Imagination of a Hero

I was sure of a resounding win, an outcome of joy, the guns of HMS Victory for Nelson to employ. A splinter of wood grievously set to fly off the hard oak taffrail, injuring an eye.

A wondrous ship with masts of height, Cannons aplenty a gathering of might, stepping out of the recall, fine when small, most dangerous hazard for the slow or the tall.  

On the quarterdeck, vice admiral discussing war, Hardy at his breech, listening intently to his speech, extraordinarily a shot rang out all of a sudden, it cut through the left shoulder it was a good-un Nelson fell back among the ropes.

No hope was found, our Master lay on the deck, his body down below, he was bleeding slow, three hours later, the battle won were to be his last, the Victory lost when Nelson, our hero passed, I had been left with a heart of no joy, but it did not matter much, coz we were only playing a game and I was only, a little boy.

Grate in Great Britain

I saw the grubby poor in the high street, wearing Nike shoes, the only pair, worn for a year, laid out the cash to a back street shifty, looking flash and nifty with his gold tooth and rotten, impetuous youth 

I recognised the tainted scent of marijuana, pungent shit on a stick wafted with the smell of sick, knock off eau de cologne’ masking a grotesque odour of the body, a tracksuit worn of the finest, dirty, old and torn

Counting sixteen, neigh twenty two, European nationals, where from?, who the bloody hell knows, hand out, begging for money to waste on smokey joes, departed from poverty and war torn hell

It’s just as well, waiting in the line queuing for everything, the white ruffian whore that swore, she doesn’t know a thing of life, grown into nought but living on the doe, crack cocaine, shit just the same

The High Street dead or dying, ‘Peasantville’  it’s name, it used to be grand with the finest shops around, now deserted and filthy, best item for cash if you dare risk the rash, still it’s cash, money in the pit

Girls go there in their ‘primaries’ robes with slippers on the feet, black eyebrows, jewellery in the beak, fat guts out in the midriff, looking for a spliff, skinny white boy says “looking sweet bitch” 

While scratching his itch, education is for the rich.

Ring Rosie

Ring around the Rosie’s
Children have  red nosies
Cough and splutter said
We will send them all to bed
A fever and a headache
An arm and a leg ache
A prayer or a whisper
We won’t be found dead

Romans 7 : but I am carnal

Strands of history, a thin web of thine own,
Fornication be, an unpleasant throne,
One can take account of a mouse in scuffle,
within a vast hall, ye! the truth ere shame
Contradict none, yet the same
To wear a jewel, a coat of thy blame
Heathen without blessing,
Be the blessed host, angel with fear
Tinder burn the frame, a coat of tear’
Wondrous joyful essence, a tragic chance
Away to the flames for thy eternal dance.
Death seems pleasant, a moment of bliss
So easily tamed to that final kiss
The devil gratuitously, give ye a hand
 Gods wanton child, to another land.

The cursed

Goodbye my friends, goodbye the hero
Trick has fell from one to zero
A meeting chance, one last dance
From Rome in Italy to Paris in France
Closed communication
A wit, a woo
A dreadful end, a trip to the zoo
There is no sorrow

No care from you

That was the way
you know it too
Too
too.................... too......................too.

The Prince of Duplicity

He is gone, you will see him no more, along with his iniquities he has been subjected, pulled into the dark, quiet forevermore, as a fallen pebble into sand of quick, remorse shall follow him until his vision of day implodes, his soul dissipating, thus gaining a place in hell forevermore. 

Gone is he, the man of power and pause, a prince of the realm, nay a prince of iniquity, his reputation in tatters before the world to see, the difference from a fake reality, forbidden to practice highly charged sensuality, freedom no more, for gone is he, gone is the prince of duplicity.

The parcel

I received a parcel addressed to someone else, there it lies, collecting dust on the shelf, I often look at it and wonder what I should do, the van man said it is for me and not for you, I could open it, to take a look inside, then again what secrets might it hide, I could take a cheeky peek but it may be something that I cannot keep, it might be mucky or something yucky it could be something rare or Lucky, I’m ever so concerned, a person could be missing out, I should open it really to find out what it’s all about but I daren’t as it’s Royal Mail and Im worried to find out now, it may belong to a neighbour or a present from a friend that they’ve saved a long time for something special to send, it’s agonising, so much I’m filled with tension, I fear it will be there when I collect my pension, okay, I’ll open it, no, I won’t, no I shan’t, no I can’t. I’ll leave it on the shelf for a little time longer until I’m feeling stronger.