Phantasmagoria

I saw paradise in her eyes

Eden before the fall

free of snake or thorn

innocence recaptured

through such beauty

 

I stare at her shadow

which slowly overwhelms my soul

any feeble pretence

swept away by truth

 

All too much for one man’s heart

rose of Sharon – lilly of the valley

adorned in jewels

feet of gold

words formless – eluding me…

 

Like that brief silence

in no man’s land

when barrages ceased

before whistles blown

then over the top

to be felled by lead

drowned in mud

 

Ultimate transubstantiation

pitiful cries to God – for Mother

paradise eyes returns

slowly dropping daisies

into my dreams

pulchritudinous – Stendhal syndromatic!

 

My Rosebud – snow globe breaker

I am confused, lost, floating

in a sea of idealistic isolation

clinging only to the

eternal lifebelt of hope….

 

 

© MC Bolton, June 2019

 

 

globe

Acid Rain

Untitled_Artwork

 

What is my reality?

life’s music taking me further away

from what I see – understand

maybe think I know!

I stand amongst

the ruins of civilization

flames all around

time has ceased

forever trapped in this dystopian nightmare

never to die or sleep

 

Yet somehow I have found contentment

peace within myself

accepting my lot

grateful for what I have

not envious of the material rich

their path – never mine

Perhaps once for a time?

 

Acid rain now melting my face

like a waxwork

destroyed by thermite

laughing inwardly

as I become one with the soil

to be moulded again

by God’s hand

into the man

I should have been….

 

© MC Bolton, June 2019

Art © OGCZ 2019

Going Back to the Long Man

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To walk upon the South Downs

a pilgrim searching for a dream

the carousel inside my head still rotating

listening to the Byrds

Turn! Turn! Turn!

Eight miles high

I am 13 again

all my problems are in front of me…

 

When loons were jeans

not a derogatory term

to describe pitiful souls

shouting in the street

at unseen phalanxes

marching without mercy inside their tortured minds…

 

Welcome home old man Jones

Once “boyo” of these valleys

Is this Vegas? Or my own personal Nam!

Peace badges – flowers

Puff the magic dragon

spewing death in lead showers…

 

Kyle parading toothless jello-bellied monsters

to be mocked and baited

in front of those

whose mouths are as un-potty trained

as the children they send to school wearing nappies!

 

My working class – I weep for you…

led by Instagram’s pied piper

to nirvana in reverse…

Once cannon fodder for wars

now we fight each other

eternal gladiators of doom

forever kept in poverty

making the best of Primark couture…

 

Hearts of lions – yet forever poor

stuck in a chimney like a Victorian sweep’s child

While Labour’s Johnny ragers

left lighting fires – underneath those

it should be saving – yet despises

Perceived as knuckle-dragging,

pitchfork torch-holding,

racist Islamophobes

 

The truth oh! so different

but that doesn’t fit your ideology…

My freedom found upon these Downs

awaiting nightfall – to spy Orion’s belt

sitting at the Wilmington Giant’s feet

dreaming of returning to Lewes

My childhood home…

 

© MC Bolton, May 2019

Night Daleks

I felt the anger

Saw hatred in your eyes

Slowly walking towards us –

like a couple of Western gunslingers…

Watching my movements

Waiting for a careless word

to justify your extreme violence

Yet there was only silence

As we passed each other like ghosts

taking our tension to another dimension

knowing I am everything you despise

my mixed race daughter by my side

the ultimate racial traitor

must be exterminated!

 

Agents of the right

daleks of the night

What was that all about Dad?

Are those men truly bad?

these times really sad?

Pulling her close – tight – tight – tighter

would have made a stand

like an old prize fighter

but I am no Tyson Fury,

Judge, or their jury!

Understood the stares – glares – unfounded fears

which will end with us all drowning

under a waterfall of tears…………

 

movie-daleks
Image from here

© M.C. Bolton, April 2019

 

Monochrome Dystopia

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From Georges Méliès’ A Trip to the Moon (Le Voyage dans la lune) 1902

 

Words run through my head

like a freight train

everything looks like a Fritz Lang film

or Georges Méliès’ Le Voyage Dans la Lume

 

It’s all in black and white

the moon has a rocket in its eye…

smoke and rushing…

Caps, ties, shirts with removable collars

shoe shine boys – paper sellers

non-playable characters

Forever trapped in a Peaky Blinders video game…

 

Yet I cannot form a sentence

grasp an idea – formulate a first line

to hang my literary clothing upon to dry…

Dead relatives flirt with modern day girlfriends!

over soup and tea…

I’m shocked by their candour

Felix the Cat purrs

as it entangles its legs

inside my mind

Its claws scratching my skull

 

Oh! Just to grasp the tangible-secure

to tie this drifting ship

floating on a lake

without water or shore

Feeling so lost – but so amazed

astonished within my own imagination

without need for chemicals or alcohol…

Petrol to the poetic cause

Many destroyed who chose this path

of angst and anguish!

 

Forever falling deeper into despair

that washes up yesterday’s hopes – dreams

like the ebbing tide of Father Thames

exposing without pity the weakness

of those that don’t fit into any jig-saw

Completing a picture of damnation

 

Like an eel I slither back into the river

lost in its depths with old bikes

destined never to be ridden again!

drifting further out to sea

knowing not purpose or destiny

Forever grateful I drowned not in the ocean of bland

 

© Mark Bolton

Ode to Hereward

Tonight the chariots

are running through my head

destroying without mercy…

 

Truly my crime is great,

for in dreams and visions

I have spied the promised land…

 

Scales dropping from internal eyes

like dead men’s pennies

snatched by the Styx ferryman…

Freedom gained through truth

Jericho walls of falsehood, delusion, illusion

crashing down

 

Seeking refuge in the sea of reeds

for a year and a day

my home with birds…

Pursuers now vanishing

like mist over the Fen

melted by the morning sun

 

The great Wake rising

his fire burning within my soul

refining – purifying

cauterizing greed’s gangrene

of the noble lie

where introspection is reduced

to echo-chamber confirmations

inside the minds of those that rule

 

Babylon’s cruelty thriving

in the darkest hearts of men

devoid of conscience, love or pity…

 

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Picture from twitter.com/wakehereward

 

M.C. Bolton, February 2019

The Truth of the Urban Dandy

My name is Truth

I have stood since time’s beginning

Outside the hearts of man

Waiting for the invitation

a few will let me in

 

I am searched for by the flawed, the weak, written about by the poor

For only in humility

Can I enter through your door

 

Yet I can free you from delusions, false hope and empty dreams

From the world’s chicanery

All its crazy schemes

 

I am the small voice in the wilderness

A whisper in the breeze

be still, quiet, listen

For with me comes liberty…

 

© Mark Bolton

 

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France 2018, photo by Tom