Bloody hell I won.

I was absolutely bowled over not to mentioned surprised to win last weeks flash prediction amongst a strong field over at Phil Amblers Blog. Congratulations to John Xero for winning runner up, with an excellent piece. 


Consort

It started off with stomach cramps, a bitter malady that bent me double. When the final facet of my agony manifested, it forced me onto all fours shrieking like a dog. Finally the homunculus issued forth from betwixt my thighs tearing my manhood as it left my body. I looked at the cat face of my newborn. Cloven hooves, assuring me of his immortal parentage, as he took to the wing the brackish scent of sulphurous brimstone wafted across the air.
Consort with the devil? Aye I did Sir, now I am jointly both father and mother to his child.

Joint Runner up at Phil Amblers Prediction

I'm truly honoured to be jointrunner up along with the extremely talented Sean Adams at Phil Amblers weekly Prediction, This weeks winner was Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw with her fine entry quite literally  to die for   Congratulations to Veronica and Sean.

This weeks words were Cockle, Shake, & Lily I spent the week mulling over what I should write then as fate would have it, I came home to discover a cockle shell in the plant pot on my doorstep, thus my piece was born.

The Mighty Have Fallen

They started turning up all over our estate about a month ago; we thought they were cockles at first. Those that tried eating them shook in agony, as their mistaken delicacies devoured them from the inside out, leaving nought but soft soapy bones.

Nothing stopped them, even the government failed. Where they came from, no one knew. Tower block Lily knew though. Every night she cackled on the rooftop, her sightless eyes wide and milky grey, looking to the sky as she guided wave after wave of the conquerors to earth, as they fell silently from the sky like snow.

In Memoriam - Terry Holter

Today is yet another anniversary of the passing of my good friend Terry Holter. I didn't realise how good a friend he was, or the measure of his wisdom at a time when I had the opportunity to tell him. He fought his illness with dignity, and still had time to help others with their day to day problems. although I wrote the first verse of this poem last year, long after his passing I had Terry the fighter in mind when I wrote it. 

At that time I was still angry at his passing. On this anniversay I don't want to feel my anger at his life cut short, I want to feel the peace that I know he must feel now watching over his family and friends.

Rest in peace my friend, I carry your wisdom in my mind, and your compassion in my heart.

A Cowboys last ride

He’s riding through Death’s valley, on a mission heading south.
In another world above his bed, a sign says “Nil by mouth”
He’s catatonic, and a cowboy riding right up to Death’s door.
He’s gonna kick him up the arsehole, and give that shit what for.
He’s an angry desperado, who’s going to set the record straight,
He’s much too young and vibrant to breast them pearly Gates.
Sadly Death can never lose if a fight is to the Death
So bear that thought in mind when you draw your final breath.

Our rider slows his horse to a canter then with pride 

dismounts and takes his hat off, with a smile that’s big and wide.

He knows his fight is over, but a better life awaits, every negative is left behind along with earthly hates.

His life is celebrated with his family and his friends, because they celebrate his memory his life will never end.

He’s free to ride the prairie for as long as he dictates, until he wants to head to the homestead that’s beyond those pearly gates.

Bathtime for Alice

This weeks entry for Lily Childs Friday prediction a brilliant fun writing competition held every week take a look and why not join in. Alice is the protagonist in a longer project I'm working on. After a month of drought on her story a poem came forth.

Bathtime for Alice

Alice likes painting arms, in shades of pumping red.

It’s what her demons bid her, from deep inside her head.

Swallowed by an institution, for a child that was never born.

The shocks designed to help her forget, and leave her memories torn.

Strapped naked in the bathtub, all she can do is lay.

She’s easy pickings for the warders and the vicious games they play.

Like a missionary in a stew pot, they know not what they brew.

They ramp the voltage upwards and her thoughts become a stew.

Sin, No Sin, the evil souls come in!

The Morning after the Peace before. Wins this weeks Feardom Flash

I'm really pleased that my poem was selected as the winner for last weeks Friday Flash competition @ Lily Childs Feardom. BTW if you haven't already you can get Lily Childs latest book Magenta Shamen Stones the crows for Kindle @ Amazon. I'm reading it at the moment, and I'm hooked.

The Morning after the Peace before.

Quietly dawn rises, and she’s full of surprises.
Yesterday’s peace has been taught to beg.
Death lifts from the field like an affectionate veil,
The first life’s taken out, with a scrape of her nail.
No football today both teams are away, the shooting is for their own goals.
Then the bleakest of hell, screams out of the Mustard shells.
Skin burning like it’s on hot coals.
We hide under ground where our bodies were found, with all of our masks caught adrift.
The protection of boy’s from the horror of war is no time for talking bout thrift.

                                  -~-

PAX Ex-

False Idol

She raises me on pedestals like a pharaoh, or a king.
Nothing ever touches me; I’m her hero, my praise she’ll sing.
She thinks I stride my chosen path to sweep all fears away, and will not ever suffer strife; I’ll scare the demons away.
In truth I’m just a man, a fraud, no god like powers. I work hard to remain her idol, by putting in the hours.
Fair faith such as hers makes the cynic in me glad, her surging spirit carries me, and makes me proud that I’m her Dad.

On Forbidden Love

She loves me, she loves she not.
Her chiding words draped me in sorrow.
Her smiling chastisement “there's always tomorrow.”
My gift of Flowers strewn, and left to decay, like my hope for her forbidden love.
Together on her silken bale, I found them locked a grotesque entanglement of betrayal.
An end to their love, as they put an end to mine, through shattered vase and flowers, for my courtships wasted hours.
The crimson spray of their demise illuminating cream linen, with splaying lines,
A tear for every Petal fallen, I am the Publisher of my passionate crime.