Terra Noctis 

I saw a sign the other day 

That said welcome to the future 

Are you ready for the change 

And I wondered what I might say 

But all I could think 

Is I’ve been better 
I drove out to the sea 

And leant into the wind 

Waiting for a revelation 

But reality doesn’t lend itself to romance 

And all I found was sand and water 

As it has been 

Since before I was born and long after 
I tried hard to find the answer 

But when I look back did I try that hard 

I’m not broken, just lost 

Because I can’t decide where to belong 

And all the constructs of my mind dissolve 

In the acid of the dawning day 
I welcomed all into my mind 

But not all things want to stay 

And that is the fate of a dreamer 

To realise the lack of control 

The reactionary existence 

And to grasp at rising balloons 

As they pass by 

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An Honest Appraisal 

Someone finds salvation 

In a length of string 
And another in the semiotics 
Of a burial wreath 

Someone builds a bridge 
For a long broken relationship 
While another finds the strength 
To carry on regardless

A stranger finds their self 
In someone else’s keepsakes 
And the owner wanders lost 

In the desert of regret 

A famous man’s journal 
Holds the secret to immortality 
But those who read it 
Are blinded by its simplicity 

The irrelevance of identity 

Living alone in a forest 

With no conversation 

But the trees 
Shaped and moulded by the stark landscape 

Bled for useful material 

And shaped for use

A brick, a cog, a plank of wood 
Don’t risk the soul 

For gamble with God 

On who gets the rights 

To your everlasting legacy 

Je Suis l’Obscurite

In broken sleep

In visions half glimpsed 

In sickness and in health 

In brotherhood and honor 

In whispered secrets and lies 

In the vacant moments before the fall 

In truth and infidelity 

In what has been and what will 

In the fear of the void 

In the strength draw from the death of another 

In facing the truth of the self and all its failings 

In being let down 

In the overwhelming loneliness of existence 

In all aspects of this barely contained existence 

In all of these things 

There you are 

Tomb of the forgotten poet 

Look

Up, down

But not ahead

The lines are drawn 

The weathered battle flags flown 

Wait for the golden trumpet blast 

The second hand ticking over to detonation 

Not a minute to spare in the day

Not a single moment for the long forgotten dead 

Whose stories no longer exist, assassinated by smoke and steel 

Lost in sandcastles in the sky, wreathed in cloud 

 We are left to March the relentless highway 

Left without a reason for romantic nostalgia 

And struggling to see the reason 

To keep tradition and ceremony 

When we also die 

Given enough life

Given enough 

Time 

Stage Left 

It’s a cut-throat world 

In a court marshal town

Even with the covers pulled up 

And that’s not my kind of scene 
It’s a drop of ink in the ocean 

And too much oxygen in the lungs 

And starving to death watching reruns

And that’s not my kind of scene 
It’s the sound of a beautiful song 

On repeat for eternity 

Steak and lobster fed intravenously 

And selling your intimate secrets 

For a train ticket 

The means to move on 

To remain a carrier 

To maintain fear of the reaper 

It’s the sky in perpetual meltdown 

Refracted through plate glass 

And that’s not my kind of scene 
It’s the end of your days 

Passing in silence 

Without a moment to reflect 

To count the strands, the fibers 

From which your flag of your life 

Was woven and hung 

And that’s not my kind of scene 
But it’s all about the setting, not the scene

The Daily Grind 

Between the lead sheets of duress 

And the wasted purgatory of 

The Real World 

They lie 

Pushing the levers 

Oiling the gears 

Longing for the status quo 

Keeping respectful sorrow

In the face of their betters 

Their masters 

Those who hung corpses 

Of the last vile insects 

To spit on the floor 

And cast down their smiling masks 

Masters whose rotating heads 

Display their transient nature 

And the many faces they employ 

Casting lustrous eyes 

Over slave chains

Made of pure gold

A war drum, a darkened song 

Is answered by the effective envy 

Of a cruise missile 

Echoing the ratatat of automatic rifles 

Clean and operational

and cooperative 

Just as all things should strive to be 

The corporate manifesto 

Bend to the wind and break, like a pathetic little twig, sickly thin and malnourished, vulnerable and naked to the elements. No one will save you, your guardian angel doesn’t give a fuck, the world belongs to the meek but their contract ran out long ago, the producers on that album took the advance and ran like hell. Welcome to the state of your sanitised credit rating, just as dismal as the inevitably sinking rowboat that is your creative ability.  Forget the romance of a late resurgence, your scene died before you were born, every thought you’ve ever had is just a recycled, regurgitated pile of plastic products made by sweatshop workers in a third world country. There is no hope. There are no second chances. Welcome the darkness, it owns your soul. The debt is mounting. Pay up, then die.