currency – Page 2 – The Warrior of Poetry: The Poetry archive

The Day Jesus Left Town.

Days of sheep and lambs to slaughter, days of indecision and loss of spirit, days of shouting loud to anthems, by vain and colourless music spirits, days of no direction of compass wheel rusty, days of children who do not know why they were born, days of populations eating landmass.

End of days in devotion sincerity a sin, days of rudderless morals the sexes of all temptation, days of missing points coming to full stops, days of lost children shouting for help.

The day Jesus left town we all cried, is our Father in heaven leaving his vulnerable children now alone in days and nights of indifference’s, days of the meek now unable to speak.

Kiss The Snow Of Mountains

No matter how clever one is there is always something you will never know, if your feet touched the ground of every named country upon the planet or kissed the snow of mountain tops, you would never consume all found knowledge. Could this be our imperfections revealed, a frustration I cannot scratch that itch of human discontent.

To the enquiring minds of the seekers if the word, as it is named as truth, within divisions or hierarchies unknown, one has opinion as poles apart, one humans vision is just a constant star in the nighttime sky in another land upon a different night.

I have likened us to ants, but a trifle more clumsy our minds and discoveries, not always for the best. As countless in numbers our wars do attest, to under the god of light the sun, the master of life or death when revealed, more unleashed than ever in times of now within and under ozone depleted screens of a damaged ionosphere.

Mr Tang What’s Cooking ?.

And the green air insidious, is he flitting in bushes coughing and choking tasting recipes of death in the world. As if you never wondered why the brains were cooking and the madness never dead, all the things you wanted but could never put them to bed, dancing in your mind. Raving in a mind like Cinderellas cracker and a prince with no clothes. Its a loony fry up in a greasy slippery slimy shady world where the dogs are half as mad as you and of course Mr Tang…

If As Matter…

If as matter we do return after death, then back to the beaches as grains of shiny sand caught as jewels by the sun, shimmering back at the living as a constant shifting puzzle augmented by wind, sea profound. Pulsing in magnetised gravity by a needy moon pulling rushed stellar moments to a receptive living over-mind, pondering in a space time continuum.

Party Porn People

We live in the time of the enterprise of loin, it is everywhere and it is obvious that the human or thing worships itself by image. In the main man now works by image alone in discordant forms of hedonism, slowly creeping. Exposures of the wrong kind are now prolific, we certainly survive on the exposure brought about by the enterprise of the loins in a vivid crucible of metaphysical party porn people…