P is for Purgatory

This was never the scenario...

Was never the obvious option...

And I was wrong; so wrong

The somatic has gone, but I live on...

And on, and on, and on, and on

I always thought that the end was the end

No ifs, no buts, no maybes

This wasn't plan A, B or C

Because this is plan P, and P is for Purgatory

And this is my diary, the diary of a dead man

Trapped and alone; alone with the P plan

The first day is the second day...

And the third day and the last day

And the last day is every day

There're no blue skies; no sun or stars bright

Only a midwinter grey of a permanent twilight

And the grey is grizzly, it's murky mizzly

With a glutinous, dense, fog; sometimes it's thinner

And when it's thinner I see the others who are here and there

Shadowy faceless shapes, wandering where?

And then it thickens again and I see naught

That's when I can taste the acidic mizzle

With a corrosive stench so foul I can hear it fizzle

And the drizzle fizzles on my tongue

But I cannot spit; I have to taste the taste

Have to smell the smell of the septic waste

I've been here since D day; death day

Which is today, yesterday and every day

Because every day is the first day and the last day

And today there's an ethereal choir of lost souls weeping

I can hear my weeping; feel my salty tears

And feel my hunger pangs that leave me with a permanent yearning

And the cold's so pervading that I feel a contradictory burning

H might be for Heaven or Hell, but P is for Purgatory

And I'm trapped and alone in this abstract absurdity

All the days of the past have passed

And this day today is the very last

But the last day is also the first day

And the first day is every day

And this is my diary, the diary of a dead man

It was never  A, B or C, it was always the P plan

Each step I take is a step too far

As I tread the mossy mulch of a viscous bog

But I can't stop, never stop, never stand still

Never feel the comfort of warmth, only a churning chill

And so I wander and I wander, in meandering circles?

Each cloying step is a slog

And atop of the bog is the fog

And the fog is what I inhale

And is my permanent death shroud veil

I can hear myself weeping; feel my salty tears

That I've never shed and have shed for years

This was never the scenario...

Never the obvious option...

But I was wrong; so wrong, as I wander nowhere

But nowhere is somewhere

And somewhere is everywhere

And everywhere is here

And there's no escaping from this bewildering absurdity

This is no way station, this place of Purgatory

This is the end or the start and the diary of a dead man

There was no A, B or C, for me it was always the P plan

This is the first day and the second day...

And the third day and the last day

And the last day is every day...

And every day is today

And today I'm in Purgatory; P is for Purgatory

Infrared

He records in the dark, with cameras; infrared

Whispering his name; the name of the dead

And he calls 'If you are there, show me a sign'

The response in the distance, a grandfather's chime

A sharp intake of breath from him and his buddies

Positive murmurings, some gen for his studies

Fixed to the spot, they await, the ghost hunting corps

Seconds pass by, then there's a creak from a door

There's gasping and joy and they're close to high-fives

For some it's close to the best night of their lives

'Did you get them' he asks 'the chime and the creak?'

Unseen a thumbs up in the murky mystique

They hunt their ignorance into the deepest bowels

Absurd night vision goggles on faces with scowls

As the air ripples with a devilish draught

Wafted from nowhere, conjured by witchcraft

But he's a professional who can talk to the dead

Recording and filming when others have fled

He's the ghost whisperer and he's on the hunt

Asking his questions, straightforward and blunt

'If you were the lord of the manor, make yourself known'

He quietly implores in a solicitous tone

And they stand there in silence; stock-still

Waiting for a sign, all knowing the drill

Only the pounding of heartbeats, nothing else stirs

So he whispers instructions 'We'll split into pairs'

Six into three wander from ground floor to attic

All soaked in the cold sweat of the psychosomatic

He's usually calm and collected, he thinks he's "the fella"

But now he's nervously descending the stairs to the cellar

The warmth of the air is repugnantly cloying

And backtracking is an option with which he is toying

He calls back to his buddy 'Switch on the light'

