A SOLITARY FIDDLE PLAYS

starlings

a cheese before bedtime

bubbled dream the trigger

 

recesses of this mind

spontaneously illuminated

under trepidations own

barbaric floodlit stage

 

in an instant a factotum

master key in hand sets

to his task with a zeal

born of sly devotion

once upon a time yet

now discarded cohorts,

random feted breathed

undesirables all uncaged

to scatter where so ever

they wish with impunity

devil-may-car vandalism

sabotage their crusade

all this in superceded

single-strip Eastman colour

 

my shut fast midnight eyes

watch as the maggots crawl

and scatter from the volcanic

guts of the bayonet drawn

corpse of bloated humanity

 

the naked crucifixion of

the muliebrous redeemer

now blanched and bloodless

her fate long since sealed

never to rise again

 

a murmuration of starlings

devour first the clouds

and then the sun until

there is only darkness, I

observe the ghostly aura

of daises, the capricious

mood swings of dandelions

both sensing the coming

of the gardeners shears

then a cemetery of tired

old lichen and moss

enveloped granite

gravestones modify into

gleaming milky marble

before these very eyes

 

to squeeze in my helpless

hands the hunger and

empty passion of a starving

nation as vultures pick and

pull at the wasted tendons

of a million or more dead

once beautiful black babies

for whom I now weep

 

a well stacked inquisitress

breasts cleft defiant ever

closer, tormenting, testing

to the limit my fleshy appetite

my self-proclaimed monogamy

 

to discover immortality

is merely a treadmill as

the Titanic slowly and

improbably drifts past

the egress of a churchyard

its four funnels steaming lilac

its horn beating out the

tortuous monotonous

rhythm of the doomed

and in the near distance

a solitary fiddle plays

loves last lament

 

the unvarying dank grey

mists of dawn arrive too soon

before the dream is over

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21 thoughts on “A SOLITARY FIDDLE PLAYS

      1. I adore most things French – even support them when they play England – yet none more so than their cheese and bread. Best meal for yonks was last spring when Shirl and I shared both with a bottle of red plonk on the battlements of Montreil!

      1. Shirley says she’ll start decorating once she has destroyed one of the sheds we inherited here and got her garden looking half decent…my God how that woman thrives on hard work…must remember to advise her that the carpets needs vacuuming in a minute…how many times do I have to tell her the place looks a shambles…plus I’ve no ironed socks in the drawer

  1. WOW!~ This is so dark, and yet so soul-splitting. It’s one of the best things you’ve ever written (or at least posted here.) “my shut fast midnight eyes watch as the maggots crawl and scatter from the volcanic guts of the bayonet drawn corpse of bloated humanity” gave me chills! I bow to your superb mind, Sir Mike. WONDERFUL!

      1. LOL! Yes, but while the funny stuff is truly hilarious, the dark stuff is BRILLIANT! It definitely showcases your mind and how it works. πŸ™‚ (And yes, that’s a good thing!)

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