the howling ( a poem that is roughly 18months, to two years old),
james wf roberts
don’t mark my death
I heard the bird sing on the dawn
darker times draw forever closer
purple streaks upon pale blue
in my sleep
Angels sing on the wind
deep pools of faded hopes,
long forgotten memories
are we dead?
sitting in these shadows
amongst the ruins of an ancient library
scrolls, stone tablets all burnt
live in front of the wall
on the evening news
another brain cell dies
reaching for the remote
to watch fast cars—people burnt alive
my fingers covered in orange flavouring
my insides rotting from sweetened
that has conquered every corner
of the globe—
under the nose of the Commie, and now
the Suicide Bomber threat!
rose petals fall onto a concrete path
wilting trees ache, crack in the wind
they scratch, and rattle coldly on a window.
do you see her waltzing in the splinters of time?
as the mad-man diverts his gaze to a glass of wine
bird sits on a wire
hypnotized by its shadow
on the footpath below. your eyes burn
across the sky
the wise man comatose
the shadow kissed him full on his melancholy.
forced his heart to over dose
on the grave the Devil dances
the Angel wept.
once heard there was a secret word
a sacred song—but have we not lost our voice
forgotten how to read and write?
And I watch you sleep.
both of us so alone—yet so close.
I look over your perfect body
and long to touch you. again.
but my touch is cold
your kiss empty.
hair smells like oranges.
lips once tasted like strawberries.
maybe only women bleed,
and as the Poet said, all men kill the thing they love.
All I smell now.
followed by long, cold, stormy
Don’t mark my death
the Raven crows at midnight.
measuring life out with white crystals and a pendulum
three little lines of hope. Glory.
will we cry
when the world stops breathing—
all of us smoking away in a plastic bubble.
“ Vibrating. Grinding. Bleeding.
thrust deeper. Deeper.
She’s begging for it. Come on
Deeper. Deeper. Harder faster”.
“let her bleed. Let her bleed…
it’s only minerals and rock, sand, dust
not a real person anyhow…”
lounging in the arms of night
as priestesses and unicorns danced
around a spire—a fountain over flowing
yet traffic keeps on going past
unaware. Of beauty.
reality cuts your insides out.
God is dead they proudly proclaim as the Angel bleeds tears of oil
upon my page. In this garden of hate.
running. running. running in this hallway
chased by a mechanical fire breathing Beast
thus I do begin my descent into Howling.