Flesh Hovel Lane

 

They once rode out, for the fox hunting, Quorn

Over the hedges and fields, with passengers borne

But the old, the unfit, the weary and the lame

They'd all be butchered, down Flesh Hovel Lane 

Spent, they were knackered and given no quarter 

Led down the lane and sent to their slaughter 

It's a gruesome story and it's a terrible tale to tell 

For the hounds of the hunt, were always fed well

The butchery's long lost in the macabreness of yore

And the abattoir's gone, by Pillings Lock on the Soar

But it's still a dead end, still narrow, once rutted

It's Flesh Hovel Lane, where horses, were gutted

Autumn Crocus

 

When the heart is empty, the mind might focus

To find, a fiery fate, with the Autumn Crocus 

Although the thought is toxic, like an acid kiss

Nothing else will matter, if not being, is bliss

A clock stops ticking, when there's a broken cog

And reality's a phantom, when it's milling fog

For if the eyes cannot see, a course, to guide 

There's no way ahead, that's not death defied

If there's no aroma, when the flowers bloom

The only time that is left, is a time, too soon

For to feed on a harvest, that's poison laced

Is bitter, though sweet, in it's burning haste

When those, apparitions, were never there

The soul is lost, like an unanswered prayer 

And without reason, the mind, won't focus

As the body gorges, on the Autumn Crocus 

Poetry From The Darkside

 

Evil monsters lurk within and they lurk to reap

They're in my mind and they're mine to keep 

They'll hide from light, but when darkness grows 

They'll whisper incantations, in lines of prose

They're always there, but not well defined

But the spells they cast, are to blow my mind 

They're cloak and dagger, unreal, but stark

And so grotesque, they'll manifest the dark 

They feed off nightmares, they feed off fear

I can hear their vile verses, for they are here

Their poetry from the darkside, is meant for me

For in my direst reveries, there's a hanging tree

Dunkelflaute

 

Doom laden skies held, not one breath, of wind

Under the, achromatic mantle, torpidity binged

No turbine turned, there was no sunlight power

Kismet ordained, to drain, every megawatt hour

Eerie evenings, turned countrysides, into tundra

Lights burned bright, until the blackout's umbra

From the murk, came night and the cloying cold

Listlessly lingering, from the valley, to the wold

And dawn would seep, then creep, into each day

Unfolding itself into the simplicity, of bitter grey

Though time inexorably passed, beneath the veil

Enveloped, by a nothingness, the grid would fail