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Sullivanthepoet. Com

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Plymouth, England, UK

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Death of a Poem

by

Sullivanthepoet. Com

Wet charcoal black and stained yellow white the corpse lay leeching
its life into the gutter like copper smell molasses,
Its syllables, bleeding from the softening pulp of its body, running
black in the acid rain of a thousand blood, turned rust, turned pencil
grey stained sharp steel words.

Tapping, tattling plastic camouflage knives as sharp as charity
flicking and guttering across the keyboard as they cut and slash at
its failing eyes,
Slicing and slipping, opening its tender throat to the light and dark
of their jibes, each laying siege to its paper heart with their
quickening scalpel edged taunts.

Splashing its visceral secrets out onto the death dark tarmac of
possibility before sliding back, back into the slime slicked critical
gutter,
Slithering, stinking, intent on nothing but the sound of its panicked,
headlong flight from the horrors of its own body.

Why? when it was conceived in the deepest, most private recesses of a
tortured soul, loved and nurtured above all,
Was it let be born into this cruellest world to lay raw, red meat to
the ravening wolves of conceit.

Offered up on the altar of poetic critique to tempt a thousand jaded
palates, to whet the voracious, pompous, jealous, zealous appetites of
self satisfied maws,
Thrown, torn and bleeding, to excite spit and blood flecked gnashing
jaws invited as literary cerberi..

Left naked, unclean, that the hawks might rip and feast upon the
entrails of this first and last tender and unknowing pup of a unique
litter,
Down, into and down, on down, into the welcoming comfort of the black
embrace of the tortuous phrase spat street drain of obscurity...

Locked in its final choking, gurgling, life defying throes in that
sewer of contempt and lost dreams,
How many blood and ink stained bodies still lay, contorted, smashed,
twisted in its ebony gut?

Had they survived... how many would have died young?
How many would have lived for ever had they not been taken at birth?


'Albion..'

by

Sullivanthepoet. Com

Oh, Albion! Proud Albion,
how is Britannia fell;
Where heaven’s stairway once ascend,
stands now the gate to hell!
You! Parliament! Where first was born,
come forth; Behold her womb;
All sterile now and festered through,
as foul as any tomb!

Fair land where borne Iceni loins,
birthed wet on English soil;
A bronze cast maid with blood of fire,
to Nero’s hordes despoil.
Oh Boudica! Wild warrior queen,
could you but see her now;
Would you have spilled your blood so free,
to save this grunting sow?

This earth Pendragon set aflame,
to scourge the Saxon tide;
And vengeance write in fire and steel,
his knights cleaved to his side.
Would you proud king forsake your rest,
or stir your blade its sheath;
To champion once more this land,
this realm of cheat and thief?

Would Richard call his Templars wake,
from death exhume his steed;
For take again an English soil,
steeped rank with lust and greed.
To save a realm where ancient foes,
dictate our English laws;
Where Scots and lackeys ply her crown,
and cowards stretch their craws.

Might Drake command his tars awake,
forsake their briny grave;
To beat again his blood tuned drum,
this sorry sphere to save?
His Hoe where foreign colours fly,
sweet Devon at their feet;
Where Spanish flags lay ‘gainst his dock,
and Frenchmen berth their fleet.

Or Churchill yet; His grave aspin,
desert his rest to rise;
To see this land ‘For heroes’ fit,
spread squalid ‘fore his eyes?
Each English ‘beach and field and street’,
for which those valiants fought;
To every nation’s wanton tide,
give cheap away; For nought!

Where once was forged of ice and flame,
afire in star struck steel;
All etched on that eternal blade,
was ‘Albion’ reveal.
Quick nemesis against that time,
we turn its edge to war;
Lies rusting now, deep notched and dull,
upon her crypt’s dank floor.

Should empires all be doomed this fate,
made peasant nations all;
Must England yet, stripped of her jewels,
to this same languor fall?
Held ransom foreign leeches too,
by alien tics bled dry;
While ministers with spines of clay,
stand cowed and fearful by.

This ‘Land of hope and glory’ once,
sunk broken to her knees;
Infest with knave and zealot both,
as thick as rats bear fleas.
And not a leader worth the name,
to raise her to her feet;
Or alderman worth half his salt,
defend an English street.

Now comes the hour; Where comes the man,
to free the blade its sheath;
And raise again quick ‘Albion’,
lay bare its razor teeth?
To set Britannia’s heart arace,
and gorge those veins with flame;
Cleave free her ill forged foreign chains,
this sceptred Isle reclaim.

Lay hard again our ancient lien,
upon this hallowed soil;
Full tall those giants’ shoulders stand,
and honour them their toil.
Raise high St. George’s blood red cross,
and keep you proud his day;
That those who gave their English hearts,
shall never pass away.

Then bid once more this bulldog breed,
wake snarling from its rest;
And hear the gods of thunder roll,
within its mighty chest.
To seize dominion o’er our lives,
our land, our sea, our sky;
Or twenty million Englishmen,
will know the reason why!