Winters Child

Part one

Walking onto the stage
I found a seat
On an upturned beer crate
I smoke a pipe
While Waiting
For who knows what
In this upturned place

Here ha de ha ha
There is no joyous day
There is no restful night
Time
has been sent into exile

An angelic
Dark blood red wing fiend
falls out of the grey clouds
As I gaze upon
The unmoving
sky
Lit up
By shooting stars

There is a thunder clap on impact
There is no heavenly body found
Just a puddle of emptiness
On the pavement
Where a body should lie

a strong smell
Of decaffeinated
Defecation
Emanates
from the puddle

Across the road
a busker is playing his silver banjo
Singing
“They say in hell if an angel lands
kill the bastard before it does spawn
But never go to where the devil stands
Cause you’ll never escape his eternities yawn”

The music continues
As I retake me seat
On the upturned beer crate

I turn my attention
to the hearse
I catch
Out of the corner of my eye
Silently
creeping in my direction

My feet feel sticky hot
My trigger finger feels cold
I blink my dead eye
I inhale
I stand
I face
A musket wielding
Tricorn hat
Grinning skeleton

The skeletons head shatters
Pukish yellow
Rotten
yolk splatters
The hearses plush red interior

I inhale
the sweet wisp
of wacky backy smoke
From the barrel
Of my smoking gun

Sitting back down
I feel splinters of drunkenness
Spasm through my thoughts

I wake in the gutter
Sitting up
On the upturned beer crate
I lower my thumping head
looking down
at my charcoal
unfashionable threads
Deciding
Wrinkles suit me

“One has to age well
To sweeten
The Cumudgeon seed
Before the mortician
Juices you
For the gods goblet “
I read
On a tattered page
From an afterlife magazine
Stuck to the pavement

Tired of waiting
I leave the comfort
Of the upturned beer crate
exiting
The scene

Part 2

I enter a desert saloon
where only gamblers swallow
As they take there last gulp
On the roulette bar gallow

This is gonna be a swell place
To die in a state without grace

I see
the moon faced bartender
Has been tattooed
With virgin blood ink

In the mirror
I see his dreams
been shot to hell

A Nightmarish Eve
stands
on the foggy stage
Playing
her smoking hot Tommy gun

My fellow bar flies
are splated
around the party scene

I swig back
the dregs of my mug
before I turn to join the fun

I stare deep
into the hallowed pits
of original sin

Eve says she’s heard
I’m the sleep walker
that’s been killing animations

I shug
My snake bitten trigger finger
Itches
I put a crater into old moonface
Before he can get in any shots

I think
Is my grim reply
From the bar stool

Part 3

I Climbed aboard the dust maker
Destination
some demented god’s acre
Eve should of chosen wiser
I mean
Why task me
With bringing enlightenment
To the gods
When I’m in this dark mood

I sit on the dustmaker
Watching the desert
Through
the kaliedoscope portal windows

Remembering a story
That went something like how

A demon once rose
Out of the desert I’m crossing
Like a mountain
and began to spawn claws

The corrupted Clay
did name them claws
laws
And at the laws
they did beateth their chest
But the demon
just subsided them into the west

The Clay
could not set themselves free
For a broiling sun
Had chained them to a tree
Which the sun did drag
into a frigid dead sea

As the tree sunk
The clay aboard
Heard the demons prophecy
Over their pleading prayers
About how the dust
would inherit
the promised land they coveted

Cursed memory
Little can be remembered
of my depraved past

My thumping head hurts
When I raise it up
From my pillow
To disembark
The Dustmaker

I stand on a platform
Over looking a winding river
Where a Yeti
sits patiently
on a upturned beer crate
On the bank
Fishing unsuccessfully
for a Sliver of hope
A dingy leaf floats across the water
Sinking
In front of his extinct eyes

Thus we shall offend the gods
By Executing
one of their abominable
Pet Creations
Whispered Eve
As we lay tangled
In sheets
of rapture music

I held my breath
My gun launched
A pint sized rocket
Towards
the moon faced yeti

My head exploded
I fell back
Of my upturned beer crate
Into the grey muddy
brain splatted
river bank behind me
Letting go
Of my fishing line
That had never hooked
A sliver of hope

