Low Desert Sun

Low desert sun, casts his empty shadow forward, as if to show him the way
Obligingly guiding him, across the land of the lost, beyond the break of day
Wandering away from all humanity, in a sackcloth hood for a leper's crown
Delirious with visions of the desert metropolis as purified as the ghost town
Eventide through night revives him, as he trips in sand, for his flesh is weak
Safely hidden, beneath the stars, to tend the rancid flesh on his rotting feet
Endless darkened dreams infuse him with wanion, as he peels away his skin
Revealing the corrupted beating heart of him, of pestilence, plague and sin
The dawn's ablaze with neon, drawing him near, like moths to oceans of fire
Shining like a beacon to the approaching, droning swarm of an unholy choir
Under his hood, watching the beginning of the end, he calls for rains of acid
Napalm and hellfire's falling, he smiles, for the smell of burning flesh is acrid

The Ghost Town

Time has stopped, for those who lived there, they were born to die
He therefore wanders, like a starving jackal, beneath the desert sky
Every rotten door he knocked on, crumbled, hinges seized with rust
Guarding the secrets within, for outside there was only swirling dust
He'd passed through before, but was repelled by their crude aspersions
Ousted back into the wastelands, as they prayed behind closed curtains
Seared by the low desert sun, his misguided life became insanely vague
The only memory that was certain, was he cursed them with the plague
They've gone now, 'cept for the shades, for nothing's alive in the valley
On the empty streets is tumbleweed and wind-whipped sand in a ballet
Wandering from the ghost town, he hides himself underneath a hood
Not knowing his future destiny, but always knowing where he's stood

On The Edge

I'm hurrying and I'm scurrying and I'm hiding away

Scuttling through a mossy bog, I'm acting like prey

I sense they are there, for their shadows are coming

So I'm breaking my cover and into a mire I'm running

I'm a man on the edge and I'm abroad in dark places

For I can see their quizzical eyes in their invisible faces

And all their inaudible voices are whispering my name

For they're feeding my real fears, with insanity's claim

I'm squelching my escape through boulders and rocks

I think they're now afar, but I was slow out the blocks

So warily I trundle and stumble until I'm sure I'm alone

And step behind a grey monolith of unbreakable stone

I'm restless and tired after all of my delusional rigours

But before I take respite I espy those peregrine figures

And it feels like a nightmare, or paramnesia at a stretch

For now I'm sat above a precipice and I'm out on the edge

I had to escape from my demons and I think you'd agree

But now I'm clinging to crumbling rocks high above a sea

And I'm holding my breath because my back's against a wall

But I'm losing my grip; oh no, oh fuck! I think I'm gonna f...

1 Corinthians 10:20, 21

1 night, tonight, 10:20 pm and 21 seconds past
Can you see him now? He's of an unearthly caste
Oh desolate Heaven, in awe, let Jehovah witness
Rapt by the dark alluring of this Allhallows sickness
In the macabre dancing flames of the pumpkin heads
Nothing's alive, but fear and where our insanity treads
Taking us to the black mass altar, to await the demon
He who rises from the inferno, he is Hell's Amaymon
In Corinthian fables, with the unholy, we cannot sup
And come Allhallows, there can only be Jehovah's cup
Now's the time to turn our backs on the witches spells
Something evil's calling though and in darkness dwells

Secular Ways

They say he parted the waters and guided them through

But the righteous path was fictitious and they hadn't a clue

For his story was thereafter, but now we're dying in waves

As, under a crescent, we cross a Dead Sea of watery graves

It was an imaginary scenario, for nothing is planned

For ours is the desert, juxtaposed to an eternity of sand

And we're still killing each other in an ideological war

For the indoctrinated are unrestrained like never before

But they say we're lost and abandoned in our secular ways

Although we're bearing their cross until the end of our days

So let's follow them to the sea and observe at close quarters

And let them show us the true way, by parting the waters

Smoking Ruins

It's all gone, it's lost, all that's left is the obliteration of our smoking ruins

And those flames that raged high to the sky and the moon and the stars

They were doused, as we hid away from reality, in subterranean shelters

Though we eventually came up to breathe, the atmosphere was charred

We choked on the toxicity of the fallout and the ire of our bile for awhile

As our world crumbled like delusional effigies, that were burnt to ashes

Now it's all gone and there's only the shuffling of feet through dead embers

And as the acid rain falls on our smoking ruins, only the pain is remembered

Burrough Hill ('19)

To the south of my humdrum valley home

Burrough Hill stands above the copious loam

Amongst an easy farrago of rolling undulations

It's an empyrean plateau afar from conurbations

The weathered Iron Age ramparts atop to crown

Like an immovable sentinel for the nearby town

With exquisite views across to its namesake village

Betwixt the two, there's a vale and a farmers' tillage

Adorning the verdant slopes are the covert and spinney

Footpaths and bridleways, where horses might whinny

And above in the sky the ravens will rise on the breeze

Before they swoop and they glide with consummate ease

From the trig or the toposcope on the fortified scarp

With keen eyes that are directed, focused and sharp

Seen in a summers', vaporous, heatwave shimmer

The distant glass towers of Leicester might glimmer...

And on a cold, but clear day and afar from the masses

When the wind is crying, there's a scattering of ashes

Caught by a north easterly it's a last salute to the city

To celebrate and remember, there's joy without pity...

It's a home for cattle and sheep and the occasional pig

And is often a place for a university's archaeological dig

Above the fields of crops and amongst other undulations

Burrough Hill timelessly stands afar from conurbations