Angerland

In this England we have been sold racist lies

not looking to god or to the sky 

for someone to save us 

Pent up rage disgusting but we live in a desperate stage

where we are never heard in democracies grave

right left bleed the same 

and politricks us

into divisions

what the colour of skin doesn’t matter

we should unite before our world ends in tatters 

of civil unrest and war

the key to heavens door is working together 

Hell for leather 

politicians and Media spread hate

it’s not too late to educate

to show that whether you’re Muslim Hindu Christian or Sikh

love is the same no matter what language you speak. 

So in this England or angerland let’s remember 

that the enemy is greed we don’t need to turn on trans people gay lesbian or people of colour 

everyone is your brother or sister 

and the so called agenda of division 

is an illusion sent by billionaires and people who profit from dissent and bloodshed 

we all die let’s use the brain in our heads

love and peace is the dog we feed

and hatred is a sickness we don’t need!

I miss the days

I miss the bad days

the way you hate me

your words reverberate around my head

we are still in conversation

though in my imagination

sex and beastly claws

the way you wanted more than I could give

I cannot live

without thorns a rose wouldn’t be a rose

I am torn our love wasn’t really love without pain

I am just a blood stained hand holding on

a rose

it’s thorns like all your angry words cutting through skin

love is a tragedy we are all flawed within

yet romantic attachment

when it works

can heal the heart and make it beat like it’s going berserk.

Atlas

It tares apart like paper
born from a saviour’s verse
The devil doesn’t mind, she makes it worse
I collect the curses
I recycle them like newspaper
rhetorical rhymes
in my life of grime.

I shine like the steeple of church
but I’d rather be the birch the trunk of a tree
for this a goddess induced reality
Wisdom causing minds full of incoherent clarity
I lose my faith wandering in garden labyrinths
the chances are we won’t find the goddess or her nymphs
or there chalices in the angles or angel absinthe
that we drink or think outside our boxes
so neat we feel no feeling in our defeat
yet we drink it all down
like sad pathetic clowns
in the pubs wearing our overalls and scrubbing away.

Polishing our lamps just to find genies or djinn
in our lives that our extraordinary and full of sin
yet we all fall beneath the skin
the earth full of mud and shit
the page half written is full of it
yet it feeds us and bears fruit
forms the roots of all we cultivate
for man is no man unless he has a little hate
and enough love to permeate
his sad heart
beating in tune to the bleeding womb
he wants to enter
another grand venture
trying to give his child
the wisdom of being wild
and free while they try to chain his children
with the care they placed on his shoulders
I love you Atlas don’t get tired
Or older the love that beats in your soul
don’t let the fire get colder…