Wild Mauri tongues
spit greetings like a curse
Germanic, hardened steely voices
clipped speech, rough and terse
Soft songs in Swahili
melt in my mind
Chopped up Oriental speech
like wires that unwind
Thick syrup English
thin coating every land
Aramaic flowing river words
like oil under sand
How arrogant, how proud,
that one tongue should define us.
I thank God for Babel's fate
in Wisdom undermine us.
There are only men on earth,
Who shout applause
Who render mirth.
Of all the species left on show,
It's only men
Who know they know.
The conscious proud
Drink deep the dregs,
And stagger out
On mortal legs.
Observe, Observe,
Come shout and laugh,
Come clamor for an autograph
Of one who is as much like you,
Who's soul will leave the body glue.
I am so scared to offer hope,
We must rehearse the downward slope,
And bend a knee,
While it may bend,
Aware that God,
Himself did send.
The gold that's on my finger,
runs wildly through my veins.
It reaches every part of me,
and there it just remains.
It lingers and it holds me,
and it makes me more than flesh.
It causes me to stammer,
and then to loose my breath.
I look at you when you are near,
I think of you when not.
Your smile, your voice, the things you say,
this gold it runs so hot.
This gold is not just simple,
earthly stuff that's bought & sold.
The feeling that I get from it,
is that it's Heaven's gold.
With passion I submit my self,
to what this gold will do.
The gold that's on my finger, love;
is my covenant with you.
Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Wanting to buy a tie;
The Google results,
were tie wearing cults,
And a tie making place in Mumbai.
Old metaphors like banjo strings,
struggle to eek out an existence.
Devolving into clichés.
Young people call in to measure their ignorance against the panels',
using words they've never read.
Only heard in some other debate.
Bloated ideologies, malnourished on a democratic diet,
nutrient-free babble, is regurgitated.
And consumed.
The little cycle revolves,
as the dead are fed to the living.
Is that what is meant by Revolution?
Where can I go to hear a story again,
a fresh plate of Imagination?
For the ears.
I hear no-one reading aloud anymore,
I thought we had an oral tradition.
It's more like oral dysentery.
Just switch off the radio,
and pick up a book.
And read it through.
If we all did that, book after book,
then in just two years.
There will be something worth listening to on the radio.
In this crop of newborn souls, this house of all mankind
(Individuals we think us, in the part we call the mind);
The queen should call the king, with loving thoughts, by his first name,
For no-one of this dust should have to carry that much fame.
Every man should have a peer, like all the men that were,
And every man should have at least one friend that he calls 'sir'.
For only One of all who ever sucked this planet's air,
Is strong enough to coax alone that lion from it's lair.
Many men have tried it, and all have reached their ends,
A coral reef of pride built on the shipwrecks they called friends.
Except for one, the only One, with power to raise the dead,
He carries fame like none before, yet never owned a bed.
Though the gates of hell prevail,
Though you feel your heart will fail,
And though you’re sure you’ve failed the test,
Rest soldier, rest.
Even though your death seems sure,
Despite your search you find no cure,
And quickly though the fears infest,
Rest soldier, rest.
You cannot always set your face,
Adrenaline can’t set the pace.
And though you’ve done your utter best,
Rest soldier, rest.
Your brokenness and your defeat,
Is nothing if not incomplete,
a broken shell, an empty nest,
Rest soldier, rest.
The little bits of death you taste,
Prove in you what Christ has faced,
Lend victory to your final quest,
So rest soldier, rest.
And once you’ve given everything,
All you need your God will bring,
There’s nothing more you can invest,
All that’s left to do; is rest.
Sit in this mess; concrete and steel;
twisted minds and cold cold hearts.
Look at the clouds: a mega-ton of water,
hangs on the fragile hope of heat,
and under it a swallow weaves his traceless trail.
He never weeps or hopes, or hides
himself for fear of love and hate,
He does not love the human gods
of destiny and fate,
His fellows never muster
just to fight and kill and snare,
Nor with a harsh voice chant his right
to dance on cleaner air.
But still he cannot wonder under clouds the way I do;
Or see in his wings the blueprint of God with eyes that I see through.
And then they began to move as one
As one they began to move
Under the dark of night they came
As they leapt from roof to roof
Under the ceiling fans the city
Homed in the warming light
Blissfully unaware of how
Their blood would flow that night
Down from on high they seeped right through
To the cracks in between the walls
Gradually oozing through into
The kitchens and entrance halls
Then once the plan was fully formed
And their weapons were drawn and poised
And all of the doe-like eyes were filled
And not one objection voiced
Then once again they began to move
As one they began to move
Slicing and stabbing them with ease
Chaos and pain diffused
Setting on fire the furniture
Making the young ones look
Then when they knew they’d done enough
As one they laughed till the world was shook