Poetry
Issue #2
Grass is Greener
This my England, to whom I so often come home,
Pastures littered with creatures bathing in fire
seething now from aluminium torn from bubbling blood
that crawls back more crazed and yellowed than before.
Their order in circles, beautiful blurs of no fear,
Their purpose to shovel shadows of men into the soil.
Foot holes dug closer to him who they worship;
The Earth of England, this notion that they fight for.
I once dug for those foot holes, found strength and lost my own,
And a fading creature burnt my hands and heart,
"To be a Catholic without Christianity
is to have England without the world".
But we were too far in to appreciate these words.
I covered them in their own dirt one night,
It washed them in the only thing they know,
Further fuel to eternal embers, the bodies interlocked,
I see them but look up to old pastures, where shadows are not.
*
Your Descent
This my England, to whom I so often come home,
Pastures littered with creatures bathing in fire
seething now from aluminium torn from bubbling blood
that crawls back more crazed and yellowed than before.
Their order in circles, beautiful blurs of no fear,
Their purpose to shovel shadows of men into the soil.
Foot holes dug closer to him who they worship;
The Earth of England, this notion that they fight for.
I once dug for those foot holes, found strength and lost my own,
And a fading creature burnt my hands and heart,
"To be a Catholic without Christianity
is to have England without the world".
But we were too far in to appreciate these words.
I covered them in their own dirt one night,
It washed them in the only thing they know,
Further fuel to eternal embers, the bodies interlocked,
I see them but look up to old pastures, where shadows are not.
*
Reform
Hiding from the rush of it all
Pushing deeper into this corner
The world is visible
and so too the laughing of hiding mechanics.
To cease a solitary cog and mould separate and secure,
This was my answer.
Too long, too stifled, too lost in freedom,
Reform to join the hiding world, deform to cognate,
Jarred, jammed, unjumpered; submission is too late.
*
Cold Night
Winged creatures congregate,
Flashing shadows, dimming light,
Fading as an untangeable buzz rises
From every direction but a singular pitch
You hear, the whispers of the night knowing
You awake, to the ecstatic release of day,
In which out bursting buds rejoice
At their defeat of the fridge,
Stark and melancholy in comparison and in hindsight.