Click, click, click; still only night vision sight

Isolating the fear is a technique he employs

But now he's becalmed and losing his poise

He's the ghosts whisperer with a reputation to keep

So he carries on down on his ponderous feet

"An expert in his field", he thinks he's a maven

But now he is here; here in my haven

I was the butler, not the lord of the manor

Who I gratuitously killed with a sledgehammer

The fire that I set was impossible to douse

And in the conflagration we burned in his house

Now this "specialist boffin" can see me in his night vision goggles

He's soiled himself and his knees have got the wobbles

He came here to find and wasn't coerced

But in my paraffin embrace into flames he has burst

And I hold him close, so he'll have no chance to dash

Until his screams abate and he is naught but ash

So heed this warning; beware of where you tread

For only the dreadful dead inhabit the infrared

Hammer & Sickle

Contemplate this, hole-and-corner, verdant valley

A place, if known, into which one might choose to sally

There's no rush hour mayhem, for there is no commuting

No law enforcement, no taxes and no genteel disputing

Here they forage and farm beyond the civilised clamour

Working hard the sickle and scythe, the saw and the hammer

It's a serene cloistered hamlet of sandstone houses

Where they all reside, them and their spouses

All rustic types who use the Hammer & Sickle

Reticent, mean and constantly fickle

There's a rusty red tractor, circa the sixties

Runs on red stolen from gypsies

There's chopped wood for the hearth in a teetering stack

And with an assortment of livestock, for nothing they lack

Amidst the trees of a wood some fish from a river

With packed lunches of sweetbreads and minced chicken liver

One has a baccy stained beard that's grime infested

And the weasel eyes of a man too often arrested

He pulls a bucket from a well and drinks the sullied water

In his outhouse squeals a pig who is ready for slaughter

He sharpens a cleaver and tightens his belt

Po-faced, but eager, to have the fatal cut dealt

There's a communal settlement down in the valley

Don't go there! It's a deadfall trap down a blind alley

Those who are there will harvest crops with razor sharp scythes

Contribute to the barn and take care of their wives

Some of them are farmers tending the wheat

But some of them are hunters gathering the meat

There's a distant voice heard on a walkie-talkie

From high on a hill someone has called in from a sortie

A gun is reloaded with buckshot in a cartridge

He'll be stalking today, but not the pheasant or the partridge

They'll need to stoke up a stove and put smoke through a stack

With fresh meat on the way for nothing they'll lack

There's an eerie cloistered hamlet of sandstone houses

Where they all reside, them and their spouses

All rustic types who enjoy the wield of an axe

With the comforting thuds of well delivered hacks

They pull a plough with the tractor, circa the sixties

They're self-sufficient and drink moonshine, meths and whiskeys

Baccy beard is back with hands grime infested

With his weasel eyes mean and far from dejected

He cleans off the gore and loosens his belt

Po-faced, but eager, to have another cut dealt

There's one road; one way in, no way out

Sometimes there'll be a scream or desperate shout

They farm and forage and live off the land

Their crops and their traps are all carefully planned

Amidst the trees of a wood some fish from a river

With packed lunches of sweetbreads and freshly minced liver

There's an unholy hamlet down in the valley

Don't go there! It's a deadfall trap down a blind alley

They've the axe and the scythe; Hammer & Sickle

They're reticent, mean and constantly fickle

They've a rusty red tractor and bones in the wood

Sometimes there's an aroma of roast pork borne on a scud

The Unicorn

           

The Unicorn is abroad this night; tonight

In flight; in freefall; in dreams; always in dreams

We can all dream the dream of the Unicorn

We can all chase the dragon

Chase the dragon's fire... to escape... for a moment

To somewhere better beyond the smoke and mirrors

Beyond the carnage of God-fearing illusions

And the empyrean fields of man-made delusions

The Unicorn is in the free-fall of a fanciful flight

This night; tonight. In this reverie; always in dreams.

The innocent, benevolent, thundering charge of the Unicorn

Not borne on the dragon's fire; not born; never sired

We can all spill the caustic acid... to escape... forever

And drown in our dreams in the land of never never

Beyond the brutality of God-fearing illusions

And the self-righteous butchery found in man-made delusions

The Heavens

They preyed on the lambs and they granted no quarter

But now the wolves of the pack can only slaver for the slaughter

With crazed moonlit eyes they wander amongst the desolate barrows

With naught to stalk but a miasma of death enshrouded shadows

So they looked to The Heavens; the Moon and the stars

And they looked to the planets of Venus and Mars

How they howled and barked, till their breaths filled the air

But The Heavens are a legerdemain of ignorance and despair

They prayed for the lambs and sought solace from the warder

But The Heavens are empty and are the ultimate disorder

Ash and dust and scattered bones fill the death hallowed barrows

The shepherds were wolves and their fates were the gallows

Cold Heart/Bloody Palms

How cold is the heart that's as brittle as glass
Shattering to shards on the cusp of your grasp
And those shards are the razors that you grind in your hands
For in the ecstasy of pain only you'll understand
Feeding the fire to obliterate those dubious charms
The glass cannot glisten drenched in the blood from your palms

   Can you not shed a tear, are you misunderstood?
   Or are you purging the sorrow with your own vapid blood?
   Lazily leaking from each jagged rip
   Depleting your reasoning with each languid drip

Blood covered glass is embedded in the rents on your palms
And the hellish fire that's burning should've given cause for alarm
But those shards that are razors you now grind in your face
Ruinously gouging and shredding as you bid to escape
You're the fire, the blood and now you sob in agonized rasps
For cold is the heart that's as brittle as glass

Old Demons

I really don't know, I don't know where to begin

But all those old demons who lurked...

Well, they still lurk within

Some choose to creep, some choose to crawl

But do you know them, like I know them?

The ones that trick and the ones that trawl?

And who the hell are you anyway?

Sitting there staring at me...

With your silent opinions and with naught to say

Smiling that smile, showing those bloody fangs for teeth

You know them, don't you? Like I know them

Cos I've seen you before, but not holding a wreath

And with a wreath (it's not the end) it's where I begin

The symbol of old demons who lurked...

And they still lurk within

So you must be one of them who is always haunting

With your dead flowers in a ring

And your mocking look that's naught but taunting

But who the hell am I anyway?

Sitting here staring at you...

With my silent opinions and with naught to say

But my smile's as broad as a mile as the sirens sing a song of sin

Cos I know them as well as you know them

                             All those old demons who still lurk, they lurk within