Cadavera Vero Innumera

As I roam this land collecting treasures,

paired bits of silver in place of souls

the cost simply cannot be measured

the reaper rejoices on fire as we supply hot coals.

Just parts and pieces, sands in wounds ran deep

despair written on every evacuated face.

it brings visions that haunt you in your sleep.

to take a living from a dying place

The wind whips up a storm

skewing my view of the field before me.

where strategy applied to men in uniform

left to burn by sacrificial decree

leaves countless flocks of vultures,

picking away at the bones

as these rotten clashing cultures.

continue the big game of sticks and stones.

Cadavera vero innumera,

corpses make landfall on the coast

they do not know what awaits

as they march in file off of boats

into the dead zone where orders dictate fates

souls to meet the reaper face to face

set foot on the field where many have already died.

When this soul moves on in search of a resting place

St peter turns away, his rejection justified.

Theres no paradise for those who cast violence

bullets and bombs fall on homes by the score.

It terrifies and scorches leaving lifeless silence

bullets and bombs the noise of unholy war.

Smoke Floats Out My Window

Its torture its ridicule.

Tumbling incoherent times of inconvenience.

What to do or not to do or who

To do what with when and why

Its not the best idea but not the worst

In case you think outside the box no your not personally cursed

It’s typical indifferent sexual behaviour

And nothing worth much thought or savour

But its typical, isn’t it just?

To lose oneself in stereotypical selfish lust.

A lust for love for money or danger

Its irrelevant in the end, they are all strangers

To come, come again then take their leave

What a fraudulent little basket-case we weave.

For me there is one particular thing

To fill my lungs allows my mind to sing

A happy note a melody or two

Plumes of white saviour for the likes of me and you.

To muster the reasons why

I put hand on heart I swear to no lies.

It begins at the beginning:

Young, I believe life is still worth winning

Only to be forced forward at alarming pace,

my steps became quicker, I thought, soon I’ll join this mad race!

It is so matter of fact its bound to attract

unhealthy advisers, to join the joining of the on ramp!

They roar and bang and screech and fuck and hate

everything.

Gruesome aesthetics akin to an orgy of monsters and gods.

Carnal carnage,shit and spunk around, shit and consume

I survey my opponents and let them on their way.

some have theirs I have mine, I refuse to pay

for paltry and pauper reward, the scraps of swine

I refuse I refuse thus medicate with wine!

Death to fuck…aye! loosen a drawl

I arise spirits at once heart enthralled

they’re all Donald Ducked, mad cunts will fuck themselves up.

such dissent such a height to fall for one so mindfully small.

to land twitching on the floor, no power no more.

They advise filming the demise, viral fame for blind eyes

blood and gore of twitching sores from once

were shining stars makes for fantastic footage.

I veer askew, turn my face.

Take me away from this horrid place.

So light up! But watch your step, that sign says slippery when wet.

I now feel fine my simple stars have all aligned

sailing high skies low dark beautiful blue filled with glow

Fuck this race, my preferred personal pace is slow.

Yet, the fire burns young fast fiercely for

rain. Something special. I’m someone grey

what more to waste than waste away

and smoke floats out my window.

Just Through the Barrier – May 11th 1945

There she was, somewhere and nowhere, impossible I once thought but no it was true, she was real again and she was just through the barrier. All I had to go on now was the name signed on smuggled letters and the worn picture of a face that once took me and took me all at once. Her charm wasn’t in her eyes as poetically blue as they were it was the look she gave, not the eyes themselves. I could almost remember it. I thought of it many times, it was sanctuary, but was it still true? All this bloodshed changes a man, does it change his heart? Would she accept me now, battle hardened, mechanical like the tanks and the munitions? I have killed, I don’t know how many, the firing was indiscriminate across the lines but by the law of numbers alone someone or many were felled by my aimless bullets. Others are the same, innocent as I, criminal as I and now suffocated by the same dismay, guilt and numbing indifference as I. Uniform has become irrelevant again, we have become men once again, men who long for the comfort of home.

At a Glance

The cracks appear upon initiation

A self-imposed corrupting violation

An impossibility she might expect

To knowingly do what he will henceforth regret

A step in the wrong direction.

Inaction will not escape her detection.

No not a simple prize on offer

Perhaps a chance to entice her further

Perhaps a panic, a masterstroke or abject failure?

Riddles ride rendering all thoughts traitor.

At a glance he needs only speculation

A desire inherent with mutual intention

Take from the stem, diligently pick delicately

Petals fall floating aimlessly intricately

Painting the air with an idea eccentric

Clear only in colour, lucid for the risk and the trip.

