Fallen Angels

Fallen Angels

Fog
Moist decaying sludge of leaves
A statue of a young man who was sent to his death
In a field in France where European nations colluded in creating hell on earth
Sagging webs pulled in to sweeping parabolic curves by jewels of clear water droplets
Mapping patterns that mirror the curve of space time
The days grow short and dark on this toboggan run to solstice
All are drawn down this black hole to depression
To the Prozac of Christmas Day and whisky cocaine blur of new year
Our spirits can hold up to then by the speed of change and the spending of money
Till January opens her dungeon doors where we brave it out till spring
Singing songs as the boys did on their journey to the Somme

Bed
Rough sleepers dot the doorways
Slipped through societies net
Walking walking all day from cafe to bookies to library to public toilets to laundrette
Damp Tarmac keeps dog ends unlightable
So head for the precinct where overhead canopy brief patches cover
Only to find another has reaped the harvest earlier
Walking more, too cold to stay still, too early to bed down
Some pissheads discarded burger untouched bar a single bitten c from last night
Cold but untouched by rats, or foxes, else rejected
Fills the belly with queazy solace

Mud
Wet leather boots that never fully dry
Workers rise before dawn, leave home in darkness
Clock off long after dusk, return home in darkness
Heavy food, alcohol for those who can afford it
Muddies the mind to the loss of colour
The fall spectacular, a last shout of glory before the leaves fade
To greys and Browns, as light fades away death begins, finally to black leaf slurry
Older people wonder if they will make it through
Vermin are cut down in number
Broken birds in the gutter, their season done, brake apart in gore and feather as tyres churn and liquidise, children's boots kick the corpse around
Boys are dragged out to play sports and shiver in confusion

Log
walk through cemeteries, our countries best parks
Read the names and dates, feel the corpse field six foot below
Find a damp log and cap it with some cardboard to improvise a seat
Tearing open a discarded beer can to isolate the dome base as a cooking pan
Tip in brown powder, four hours begging paid for
The pinch of citric acid
Carefully carry cookery to a holly bush and tap jewels of dew in to pan
Once mix is read sit back down and cook brown potion
A strip of filter found dry in a plastic tube dropped by a roll up smoker
Drop this in, a boat in the hot brown pond, pulls works from glasses case and hold the needle up to the sky like a sword held up in anger at the world to find the sloping cut, the oval of the pins tip
Laying this flat cross grain over the filters fibres and draw up the warmth
By the churches wall, slumps down out of the wind, tourniquet of belt, find a vein and plunge home salvation

God
Laid beside the cool stone of gods house his lids heavy open
Diamond crumbs of shattered bottles glisten with refracted sunlight
Blue flashing strobing light washes over stone and moss
All is lit in colours, softened, warm, homely
Amongst the gravel fragile movement
A red admiral of purest Crimson and deep space velvet black
With broken wing dragged behind, grounded
A life short, beautiful, broken
Looking from the insect, struggling in a coin size circle, so pure and innocent, to the sky
The grey clouds, bruised and swollen break open
The sun shines down, golden, unconcerned like god
The two angels lay dieing, fallen to earth


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