Parallels on Carousels

… It’s a poor substitute


Gin for water

Peace for slaughter

Safety for danger

Lovers for strangers

Anger for hatred

Kisses for bloodshed

There’s colour in sorrow

Where yesterday meets tomorrow

And as they kiss in the raven hour

Their knowing watch is painted sour

Give me a way, and I’ll go away

Time smiles through wrinkles

But today holds sway

And acts nothing like may

Except it never seems to stay

As we meet at high-noon

It’ll all be over soon

We’re stood halfway

Growing old in a day

In the cruelest maze

Where promises made

Are rarely kept

And newspapers wept

Crying out, all about

Their self-made prophecy

In tabloid heresy

It’s simple to choose

Love just to lose

Forget what you’ve gained

When you feel so ashamed

A heavy heart

Is not a start

But doesn’t mean its finished

Now don’t feel diminished

It’s a gentleman’s way

To mutter and sway

When he feels disaffected

By old wounds re-elected

Memory shaped scars

Cut by the stars

These pearly strains

The most valuable pain

But for now that’s fine

As the clock strikes nine

And the sunlight we wore today

Fades away, we promise to stay

Recycling our wares

Tap-dancing the stairs

Fleeing to our fortress

A kingdom of allures

Sending for captains and cutlasses

Stranded on shores

Made of broken beer glasses

Stood silent and proud

Weeping like clouds

Ruined by shrieking fire

And howling winds

Only saved by

Starving their sins

They’ll never win

The diamonds under your heel

Bring you new appeal

To harvest their ways

They’ll do what I say

Their comfort 

The cut of steel

Felt in the face

But we enjoyed the chase

Of that daydream place

That’s what you thought

It wasn’t your fault

It’s what you were taught

And as their fires go out

Extinguished by doubt

Skeletal souls are left to pay

Without a bone or a bag

A penny or a plan

Because they are the children plain

Their childhood slain

Spare some coppers please mate?

Won’t someone donate?

To keep us at bay

And hunger in a way

Satiate until the second date

Stealing today from tomorrow

Begging in the night

So terrified of fright

That the morning's borrowed

They’re sobbing here

Tiny infant tears

Bottled up by

Fists in the sky

A nameless pain

Ticking with disdain

Nearly eleven, quarter to

I suppose he’s coming for you

Framed in decay

His face a blank page

The secrets you kept

As twilight wept

Painted the cars

That show who we are

Eating gourmet

Expecting no change

The second men

Gave life when

They finished their ale

Babies born would wail

Silence the tots!

Crying in cots

Children who are free


To do as they please

Drink dance and hail

The pleasure of disease

Mother midnight breaks

Time’s like a snake

Creeping up on you

Its hands broke in two

Holding different paths

Neither of them laughs

As they capture another day

The Moon sighs now

And no one’s about

Except the mother of no survivors

No dancing today – breathing decay

Isn’t this a lot like yesterday?

They all do what they may

Still eating gourmet

But isn’t it strange

How habits repeat

And never cease

Through every age

No dancing today – breathing decay

Isn’t this a lot like yesterday?

Haiku

Blossoms blush
Under the wanting gaze
Of a lonely sun

Resident Eccentric

Fragile like a summer snowflake

This doubtful dandy in a daisy tie

Meets his memories made opaque
in brittle brandies for cloudy eyes

His thin veneer made of smoke

Half character, half joke

A prisoner of his own denial

A far cry from a smile

Broken bluebells flecked with red

Weep on twilight’s tranquil watch

His spiteful thoughts so softly said

By lonesome lips sinking scotch

Home

Fill your glass and take a seat
all will be explained in good time
the world is bought by the meek
where surly graves sing like chimes

A pinstriped soldier painfully blinded
paints his troubles and dyes his eyes
forget me nots have always reminded
so sorry Seymour, taken by surprise?

Trouser clad expletives and their respective explosives
raise their fists and cut with tongues like corrosives
hateful of gender he surrendered manhood and more besides
balancing his life between his hell and the ending it provides

Dressing in dresses and shielding his war scars
in shock and horror at the dirty death in man’s hands
growing long tresses and changing who we are
he disregards man, at least the man she understands

Mothers and wives are drawn closer together
and gleefully treasure their boys protected professions
shoe smiths slaving over fine boots of leather
trade protecting the makers from war’s harshest lessons

Ration books stamped with festering propaganda smiles
drove out the lilywhites and broke their true war denials
questionable posters spout constant mechanical joy
”A recycled promise for every girl and every boy!”

Skirted reapers grim and unaware
of the fate pressured by public stare
Flowers gifted by condemning women of the day
determined to send boys to death tolls far away

And such ladies indoctrinated and dim
will send their men to death on a whim
As mothers they must wave, smile and be so proud
to have submerged their sons into poisonous clouds

even the regal feign suffering and bloodshed
”Oh now our dearest pet pauper is gone and dead
 whoever shall come along to mow our lawns”
She said, staring into the crown of thorns 

Cryptic letters arrive from hell’s front, only two days after being sent
the cherished life line to home, but his love is unsure of what is meant
“Curse your father’s words, I wish they weren’t so bent and strange!”
Unknown to her if they were he’d die by the firing range

 Women workers flood shamed murder factories
accompanied by bloody hands and chemical breath
career novelty wears off while ceaseless casualties
Leave ladies leading alone, after their men’s deaths

 Sinfully tainted empire gold
 Leaves blemishes in its prided place
 now a beloved father sold
 leaves lines of pain on mother’s face

Cold metal, devoid of hope and heart
cannot be exchanged for human innocence
medals for murder are not even a start
mass condolence is brazen pretence

Mister Kitchener waves his flag draped hands
and bakers, breakers and brokers salute and stand
deserting peace and home domestics for the glory of war
all the while Elsie and the kids wonder what he fights for

Conscription rules with the ruthless iron fist
and patriotism’s velvety seductive gloves
capturing those with free will they’d missed
and punishing others under orders from above

Lightless London, a weak old man
crawling on his knees while they throw stones
children evacuated; an infant ban
leaves adults to await bombs, alone.