Before once wishing petals waste away

He must invite her to stroll together to stray

Onto a canvas unpredictable by nature,

He requires her blessing to complete the picture.

The Cunts and The Bad Times

The Cunts and The Bad Times

What else is there? Is this it? A lonely end high above London Town. This is the darkness at the end of the tunnel they don’t tell you about.

Its all about ‘recovery’…for them. The cunts. What about the family? The family is better off without me now. I couldn’t keep the roof over their heads, feed them, heat them, provisions have dried up just like the jobs. “The Economy will recover slowly”…we all just need to ‘get by’ until then. Easy to fucking say when your the bastard child of two upper class siblings. When you have no perception of minimum wage. When you’ve never been asked to work thirty hours a week for fucking free! When you’ve never had to feed five children out of one pocket and feed the fat man from the other. Fucking politicians, bankers, businessmen and generals. The horsemen of the apocalypse. Not their own, just everyone else’s. We’re cattle fit for work and slaughter and nothing but.

Survival of the fittest they say. Translation: success of the cunts breeds the constant struggle of the rest, the plebs. Fucking Darwin gave them cunts the perfect reasoning to steal and enslave. Not that it was his fault, the rules of nature are only supposed to apply to the beasts. That’s what makes us better, our ability to reason, to help each other not out of instinct but out of kindness. What’s happened to human nature? Has it been twisted beyond repair or has it always been this evil?

I could stand here swaying in the icy gust as I enjoy the view and blame the system or I could hold my hands up, a failure, and try to fly one last time and hope the insurance pays out. Maybe I’m doing it wrong. The life insurance wont pay out if I jump, I cant provide if I’m dead. I cant provide anyway. Maybe twenty years ago I should of became a cunt. Maybe it takes being a cunt to ‘get by’. Maybe it just takes greed and a general ignorance of human suffering. Fred the Shred – sorry Sir Fred the Cunt as he is affectionately known by the observant objective free press – why is he not up here with me? Where are Goldman and Sachs? Where is the fucking faceless suit who took my house? Where is the fucking cunt who rejected my application for job seekers? Where is that cunt Cameron? Get him up here and let me kick his cunt all the way to the bottom as we freefall to a glorious escape from this hell. Patience, I’ll get that cunt soon.

I wish I was in Fightclub, the view reminds me of it except instead of a blissful chain of explosions to shock the world into change I could plummet to pancake form and not one person will break stride below but perhaps to film my corpse and post it on youtube. Life will go on around the rats gnawing on my bloody remains. The cattle market stops for no man, especially a dead man. Instantly forgotten. Presently ignored.

Its a long way down. Vertigo shakes my legs in a way I haven’t felt since the bad times began. Once hunger and insomnia have taken control of your body it reacts in very strange ways. You starve yourself to feed the others, then realise its all just fucked anyway. First its the shakes. Uncontrollable spasm of the main muscle groups, all but the heart which stays strong, but only for so long. When the heart gives up the head starts to go. When that happens its almost over. If your lucky you’ll stroke out and vegetate through these bad times. If not you’ll struggle on like the rest of the fucking herd. Just cattle, that’s all we are. That’s why I’m here. Send a message to the fucking farmer. Technically a fucking war criminal. Guilty of genocide on foreign lands and a host of gruesome crimes against his own people. Great Britain! A land where hard work is expected for ill reward. Where the affluent few exploit the cattle, sit back in their castles and fuck each other over swan dinners. Perhaps our only hope is that incestuous ejaculation finally catches up with them. Some sort of horrific mutation takes place and the next generation of this particular species of swine are all struck down by their own twisted genes.

Where did aids come from? The two clear favourites are the Congo or fucking Noble England. Its certainly where we should direct the virus next. Followed by a wave of influenza and we can sit back and enjoy as they all slowly die out coughing and spluttering in shame. An outdated breed of human kind that deserve nothing more than extermination. If only karma were real.

I don’t believe in playing God. Choosing who lives or dies, I’m no general. But I can create karma. The cunts caused this, these are the bad times. So here goes, leave it to fate. There it is, fuck. Its time. The Prime Minister’s car. Ready, aim, jump!

“Ye Hypocrites,…

“Ye Hypocrites, are these your pranks
To murder men and gie God thanks
Desist for shame, proceed no further
God won’t accept your thanks for murder.”

Robert Burns

Of his time and ahead of his time…perhaps time is still the same simply technology has improved where human nature has demised and now we are just better at killing each other. We are still a God fearing race however…this pretence, this facade inspires vomit and defeats kindness. We are selfish to the bone. As one we are poison.