... stuffed

Peace on Earth! You must be kidding.
Peace came second in the bidding.
Pipped, before the hammer fell,
By a finger raised from Hell.
Warfare takes the Lot, and the fate
Of Earth is held in his estate.
Plead and pray and cry despair,
The deal is done, the auction fair.
Going once and going twice,
But Peace could never meet the price.
Impoverished, are Peace ideals.
Their fare consists of meagre meals.
Hollow words and shallow acts
Echoing sanctimonious tracts.
Peace campaigning! Do me a favour!
Watery gruel that has no flavour.
Bleated babble; a Sacred Cow.
Lowing ‘Holier than Thou.’
In a field of blind belief,
Justifying blood and grief.
Screw it up, and ‘it’s god’s will’.
As is old tripe, and pig swill.
Hold the line and lock the shields.
Energies dwell, in battlefields.
Cosmic clashes! Warring stars!
Mutant microbes in constant wars!
Nature of Nature? Strength holds sway.
Conflict! … Looks like Nature’s way.

See Through - Cthulhu (Or Reincarnation. An Agony. In Infinite Fits)

This world is a spinning slaughterhouse.
A Carousel of reeling repetition.
A Roller Coaster ride over hills of anxiety
into vales of terrifying uncertainty.
A fixed game of no chance, that in the end
ensures that we lose everything.

The fabric of our flesh fatigues
like metal under strain.
And breaks our hold,
loosens our grip,
as we are finally flung
from the fairground of life.

Murdered by the mangling frenzy of greed
which is, but the nature of the material.

Strings of scattered genetic shards
and remnants of subtle energies which
built our fairground forms,
weave into tentacles of attraction,
drawing us back
into the gurgling glare
of gaudy light.

Smith's Funeral.

I didn’t go to Smith’s funeral.
Smith, and I had an agreement,
that whoever went first would spare the other
the bullshit of bereavement.
The limpid eulogising:
Some po faced Holy Joe;
prattling piss we didn’t believe,
in a gloomy morbid show.

I went to Smith’s tree planting.
A memorial tree in the park;
where Smith, and I would sit all day,
swilling cider till’ after dark.
Smith, would rant about modern life
and history, and tomorrow.
And blame it all on the price of ale:
The cost of drowning sorrow.

Smith, was a blowhard of living.
A Poet, a Bard and a Prince!
He could blast out a curse in perfect verse
that would make the Devil wince.
I want to remember his madness.
His wild visions; so truly divine.
So I didn’t go to Smith’s funeral
And he won’t be coming to mine.

I have included this belatedly in the edited(ish) stuff, having been reminded today of the sudden passing of my old hoppo’ Ian Smith, of Wakefield and Manningham. Smith’s funeral was actually far from as we had imagined when we made the pact, but I’m glad I honoured it. Smith, always said he didn’t want to go to a Heaven where anyone was excluded, however much of a low shitbag they had been in life. Almost the exact words as I recall. And since Mighty Smitey, was a gifted Shaman and Seer; I have no doubt that such a Valhalla, awaits.