Sometimes
when unoccupied
I hear the cries
of my lost legions

skin dispels
its drops of poison
to the tunes of lies
and treason....

Discomfort
pinches as regret
denies the liberty of
forgetfulness ....

It was there
we ran like
lambs to laughter,
loved by landscape
further faster,

faster than
a smarting starlight,
hoofed in dew-soaked
volleys from our meadow
kicking feet..

and onward, upward

beat
those tracks
of flattened rye,
then took the dry-stream
bed by storm,

leapt the dams,
with air-sprung ease,  
and wore our leaf-haired
voices wider

quelled our glare
in sky-torn ponds
at peace,
  
with
our surrounding....


so
where, to, now
the Birchwood boys,
our atoms split,
our cells dividing

chided,
from our
founding frolic,

gone to chase
the last day down.

Whist now, love
speak quietly,
and keep your symbol,
close about you.
Only meet in darkness,
while this zealotry
prevails,

for they will
raze the sacrosanct to
filth of unkempt alleyways,
in mutilated outrage of
their tyrannous brigades...

Pray,

stay your song
inside yourself,
go placid into nothingness,
say little of your learning
hood the wisdom of your word,

They will come,
these new Inquisitors,
with torches for their narrative,

our difference is a Witchcraft,

and the Witches must be burned...

Threw the pebble
into the sea,

a billion years
in to a billion years...

a stoop, a grab,
a swing of the arm...

thought nothing
of it...

It has to be
a lack of sleep..

Insomniacal thought-police,
could only dream this up


Delivered from
a rolled-up note,
that bug-eyed trope
of one-skin buzz,
runs ugly through
the neighborhood.
Some duggery of skull-top
lynching underground
resistance, thinking
every shot, a tracer
bearing names.

They are
out there, now
in no-man's-land,
that orange hell
of pictograms
and all of them
insane.

Shovel out
the rook-black rain,
best travel light,
a cause unlaboured.

slavered at
the kissing-gate,

for sights that pull,
these paper hands
through cataracts
of fuddled scurf,

a road to chance
misunderstood,
and all because
the footsteps hurt...

it's Love and Hope,
those well-worn soles

that lead us ever onward...

Myth explodes
in tinted showers
spectrums gather hidden forces
God-led powers coursing
through these vibrant linen layers.
 
Pith unloads
sweet minted flowers.
question matter, given sources.
Cadence laced with light, displaced
embodiment of prayer.