Krampus pt.2

Young Toby McManners is gaming alone
Slaughtering his friends with a Fortnite drone
The Last Man Standing is within his grasp
When his door slides open with a terrible rasp
 
‘Do not disturb!’ he screams all ironic
But Disturbed has a list, and his name is on it
A flip and a trip and a slap round the back
And Toby is swapped for some coal in a sack
 
Mum hears a thump while she’s scrolling on Twitter  
She drops off the feed in a flurry of glitter
Storms down the hall and discovers the scene 
A GAME OVER tag flashing up on the screen
 
And a sack full of coal where the poor boy got took
She bites back a sob and updates her Facebook
‘Toby is missing,’ she types all red eyed,
‘it’s a sad day for sure, but at least he’s outside.’

tbc…

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Krampus pt.1

#not for Christmas, but for life

It’s late Christmas Eve on Winterbourne Road 
The snowfall is crisp and shockingly cold
When up on the rooftop of number eight
A scrabbling wind knocks some ice off the slates

And from out of the darkness rides folklore and fear
In a pale, wooden sleigh with six ghastly reindeer
He steps onto the lawn in a slithering mist
Then flicks a wry smile and pulls out a list

He checks on it once and stops by a name
Takes a glance ‘round the street and checks it again
Then he shoulders a sack, leaves the reindeer untied
Kicks down the front door and heads on inside

He picks up a scent like the stuff of nightmares 
Gives a self-assured snarl, and bounds up the stairs
His breath is all primal, he’s covered in lice
He’s not on the hunt for a kid who’s been nice

tbc…

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

Silent howling

The sullenness of blue holds tight to the moon today. A jackal sketched transient, I am tied in orbit just the same. There are tales they say, of a darkside that no one  but distant explorers would be surprised to see. Truth and territory, staked in tricoloured folds and pinned to look like the wind. And I wander in the silver of spent firelight, waiting for the storyteller. Waiting for the story. Something unfathomable to hold between my fingers. And the satellite of sunshadow, breathes silent answer with the death of words. Child. Walk with me. Dream with me. Come taste the chalk dust that falls so softly between the pillars of small steps and giant leaps. Damn moon, always was a troublemaker.

©2017 Jac Forsyth

*moon image courtesy of pintrest.com

Creepers

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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

Gunsmoke

 

Truth is a cunning dancer. Smoke over fire, its drums beat out my heart. And I quantify my verdicts with the naivety of their restless pounding. Armageddon was scattered once, dismantled in the bunkers of preparation. I drive this life hard. Peace is not enough, sleep is not enough, death is not enough, for those who chase extinction. The gunman pulls another trigger and a dozen night-birds corrupt with the echoes of my lament, their feathered artillery dragged out across the silence of 3am skies.

And wrapped in the blankets of my insanity, I divide by five and measure their distance in lightning storms.