So willingly ours

See the dawn’s
early light 
on slate-sky borrowed 
from a fractured night

Broader stripes
brighter stars
this perilous fight
so willingly ours

And the brave
came in throngs
and talked of rockets
and of silent bombs

In the pale
poisoned air
the breeze that concealed
our flag was still there

And the free
starved of breath
struck up the gallows
and clamoured for death   

Here we stand
tribute sworn
hate is a hunger
so furtively torn

Rag and Bone

Dawn scatters these abandoned skies, cankered in memories of bone and burned outcast grey with the clinkers.

I say do as you’re told

Reborn days blink ashtray eyes, another nightlight outgrown and called into flesh by the fragrance of stinkers.

when you’re alone with the enemy

Torn dolls in hearsay lies, tales of rag and truth postponed and woven silk into the control of blinkers.

dance on the stolen road

Worn blank the replay dies, futures carved deep in headstones and riddled into the moss of night thinkers.

kiss away autonomy

Sworn to betray goodbyes, the rise and fall of empires condoned and sealed tight in the crushing of whimpers.

drink the lead in boiling gold

Mourn away doomsday cries, hopes flee overthrown and we who would be gods go crawling with the death of drinkers.

and find nothing but the silence of alchemy

The silence of birds

Did you know that birds scream? I hear them sometimes, when the night train plays out a symphony on melted sand. The sound comes scratching, scraping, catching in bewildered rhythms. Snap. Cut. Slice.

I see now that they draw their torture in screwed up blueprints, and I let the music of that rest easy in my mind. Is this the homecoming that seduces inside my chest? Strange that I feel safer here than I have ever felt.

I’ve wandered too long in dead auction houses. Too many bidders. Too many defeats. Too many white flags. Ideas are dead. Books are dead. The zombies are already here. Words stream live into a billion minds. And on nights like this the birds scream so loud, that they make no sound at all.

© 2017 jac forsyth



Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And I have wished for sharks in this lost at sea.

My skin peeled back to bone, are we born like this, forged again in the honesty of dragons?

Life is not a choice. Death is buried with the boxes. I count its intimacy in raindrops.

On days like this I would surrender to the fall of familiar fever. Overrun with shaking, heart racing, sweat dripping.

Even now I taste it on my lips.

Hell is patient. Spike another drink. Deal the drugs of madness.

Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And deep underground, a self prescribed king double drums and dreams of quarantine.


©2017 jac fosyth

Please hold the line…

Please hold the line while we try to connect you.

Another untaken flesh floats with the seaweed, tidal through this silent night. Eyeless ghouls moan their pleasure, rebellious at the scraps. And we who are wolves, wait silent. Our throats too narrow, too bloodied with echoed howling, to eat from this master’s banquet.

Please hold the line while we try.

Another silenced footstep. Another silenced cry. Another silenced breath. Where are the drums in this melody of marching? Where is the tail in this stinging tale? Where is the straight in this twisting? Build another book out of burned pages. Build another truth out of lies. Fear. Hate. Erase. Forget. Repeat.

Please hold the line.

Another sullied standard unfurls, raised virgin on the ramparts of this lost kingdom. The bloodied bones of enemy, chalked out, rubbed out. One more blueprint of arrogance. One more brick of separation mortared. One more howl on the wind. And we who are wolves, wait silent. Beaten to mongrel by this empire of ogres.

Please hold.




Where are the ghosts in fairy tales?


Do they fly with the witches?

Rainbow hags in monochrome halls

Dressed dark under ebony windows

Curled around the taste of our blood

And turned to face the wall


Where are the ghosts in fairy tales?


Do they hide in the dark towers?

Sanctuaries of cerulean quicksand

Glass slippers and spider silk

Blind among the dragons

In the ancient settlements of ruin


Where are the ghosts in fairy tales?


Do they run with the beasts?

Down among the dead men

Speckled goblins, sanitised

Kissed in chains of foul beauty

Bound, and painted cold by the sun


Where are the ghosts in fairy tales?


Do they fade with the shadows?

Mirrors of the absolute

Photographed in refracted memory

And caught in the crossfire

Of a thousand myopic chandeliers



‘Give me all the colours of your darkness,’ she screamed.

‘No,’ he whispered, ‘they fade and fall away from me.’

‘Bind me the bitter poems of your torment,’ she cried.

‘No,’ he sighed, ‘hell is long banished from this place.’

‘Spin me tales of the lost,’ she begged.

‘No,’ he lamented, ‘home is all I know.’

‘Dance with me on rivers of ice.’ 

‘No,’ he begged, ‘I am born of fire.’

‘Weave me a carpet of isolation,’ she lamented. 

‘No,’ he cried, ‘I know nothing of loneliness.’

‘Show me the mirror of my divinity,’ she sighed. 

 ‘No,’ he screamed, ‘I fear death above all else.’

‘We stand in this land of our creation,’ she whispered, ‘will you choose to rest here?’ 


Sometimes I almost dream

And I stand quiet then

In that place where death abandoned us


You talked to me of emerald dragons

And I would light up the sky one last time

To dance with you on those folded footsteps


But all I can do is walk through empty castles

As craving fashions another storm out of the ocean

And I watch you washed ashore in a billion grains of sand


The beacons of rescue have faded and failed, my love

And I know now that those who can never die

Do not strive so hard to stay alive


What would you tell me about love?


Would you build me a stained glass tapestry?

Would you cut out rainbow colours

And fix them with the lead of your sweet rhetoric?


Would you sing me a house of cards?

Would you weave me a thousand symphonies

Out of that bitter-sweet thread?


Would you drown me in your dark passion?

Would you raise a kite to twist and turn inside my mind

Blown on the winds of that treasure paradox?


Would you fashion me sonnets out of price tags?

Would you hand me fear in a gilded box

Bound with amber ribbons of tenure?


Would you have me believe in angels?

Would you measure my light on broken scales

And talk to me of the commodity of love?


Would you?