Fault Lines

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Forever in the half light

held back by the hand of small

and always, yes always

feeling slight

yet heavy with this sense of loss

This burden like a trope

Afflicting types. My type

Leaving shadows on scenes

and spaces in lines of instruction

lingers on into my dotage

Passively disabling with irony

Where in my youth it was savage

incurring cold treasonous cuts

from an unsteady sense of self-esteem

And later, in my teens

the villains moved in as if

responding to a half-life

ignited by demons that clamoured

at an ill fitting door

I let myself go.

Dodgems. ( or tangled thoughts )

Dodgems.jpg

Opinions differ sharply

Into a melt of emotions

Skittish, as if, attached to volts

running through thin metal wire.

Suspended from,

an ornate ceiling

with flashing lights and loud music

that throbs

robs rational thought

from the orbs that register

this spectacle. Fantastic. Confusing.

A dodgem ride in a public place

with showers of

anonymity.

That cloak for unspeakable deeds.

Thames. River-side

Thames. River side

Thames. River side

I see the river and ache

I love this place

This manor, in which I am a lordly presence

Mine now and memories

But all the familiar smells

The scope of my nostalgia

This safety

Is it vanity?

Would I vouchsafe it all

Glibly, for golden sands in the Grenadines

Pose with chromatic lenses above a cocktail

Dream sweep a panorama “of it all”

In that am I shallow?

These feelings come to me

Disturb me because I need

Truth and beauty

I fear decay. Any wanton loss

Any light that shines upon

My frailty

All the lies and half-truths

That have bled from me

They are stains

Rust around the lettering

The messages I see.

About Face

About Face

About Face

Love torn from a healthy limb

The lover with the loss mourns

Everywhere is stained

Where pain seeps and shrieks

There is an infection of loss

So corrosive it pervades all known limits

To outpace normal life

The witnesses and family

Are caught in a tsunami,

of uncooked grief

Tendrils of revenge

And the clamour of self-pity

But when all is said and done

It is just the opposite of a smile.

Mike

Tales

Tales

 

If I were handed ‘the’ book

Inscribed with the letters of my name

It would be a raggedy thing

With torn and missing pages

In parts, a mystery to me

More lament than history

Where glowing deeds are reduced

To blown ashes and curled corners

Of half remembered things

But I am learning

To fear not, or if, not, less

Because the actual day I inhabit

Contains the truth

So I make history stall

In order to build

Day by day

A fitting legacy

That even I would recognize

Conscience

Conscience

 

I am a soldier in a covert war

Everything about me is nondescript

And I travel mostly under cover of dark

When the horrors are worst

And my ignorance at its’ height

Because the night time

Is my camouflage

When manoeuvres are across enemy lines

That often stretch beyond my ken

And victory, should I wish it

Is mine

But as this well intentioned vigilante

Wages retribution on your behalf

The real wars progress

Atrocities that fuel these dreams

Play out amongst the protagonists

And wounds that fester

Lives that are lost

Go unremarked at day-break

When Private Me awakes