I fell back
into a puddle of emptiness

Part four

I fell out of emptiness
Poured back into form
Upon a cold cold
Stone floor
Surrounded
By stainglassed
shadow Warriors
Whose light
Stares into the face
Of the pale lady statue
Strapped to the altar

I recognize
The altar
From a wedding
Magazine

Recognising
the pale lady statue
Brings me to my feet
As her name is spoken
Through my dead man’s lips

“Hel”
A memory
Is then squeezed out
As a drop of blood
From my left nostril

I catch the droplet
On the tip of my tongue
Which I Spit Out as
“my betrothed”

Standing I see a collard fiend
with a gramophone for a nose
Holding golden forceps
High above his feathered head
He plunges
Said Forceps
Into my bride

I draw my mad hound
Which barks savagely
Driving the feathered fiend back
His dark blood red wings unfurled
And Grrrrr
Wooof
And grrrrrr
Woof
And grrrrrr
Woof
And grrrrrr
Woof
And grrrrrr

As a strange
White noise gurgles
From his gramophone nose

One
Last
Explosion
of my hounds rage
Drives away the fiend
Through a stain glass warrior
Through the light
Out into the dark clouds
Banished
Forever
From the tower of silence

Alone with Hel
I try to escape her silent scream
Alas the stairs faded
A long long time ago
The spells of the collard fiends
bound us to their altar

They declared our union
Unholy
Said we were creating
MONSTERS

That Fiction hid
inside its fabled place
Hels womb

Now as I lay face down in this defiled tower
Osiris monkey prostrate as the end is born
I Miss the obliviating meteorite shower

I can’t wake the dead
I think
upon the altar
I think
upon Hel
As Words Gently sob
into the open mouth
of Hels grave stone face

In the tower of silence
there was a mocking echo
In the tower of silence
There was finally sound waves
Crashing
Onto the temple floor
Eroding
Washing
The executioners
Bloody Platform away

Meanwhile

Hidden
by silver lined clouds
A cooing ball
of pure Snow White fur
Flys through the air
As a cloud
Morphs seamlessly
into a nurturing hand
catching
the bundle of life
Which unfurls
It’s little reaching arms
It’s little kicking legs
It’s infant goofy smile

Sophia’s golden voice
Danced across the wind
To flow like warm butta’
Into the infants cold ears
As

“I’ve got you little yeti”

Then it snowed
For the very first timeΒ 

Β©bg 2016

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21 thoughts on “Winters Child

  1. There are so much going on here that I would love to get your input on, and so many details worthy of comment; however, there is a place for a novel, but this isn’t it.

    Your use of the gramophone, in particular, was brilliant. I never could dance to that white noise. I did eventually learn where the real music was and haven’t stopped dancing since. There is a man years ago who planted those seeds in my life, himself a winters child. On Thursday, I will be introducing him for a series of stories I want to share. If you don’t mind, I would like to ping back here once again.

    If your head grows too large, I will simply knit you a larger cap…

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ha! My comment was finally posted!

    This was like three acts of Poe (Alone) followed by one of George Herbert (esp. Love III) in theme, and completely and brilliantly bg in rhythm and tone. Apart from that, which is high praise from me, I was completely…

    well, I don’t have the words for it. (However, if you give me a few hours, I guarantee that I WILL find them.)

    Liked by 1 person

  3. bg, I honestly couldn’t believe when I found you in my spam. I’m going to try posting once more on your site, just to see if it is going through. I did approve and reply to your comment on mine, so hopefully you will get that. At any rate the poem blew me away. I’ll reserve more comment until I know that you’re getting these. Yours, Tanya

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Yeah, thanks for drawing my attention to this. A few thoughts. You begin by setting the poem on a stage, which gives you room for surrealistic and dreamlike detail. Cause and effect is abandoned in an impressionistic cavalcade. Certain themes recur but the overwhelming sensation I get is one of loss and dislocation. There are hints of a private mythology. The possibilities of knitting things together remain tentative and uncertain. There is too much turbulence to remain comfortable while reading this, which is perhaps the intention. The ending offers resolution of a kind, some sentiment after all the nightmarish melodrama, but the sense of unease remains. Best I can do, I’m afraid …

    Liked by 1 person

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