Death IS my dominion
Starlight blinded Zombie Thomas,
You flow over London bridge with the rest,
Patronising, haunted,
A leather-bound Dylanesque anxiety guitar.
Inglorious, muddy Roman-Greco mechanical wrestling
echoes through the trenches of Khandahar,
fuelled by the throat-red shrill of frightened banshee teens.


My death will be glorious.
This death will be my own.
But no red pin will cradle my lapel,
Not on white tracksuit tops
Or on  baseball caps,
Turned backward in futile defiance
To whatever is left of rebellion.

The tractor trailer mechanically forced grain into the football pitch.
The seeds like anti-depressant pills;
The grass will grow,
with symbiotic weeds,
and keep growing.
Kids will kick balls around in a semi-chaos,
Stunt time,
 Remind our fathers of how fucked up they make their offspring.
GOAL.

Sauchiehall street,
beneath the stark, commercial lights
we, the impenetrable conjoined silhouettes,

defied the chaotic convention
of fragmented Glaswegian windows
and street-shattered bottle glass.

We fused together,
incandescent with warmth;
a spectacle to sting the eyes of the lonely.

We loved with no spark,
far beyond mere language and train-timetables.
It was real, as real as neon gas.

In you I search,
          Behind the deep quiet of ordinary eyes
For pixels of life.



I tremble and flinch,
          For nothing screams or tenses up.
A deafening zero...


         

Do not be fooled
this stuff that hurts
I alone consume.
it's mine;
regardless of the time,
or the who.
You are what you love,
not what loves you.

From the endless cradle of dreams,
open mouthed
reality falls around like slow Alaskan rain.

Defy this body.
Test the laws of human frailty
and purge your fragile, tight-tube heart.

GET UP.
please.
GET up.
please



Transcend this unholy fucking bed.
Walk straight, do not slip:
set fire to that pale good night,
boil these comfortable morphine tears;
This sweet December frost
kills not in a garden of death.
Rage, rage, strike back,
Annihilate the living and their cost.