Life is beautiful

Marble slabs all covered in blood,

A thousand bodies lie in the mud,

No sound is heard,

but the dull thud,

And a man with a gun,

And a game, 

And a hood.

I am the plagues that eat the grain,

When there is sacrifice I am the pain,

I am the inspiration of wicked kings,

I am the snake stalks the bird as it sings,

I am the floods that drowned the poor,

I am the cogs in machines of war,

I raise your heartbeat when you clench your fist,

I colour eyes red so you can’t resist.

I am the beauty of damage and the pull of drugs,

In a garden of Orchids I am the slugs,

I am the courage in a heart full of hate,

I lend conviction to help devastate,

I am the whispers inside your mind,

And when you shut your eyes its me that you find.

I am the vapidity that crushes you every day,

And as much as you beg I’m not going away.

The darkness dances into my mind,

Quickening heels don’t open it much,

They make tyrants of the blind,

For all the colours they can’t touch,

Make more men merciless marauders,

Take torn tape to tell the tale,

Heed has held and hanged the hoarders,

Point pactolian palatines to prevail. 

They’ll hack until the head is gone,

They’ll never stop or ever slow,

Elevate the filthy spawn,

And trembling forward we will go.

Here them now as they savage your position, 

Armoured cards cannot collapse when faced with aquisition,

And yet possession is the luxury of courts and thieves,

Nomads forced to live and breathe and die beneath the eaves,

And with silver handkerchief wiping tears as if it grieves,

A subtle smile subverts the bile and a monster it conceives.

Fuck the narrative which swamps the fire,

Fuck the virtues of the liar,

Fuck the ropes which leave anger tied,

Fuck the ministers,

Fuck the managers,

Fuck all who made me wretched inside.

Your speeches will fade,

But this is forever.

Outside the river is glistening,

Outside a plane flies overhead,

Outside there are old men listening,

Outside the last words have been said.

Out for the morning trading,

And the people stare toward the sky,

Now Cherry blossoms are fading,

And a speck is reflected in an eye.

Outside there are people running,

Outside it whistles through the air,

Outside the light is stunning,

Outside the smell of burning hair.

Inside the children shiver,

Inside ornaments buried by ash,

Stones from the blackened river,

Bleached pavements echo the flash.

Lungs heaving emphysema,

Outside a putrid face will seer,

Behold the ghosts of Hiroshima,

Please take me away from here.

Collect your mercies in filthy sacks,

Sweep the scum and smooth the cracks,

No time to rest nor time for facts,

The loosened wheels spin in their tracks.

Throw them under to make them grip,

Its all for us, without we’ll slip,

Fire up the engines with those who trip,

The only crime is not to whip.

“Sell yourself!” we’re constantly told,

There is no hope for weak or old,

Better for progress to fit the mould,

But this whole ride just leaves me cold.

The first time my heart stopped;

Lungs compressed and mouth went dry,

My honest guard dropped,

And to this day I don’t know why.

The second time my heart stopped,

At the end of a phone connected to a wall,

And if I could I would opt, 

To never feel and never fall.

Because you never stop.

With trembling finger tips,

burnt skin and lying lips,

You try to hide it all away.

But you cannot change the view,

Smoke screens will not hide you,

you leave bare flesh and unused tools.

Well I’ll wait another year,

Cold rasps on nights of fear,

Maybe I’ll wait forever on.

This photo you will defile, 

With a brass knuckle denial.

But I hear the sounds you make,

In your head where you most shake.

In the meadow on the hill,

Observe perfection without a thought,

Score dances from birds until,

The haze descends;

All will be fought.

In the meadow on the hill,

He begs his world not to say goodbye,

The hungry war has not had it’s fill,

So he watches ashes rise to the sky.

He trembles before a flag,

A flag that despises him,

A flag that smothers him,

A flag he will burn.

Every shot he fires punctures his heart,

Now he bleeds every day,

He is the shadow that tears them apart

And every colour drains through to grey. 

For all this time he fought,

To hear that beautiful score,

But he died up in the meadow,

And the birds don’t sing anymore.