TAP

Tags

arms, Devil, Hell, military, poem, poetry, satire, weapons

TAP

Milton said it:
enough forges in
the fires of Hell

enough military intellect
down in its bowels

enough weapons (range
and close-quarters) to
do
infinite damage

hard not to
become deranged when
the beauty of death
so absolutely
on tap.

AT THE DEVIL’S DISCO

Tags

Devil, poem, poetry, satire

AT THE DEVIL’S DISCO

was at
the Devil’s disco

everyone there
wanting to fellate
the DJ

and here I am
unspeakable, untouchable,
a creature of lack
surmising the presence
of a lover

thinking in this place
of total, absolute fake connection,
eternal need
there must be the
odd yearning, yawning
gaping chasm
of a self

came here driven
by desire to be filled

IN THE DETAIL

Tags

Devil, Humanity, irony, poem, poetry, satire

IN THE DETAIL

wrote
“The Devil
is the
Devil”

and you phoned me up
in the middle
of the night

terrified of possible slander,
hellish libel litigation

so I had to
retract to appease
the faithfully religious some of
whom quite unconsciously
his followers

wrote
“The Devil might
be the victim of
instances where
he finds
himself
the Devil

but this, quite obviously,
in some alternate universe
we need
not worry about”

DARKNESS POEMS

Tags

darkness, death, emptiness, Evil, negative, poem, poetry

DARKNESS POEMS

ROLLER

I took a roller to
my life’s story

so every scene
could fade to gray

dark gray, light gray
forget the fifty
when it comes
to gray there
are but
two shades only

everything just
a reconfiguring
of life’s single binary:
your
triumphant humanity
of the good, truth and
beauty

versus mine of failure
self-deception and pain

***

LAST POEM

they tried
to save
my last poem
but it
did not

want
to be saved
tried
to escape

but was caught
and burnt
for being
insufferable

(I too
feeling
the
glorious
horror
of
fire

as it
went up in flames)

***

DARKNESS POEM

I stumbled into a deep
and terrible darkness

most people
cannot fathom
and yet it is there

a darkness fit
for Styx or
the Stygian premise
that is Tartarus

down through the innermost
regions of Hades to
that place where
evil is singularity
rages
out of control

rips the black wings off ravens
to colour the sky as is befitting
with their
blood
and black feathers

the sky that is
perfect as
expression

of hopelessness
and pain

***

TAKE

take everything you gave me
all the good, the bad
and the really bad

strip me down to nothingness
where there is nothing to
say, nothing to feel

no words to utter
just the
revelation
of a
nihilism
that nothing can answer

***

Mr 9mm

Mr 9mm sidled up to me
started to speak
at point blank
range

enunciated all
the key points of difference
between myself
and the world

when it came to
matters of
belief, philosophy and ideology

no gainsaying that position
countering that argument

***

ZERO PEOPLE

they are the
zero happiness ones

God created them so
you might feel good
about yourself

easy now to
think
there but
for the grace
go I

truth being
they don’t really suffer
after you
have drawn
the important life
lesson about
being grateful
you are
quite at liberty to
dispose of them
gently, euphemistically,
or, as is
way more fun,
with flamethrowers, icepicks,
chainsaws or sawn-off shotguns

for when it comes
to any reasonable definition
of humanity
they are
hardly to be
considered people

are more like those old
clunky cathode-tube androids
from that low-tec science fiction
film and Tv from
the 1950s

born into lives
without love
it is
really a species
of highest, most
caring mercy
to end their suffering
any way you like

AT MY COMMAND

Tags

Devil, Evil, infernal, poem, poetry, power, writing

AT MY COMMAND

the Devil bequeathed me
his book of dark poetry

each page flirting from
absolute zero to
thermonuclear fire
with a blink
in the batting of
a slow mortal eye

and there
I imbibed
and imbibed
to be
armed
to be ready

for a war
of words second to
none on
the horizon
and few, so few
determined
to survive

but the terror of
the dark metaphors
taxed me so greatly,
so
difficult to
get one’s mind around
without
slipping into
madness, brain
shattering as
their truth dawned

let alone to
learn, make mine

stand with the
power of every
single infernal legion
at my command

AT A PINCH

Tags

Britain, British, Dominic Cummings, poem, poetry, The Devil

AT A PINCH

he spilled the salt
then threw
some
into my eye

a pinch, just
a pinch out of some
strange superstition

and all I was doing
was reading
his Facebook profile
and other stuff about
him I was surmising
looking
over his shoulder

that, at a pinch, I, Dominic,
might induce him
to vote for
me

help establish the
eternal reign
of my dark Kingdom

CROSSROADS

Tags

blues, Devil, Music, mythology, poem, poetry, reality television, satire

CROSSROADS

the Devil
he be
sitting waiting
at the crossroads

sucking, bowing
on his mouth harp
picking a tune
out of
his slide guitar

needing to
kill time in
the back of
his shiny black
Cadillac
vehicle iconic
of old-style
Corporate evil

but he waits
in vain, like
he’s in
a Beckett play

no Robert Johnson,
James Brown
strolling up
to sell his
soul for
genius

they all think they
are ready, raring to
go
firing on
all cylinders, needing
no special
infernal
fuel injection

to play
havoc with
the odds

because today
it’s all
so real, so
reality program

no need for boost
bad spiritual or
evil mythological

to connect with
the demons can
wail, can make
a guitar
cry, weep, scream

the guys on
the panel know, will
give me
my recognition

no need
to sell my
soul
whatever
it be
that thing

whatever
price it bring

STATE OF PLAY

Tags

irony, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, satire, Truth

STATE OF PLAY

a God that
loves
absolute Truth
(with as
big a
capital “T”
as you
can get)

a Universe
that loves
irony

a Devil that loves
lies more
than any
politician

and me
with my
little, stupid
rhymes

FAIR TRADE

Tags

Devil, Hell, money, poem, poetry, satire

FAIR TRADE

the queue for Hell
is very long
has been
backed up
for centuries

billions of
souls waiting in line

for the Devil to appear
sell them tickets

FROM THE PAGE

Tags

dissent, Fascism, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, totalitarianism, writing

FROM THE PAGE

was writing, writing
writing

could not get the words right
(right meaning “exact”,
not in league with
some
masquerading devil

who would march us up
in our regiments, crisply uniformed,
to the iron
gates of Heaven

where angels with machine-guns
check our credentials
let us In)

no the words, as you see here, were
running away from me
flying off at tangents
swirling on the wind
without focus or power

and who would read such
preposterous metaphors,
ridiculous images
Cassandra warnings of
the end to all polity?

and yet
hopeless as the poem is
however ineffectual

the forces of denial are battering away
smashing at my door, pressed up
against my window
desperate to prevent my pen
producing a line, managing
a choice phrase

for this dominion must be absolute, no
dissent is
tolerable

even this sad, worthless effort
blood-washed from the page