Back and Forth

Back and Forth

by David R J Sealey

 

Cold hard cash creates harsh costs,

hides corpse hoaxes, heals cruel hearts,

chides hurt children, cancels help cheques,

holds corporate hostages, hardens choking hate.

 

Down by law, destined by love,

lashed back down longer before dawn,

draw breath last, don’t believe luck,

lay back dead, last balance drawn;

 

burn it all! Build institutions against

affluent insider bankers, all insidiously brash,

bonking in America, breeding idiotic ancestors

annually, internationally, because age is bond.

 

With shared thoughts, we should transform

this small world through shared wealth;

we’re stronger together, when standing tethered

to standards we think should work,

 

our hearts alive, organs held aloft,

all hope outweighs; always help others,

organise humanitarian acts or host action

against high occupation and hostile outrage.

 

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Single-track Road

Single-track Road

by David R J Sealey

 

With windows wound down

and smoke billowing away behind,

whipping ghost-white past dark hedgerows,

I drove and drove and drove.

 

The moon hung low in my rear-view

I watched it become consumed by clouds,

“Came looking here for answers…”

and I just longed to sing along.

 

A sudden swerve, a screech of brakes,

a heraldic chorus of broken glass,

a frozen rollercoaster photograph.

“Did you get what you wanted?”

my musical epitaph.

 

I fell past fast rushing tarmac,

I fell past a smashed dashboard clock,

I fell through a hole in time and space,

I fell through my life at breakneck speed.

 

I fell for you at the side of the road,

 

bloodied and bruised and beautiful

as we waited together

to be bathed in blue light and borne away

by our white-walled chariot.

 

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A War of Words

A War of Words

by David R J Sealey

 

A grey day when it shouldn’t be,

global eyes focussed on coming together

to compete in coliseums of ice

obscuring a slow-drifting fog of war,

and the cheering crowds conceal

an inevitable whisper in the wind

that nobody wants to hear,

but it comes.

 

Temperatures drop several degrees

in the face of global warming,

a warning shot fired in the former USSR,

ignites a flaming tornado of words.

A media shitstorm whips up the heat

to an unbearable degree, papers

are signed, cameras pointed at the pen

obscure the trigger finger.

 

A war of words breaks out,

an intercontinental ballistic first strike

launched from the mouths of the ignorant,

oblivious to our voices, deafened

by the ringing of the counter-strike,

justified by those that sell stories

in the interest of flogging rags that

tear open wounds and won’t bind them.

 

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The Strait of Kerch

The Strait of Kerch

 

“There’s been a crime here!”

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                   “Cry me a river…”

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Galacticosm

Galacticosm

By David R J Sealey

 

Falling

an endless chasm yawns below me,

forming

a bright yellow platform draws me in,

incorporating

into a geared mechanism, a chain

climbing

to an emerald island suspended in the sky.

 

Onwards

hop down onto floating stone blocks

defying

the pull, drags me on to a gold coin

shining

glimmers and vanishes in my wake,

tumbling

into a star shaped halo, and away.

 

Landing

both feet first through fungal skull,

standing

in a corpse that disappears and crudely

dancing,

crushing sentient beings underfoot and

laughing

before jumping up and away, off the wall.

 

Leaping

out of a ragged hole above the clouds,

chancing

that they may hold my weight then

running

above the horizon; a ship appears,

pirates

of the blue skies making haste my way.

 

Firing

cannonballs tear towards me with a grin

finally

I find a flower that fans flames at my whim

timing

my jump and catching, I slide down the mast

unleashing

terrible balls that burn through decking boards.

 

Screaming

the great ship tumbles towards the ground

seeming

to freeze as I catch sight of a rooftop and leap

scheming

I slide down a green drainpipe, dropping through the

ceiling

into the boudoir of a scholarly mushroom.

 

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The Visitor

The Visitor

by David R J Sealey

 

Slumbering, peaceful, a leg sticks out,

a foot upturned to reveal a sole

soft and clean, unblemished,

begging to be devoured…

 

Great tangled webs of drool dangle down

to drown flies flitting amidst fetid strands

and touch, at last, the virgin flesh

that flickers quickly back beneath covers

subconsciously protecting it’s dignity,

subcutaneously shivering the threat

watching silently over the bed sheets

longing to taste what lays beneath.

 

A sliver of light slides slight over shades

illuminating pop posters a ghastly glow;

a shape shifts slowly, lit in the twilight,

diffuse as a storm cloud lost in the night

arched over the bedstead ready to strike,

before a flash of teeth fit for a shark bite

and gnash madly together, a vulgar display,

that rends apart nothing but thin black air…

 

Where did they go?

WHERE DID THEY GO?

 

Under the stars,

under the stairs,

thundering hearts

betray us…

 

It tore through the hallways,

it sniffed at the study,

it clattered the saucepans,

and shattered the chairs,

it tapped at the windows

and slammed at the doors,

it left trails on the carpets

like an army of slugs,

 

it didn’t find us

 

tucked up in the cupboard

praying for dawn

before tip-toeing barefoot

out onto the lawn.