywhere and two empty eye sockets. A detached heart has stopped beating, as it's being eaten and there's vomit and gore all over the floor!
Feet with talons slip on the gagging gore, on their way out, back through the open door.
'Fucking charlatan!'

Epilogue: After the storm
It's early, on a sun-drenched morning...

The poet awakens, head on desk, groggy and half numb... feeling glum
Sunlit motes pour through the cracks in the curtains.
'Fuck,' uttered. 'What a fucking nightmare, I'm on the brink.'
But something has unblocked the block, for the cliches have gone and there's something etched in ink. It's the poet's handwriting, >Same scenario, same place, see you later, you fucking phoney. Kill yourself when you've had enough<
The poet breaks down and sobs with despair, reliving the horror of every nightmare.
Covered in livid scars and a throbbing head, the poet remembers everything and every word said. There's a sense and stench of faeces and piss; stains that could be blood and gore on the floor and a cool draught swirling through the yawning door.

'Fuck!'

The poet draws heavily on the smoking weed of a joint
Beneath the identified place of a ligature point
The world is now calm, not heavy, the world is dope
And attached and ready is the noose of the rope

Now there are no more lines to write, no more improbable monsters to ponder
It's The End; the insane may be lost in storms, but they have no need to wander

If Only I Could

I know I can't, but if only I could...

I'd be there beside you and not in faded dreams we keep

I'd be there for you as you awoke from your restless sleep

I'd plump up your pillows, I'd make and mash a nice cup of tea

To make you feel better, to some small degree

If you needed extra warmth, or just some solace

I'd snuggle up with you and those sad thoughts I would abolish

You know that if I could, I surely would...

Share your sickly sniffles and calm your qualms

As I held you closely in my loving arms

Though I am here and you are there

I know you know how much I care

So I'll send you happy words and emojis of tea and flowers

For I cannot properly fuss you, it's not within my powers

...but you know I would, if only I could

Our Trojan Horse

We hoped that we could, but we thought that "we can"

For in reality we were apart, but we had an ingenious plan

All our thoughts and desires we would program and shift

Into a quixotic reverie for our amorous tryst

We had selected the cards until they had told us a story

'The Lovers', 'The Moon' and 'Judgement'; memento mori

And all of our desires were turned into fanciful notions

So we could be hidden together, as if in a horse for the Trojans

We synchronized and focused and uttered our mantra

Separately self-fulfilling erotic rites to awaken the tantra

With our myth-guided faith, it was a step and a leap

Into the delusory domain of illimitable sleep

In the glades and the forests of a black and white scene

I was in the pitch of a night of an elicited dream

I sensed foreboding and ire; I heard an ocean's waters pour

And I was stumbling from cover to find the sands of its shore

And she was there! (In my chest my heart was pounding)

On a moonlit beach, a lost soul, a mermaid floundering

Beckoning she implored, her eyes alight, reminiscent of flames

As I ran through the gorse, to the sands, we were calling our names

Under the glare of The Moon of a questionable Earth

Hand-in-hand, we walked to the waves of a soporific surf

All of our desires were that of an elixir of erogenous potions

As we escaped, for the moment, from our horse of the Trojans

We were out of sight, in our minds, but with murmuring lips

As the praxis unravelled and quickly became illusions and tricks

And there was a rage that was burning, there was a knife in a bed

With somniloquence the treacherous Trojan that alerted and led

In a quixotic reverie of an amorous tryst

The ephemeral sands, beneath our feet, began to shift

Her fading eyes were pleading and she was dragging me under

As my body cramped in the place of reality's slumber

We had turned selected cards to find our dreams to share

But the final Judgement rendered was not to spare

We had thought our Trojan horse was an ingenious plan

Covertly salacious, we had hoped, and thought that "we can"

Now the night is an ocean of silence and a forest fire has burnt its course

And there's nothing but darkness and the ashes of a wooden horse

'The Lovers' reversed was the joker, but not the end of the story

For 'Death' was the last, but unturned; memento mori

Random Moments in Time

He sits as if transfixed, behind a gloom laden desk

Around a flickering candle the Painted Lady pirouettes

But his wandering thoughts transcend to horizons wider

Where in sun-drenched motes climbs a Ruby Tiger

What shouldn't be, might be, for dimensions ebb and flow

As time can shift and be cast adrift from the status quo

Akin to a transient moonlit rainbow of a spectrum's breadth

It's the haunting invisible presence of the stranger's breath

He's lost in the thoughts of random moments in time

Where Magical Unicorn Oracles and Angels align

He looks to the past and every fact of the future

But the night mares are charging, a new chimera the suitor

Cold hands hold on to reality, waiting for the shaking to stop

As the glistening sands of the hourglass pour from bottom to top

Wide awake, yet asleep, the current is dragging him back

For time is the tide that is rising and will never retract

He sits, as if transfixed, behind a doom laden desk

The Painted Lady approaches in dancing pirouettes

He grabs and he catches and he feels the crush

In sun-drenched motes a Ruby Tiger is drifting as dust

He's lost in the dreams of random moments in time

An alien in a rancorous realm where the Unicorns repine

The agony is as searing as bile, he's starting to retch

There's a hand above a candle and the crisping of flesh

The guttering flame, that caresses, dwindles and dies

There's only pain without dreams, so with interim time he abides

But there's no warmth in the dark and he's beginning to wonder

For abroad in the void the night mares are charging like thunder

There's a sandstorm in the glass as a conjuration begins

Above the roar of the stampede there's a whispering of wings

And he's awash in the flow as every nightmare's recycled

The drowning in flames and the blessed unbridled

He's lost in the dimensions of random moments in time

Where the candle's a moon, but afar and malign

But he reaches for its comfort, with a hand made of wax

For he senses the breath of a presence; the stranger's perhaps?

Only Ghosts

Clowns and despots with their power games

Let the storm clouds gather with their noxious reigns

Demented posturing as they sabre rattle

They stand their ground, all set for battle

A call for calm, but the wind just whistles

As they prep and aim their ballistic missiles

They hide behind their vicious vitriol and MAD men's boasts

But from post-apocalyptic ashes there're only ghosts

It's our last mistake, the end is nigh, but we're in too deep

The shepherds lost, we're the devils flocks and we're led like sheep

So lock and load and come outside from that darkened corner

For the fuse is lit and soon the world will become a whole lot warmer

Only ghosts, as all those gods abate................

Need not fear our last mistake..........................

Left to roam in perdition's fields of fire..............

Yesterday's tomorrow was a MAD desire.........

Gone in the flash of nuclear fission...................

Hideous the act of insanity's vision...................

Only ghosts, as gods will die with men.............

Slake in the fallout, without need to fend..........

The wondering souls of the impenetrable pall..

Silently drifting through a wasteland sprawl.....

It was the final act, as the MAD men's sanities failed

And so it finally came to pass when the sirens wailed

The end was seen by the sagacious and the old world prophets

As hellfire flew with nuclear missiles and chemical rockets

There're no tears to cry, for there're no eyes to moisten

The broiling sky is toxic and the billowing smog is poison

From the shattered mountains to the corroded coasts

There's nothing left crawling, there're only ghosts

Clowns and despots with their power games

Left naught behind, but a world in flames

Gone in the flash of nuclear fission

Hideous the act of insanity's vision