Sheol

They're lost and in thrall to darkness as they descend

Into the netherworld where there's no time to wend

They once scoured the heavens from their pits of toil

But when they passed they were led beneath the soil

There's a path to the deepest of all the darkest depths

Where the milling shadows along its course are swept

Into the inky silent stillness, where all mortals follow

The final place when there's no more time to borrow

In Sheol they'll be, even if the living try to find an ember

And seek out the souls of shades, like the Witch of Endor

With necromancy the dead'll stir, but they'll never leave

But they may shape the darkness for those who grieve

Conjuration will never raise the dead, for we are them

When all we are is drifting shadows, it's not if, but when

We're all in thrall to darkness, when the last light fades

And we descend into the netherworld of Sheol's shades

Thank God (for Christmas)

Thank God (for Christmas) and with boisterous hymns and carols sing
Praise and swear allegiance, although he will never hear or see a thing
And let's thank Christ himself, not a son of Satan, but a son of sobriety
Who wends a way through the texts and transcripts of our faux society

Thank scribes for the God of knives and guns of the aggressive/passive
Happy holidays and Thump the runt, for his Johnson is woefully flaccid
And let the church bells ring, before the approaching sleigh bells tinkle
No(hell) and well, away from the groping hands and a fat mans' winkle
King of Heaven and Earth, to you they'll sing, verily and merrily on high!
God help us now though, for the connection's lost and the inkwell's dry
Our father who art in scriptures, some will starve under wings of locusts
Denizens, of this improbable world of friction, are awash in hocus pocus

And in the silent night the candles are fluttering with the passing of souls
As those abandoned and lost chase invisible dragons of apocryphal scrolls
Our Lord among us, in the smoke and mirrors, you are the unhinged lore
But we will thank God (for Christmas) and bless peace on Earth, for sure?

Tapping The Barometers

There's a time bomb ticking, or maybe it's a deathwatch beetle
And there are fingers tapping on glass, to try and move a needle
Perfect pressure is rising, like a fuse to burn a tinderbox of land
Parching what was verdant green, as the forest fires are fanned
It's time that's ticking, but not forwards, it's quickly ticking down
Not pausing for a single second, until it reaches the zero ground
Godforsaken world of our existence, it's going to 'crash and burn'
The end's in sight, we saw it coming, but there wasn't time to turn
High tides' water's lapping, so why are we tapping the barometers?
Everyone knows the facts, it's in the mercury of our thermometers
Born to die, one by one, but with extinction we can all die together
And although it'll not be today, ahead there is only stormy weather
Run for cover and hide away, beneath all those futile sapling trees
Our last hope has gone now, in the smoke of an Amazonian breeze
Mining, drilling, scrape the ocean bed and prospecting wells for oil
Earth to dearth, dust to dust and the fracking hell of rocks and soil
There's a time bomb ticking and there's not an hour left to wheedle
Even if the pressure is passing 'stormy', of the anticlockwise needle
Rage with need and say a pointless prayer, to keep the children fed
Sometime, much too soon, our blue planet will turn to Martian red

Oceans Of Fire

On a far away distant shore, he watches the setting sun sink into oceans of fire
Cascading rippling rainbows of colour, from plasma to golden brown; to admire
Ending in waves, it's now the time of the eschaton, as the heat caresses his back
As the conflagrations behind him are the apocalyptic infernos of a nuclear attack
Napalm, pestilence, the plague and what came next was from a nightmare vision
Seen before, but forgotten, as he cursed them all with missiles of ballistic fission
Out of the low desert sun, he created a cataclysmic path, in his Revelations' wake
Furious flames climbed to the enraged gods in heavens, as the mountains quaked
Fire and brimstone scorched the earth, as the shore of hellfire was turned to glass
In the dying embers, of this dying day, even the dead desisted, as ghosts amassed
Rains of acid may well pour, on the cinders of the shire and the razed metropolis
Eventide awaits him now though, in the oceans of fire of his barbaric apocalypse

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...