UP WHERE THE PIGEONS REST

lovers

I am the rusty old sage who lives in a Frigidaire (don’t ask)
A raconteur by nature, a people watcher by design

“What is it you say my dear? No I’m not talking to myself again, I am about to impart a tale to anyone who might listen, that’s all…and yes I am fully aware I sit alone!”

Sorry for the interruption…where was I…oh yes, my story!
A tale to tell, one from days of yore, one of inhumanity,
love and I like to think, one with perhaps a
smidgen of hope in the bleakest of times
Where to start?

Outward, below and beyond
manufactured aftershocks and
proficient barbarians, crippled spires
gargoyle cataclysm, city laid to ruin
last breakout crossing carnage
invader’s flags planted on high
totalitarian emblems seeded
petrified pulse of tramping boots
feckless hands tied tight, back to any wall
no blindfold arbitrary butchery
infants scream and women wail
so beggarly the landscape of defeat

Up where the pigeons rest, on high
within a once grandest old town house
upon a ‘couldn’t give it away
in better times’ sullied mattress
a much too soon young widow
astride a first time beholden
‘all but a man’ wannabe sentinel
the pair of them in another time
another place weather permitting lovers
whatever, for her the event a bitter desires swansong
for him a ‘once before I die’ want

Meanwhile at ground level a heretofore unlatched
doorway blown into smithereens for supremacy’s effect
next the staircase stampede of the howling many
seeking out the powerless few, once inside the uniformed
deviants find no-one at home! No-one to carry off!
“Where’s the fun in this?” sadism thwarted
In their disappointment they discover just the two
perfectly naked carcasses sealed in a timeless kiss
fit only for the ambiguous pit of the humbled, nought else

You see, a shared cyanide capsule is a phenomenal thing
indeed a thing affording our ‘only just’ lovers
an escape from this loathsome dimension

A small victory of sorts for the good souls
on a day when grace evaporated, and
oh yes I very nearly forgot, a brace of pigeons
for tainted supper for the ones who otherwise
would have ritualized triumph in slaughter

There then, a happy ending!

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14 thoughts on “UP WHERE THE PIGEONS REST

  1. Well Sir, I may call you Sir Mike, exquisite. I saw the photograph earlier on Facebook, wasn’t able to get along to read it but knew it would be good, just didn’t know how bloody good.

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