Old Mother Earth Frowned

As Atlas Shrugged and LA boomed Old mother earth roiled and loomed And all remember the day she frowned To shake the buildings and crease the ground To remove the gluttonous, pampered herd Who gorged on praise and lived absurd. The Bergs quickly fled, as their frantic followers scanned the torah in a misguided bid to restore some order. All that remains is their red bracelets... and their holy water. “No refunds, sorry about your daughter.” Were the words of the retreating Bergs. Shouted from the open roof of a Merc, Before a gaping chasm removed their smirk. And as they plummeted to the earth's core They realised what they already knew There was no eternity, or heaven in store Just an unconscious return to the universal stew. Kabbalah. M Night Shyamalan would suffer the most, And some say the land harbours his ghost. Waiting, eagerly expecting with a white knuckled fist, His favourite deception, that classic twist. Tom Cruise prayed to his alien lord As his family ran for cover But the space-age god never scored Against a vengeful earth's wish to smother. And Christian folk blamed the gays, For bringing on the end of days They preached to corpses lost in rubble About the homoerotic nature of their trouble The generous earth let the sermons end Before the sickness she began mend And skewered them all with their own church spires As they caught ablaze in instant pyres. Michael Bay was molesting his member The special effects were fit to remember! But before his signature climatic blast The walls caved in, he breathed his last. Kim Kardashian was under the knife, When her trusted surgeon lost his life. In one fell swoop her nose was gone. And as she realised what was wrong and concrete filled the empty space, Her dying thoughts were of her face. And in a 100 years the trees would grow back Covering what once was the celeb star track. And in 1000 years people would be here, To revel in the new green veneer How fitting that the famous sign had seen And knew in advance what its letters should mean Through the new grown trees, if see it you could The holly had fallen, leaving the 'wood'.

Resignation runs faster than hope

The night is dark and grey no moon, no stars clouds as shrouds. There was a fire here once spewing energy and light now it coughs ash and smoke or perhaps it just dribbles it. There's a lone figure, which i think is me or it could be all of us, everyone. Just this, nothing else around. The figure hunches over, mumbling nonsense Strikes a match, lights a firework A spray of light; of energy The rocket climbs, leaving it's orgasm in its wake A comet's tail A blazing symphony Then it's gone. No explosion No colour No big bang No life. The figure tries again. The rocket lights the way! Then disappears swallowed by the grey. And again it, or i, tries The comet's orgasm lights his face hope fills his wide eyes it fails. It dies. His wide eyes shadowed with grey. And again it, or i, tries The comet's orgasm lights his face Anger fills his eyes It dies. No more rockets left. So he tries to sleep. He'll have to work tomorrow. To buy more. Up at 6, finish at 4. Night doesn't come, it's always night when you sleep in the day. But night is here. The fire still dribbles smoke and ash he has more rockets Frustration fills his eyes. They fail. Up at 6 again, to earn cash for more. Up at 6 leave at 4. Desperation fills his eyes. They fail. He returns the next night. He's worked again. Sweat covers his uniform. He strikes a match and lights a cigarette. Tears fill his eyes. Failure. He cries. His wailing louder than the rocket. He throws himself on the old fire. There aren't flames. No merciful release. No untimely death. Just darkness. And work. And failure. He strikes a match. Lights a cigarette. He's running out. He'll have to go to work tomorrow

A little writing inspired by the art of Beksinski

There’s a world, very alike the earth which we abuse, though further evolved in their greedy, selfish values. Kings, they declared themselves to be. And in mock majesty wore for crowns the skeletons of the dead. 10, it often took, to fit the shape of their titanic head. The putrid practice was made worse by the making itself. The deceased’s families fashioned the crown of corpses. The walking corpses sawing, gnawing and sticking the still. Tearless, though tortured as they were, no liquid was left to spare. Their dusty bones long too dry to produce emotion in the eye. And what, you ask was the family’s reward? None, that with you or I would strike a chord. Only a weak and sickening pride, that one of their own lay by the king’s side. The Kings, unaware of their greed’s gastric flaw, often consumed too much; swelled, and exploded, for their constant want of more. And when a king, through unchecked greed, blew sky high and left his chair; a walking corpse may happen by, glance up and see that it was bare. The ambitious grinned, for they now thought it was their time to take the throne, and in a hectic frenzy they scrabbled and clawed but fell back down as nails broke on the stone. But one with a brain, more useful than the rest, fashioned a ladder; from the bones of those who’d tried their best. When he reached the peak he lost his mind, which convinced himself that he was king. He looked at the weak and meagre bones below and began hysterically laughing. The first laugh heard from a skeleton for a thousand years or more. But this action, in an exhausted figure, was then the final straw. His broken body, weak and frail could truly take no more. He died, still laughing, fell from the throne and broke upon the floor. The end came fast for this doomed race of folk. The kings sucked the semen from every walking corpse; the soul, the life, the yoke. Then no more was left to them, nothing devoured except their time. To waste away, the punishment for their crime. Though not all went in this same way, some more desperate grew. One tried to eat the walking bones, choked and died bright blue. Another, like the other who turned himself bright blue; grew so desperate he devoured himself, though the outcome he well knew.

I want to be like Cheryl Cole!

On my way home i stepped in a pile of hair
Cut from the head of a poor girl
For a richer one to wear

Tell me if this is not a case of slaver and enslaved
When the wealthy can have instantly
What for years the poor have saved.

Blinded by camera flashes, celebrity culture
The guilty, vain don't see
They're the worst kind of vulture.

And so neglected, this discarded pile of hair
It would break the poor girl's heart
To see the rich one leave it there.

Pray what use?

Pray what use to me, the philosopher's stone?
That wretched thing which draws out pain
A life without love, all alone
The prolonging of which is not a gain

So i seek not knowledge of that sacred art
That wise men termed alchemy
I seek to sew this broken heart
To live again my History

A time machine would serve to stitch
The shredded rags of the now
Stained, ripped, torn, the state of which
Cast a constant frown upon my brow

Oh heartless time i offer to thee
My broken heart and heavy soul
If in return you could give to me
The days which once made me whole.

A story in 60 words or less.

The Text

It was twilight, when loneliness peaks. He was staring at the ceiling thinking of her when a text stabbed him back to reality. She was the only person to have this number! With eager anticipation he pressed the green button and read:

'Hello from orange mobile, you and someone special can get 2 cinema tickets for the price of one.'

oh to bring back last year

Oh, to bring back this time last year
such joy and bliss
Holding hands down Chmaps Elysses
young love in Paris

But all young love must turn old
and it gathers dust
The summers heat became winters cold
And froze our lust

And i walk in gloom under christmas lights
Now alone and grim
With a dull ache that grips and blights
every ageing limb

And though much time has now passed
As it ever will
My longing feelings do hold fast
For you haunt me still