Devil

Beware the shadow by the corner dark,
For there he waits for seven reasons sour,
His wickendess hath sunk the mighty the ark,
Whilst therein seeking whom he may devour.

Be sober and be vigilant thy kin,
Thy adversary waits beneath the pyre,
And walks about as proud as the lion,
To drag thy wayward souls towards the fire.

Come Me Hither I, to Die

Good people of this Christian land,
Here before you now I stand
And come me hither I, to die,
For by the law condemned am I,
And not a word in protest muttered,
Let not a ‘treachery’ be uttered,
These lands demand my soul depart,
By pain of death and muted heart.

For at thy King’s pleasure, ‘tis true,
I soon, to take my leave of you,
I pass not blame, nor beg for life,
This loyal servant, faithful wife,
No longer hath a use on earth,
Couldst not carry your heir to birth,
But God save your most mighty King,
And cease me now of thy ageing.
Please send him strength to reign for all,
For no prince is more merciful,
And to me he was thus adored,
A gentle and most humble lord.

(But shouldst thou meddle of my cause
Judge me upon thy fairest laws,
For many hath a lie been spread
That shall not cease when I am dead).

And thus, I take leave of the world,
Here turn your heads as I’m unfurled.
I ask you, please, most heartily,
Desire that you pray for me.
Oh lord, save me from demons fire,
For to your judgment I expire,
I plead forgiveness in your toll
And beg for mercy on my soul.

Dear swordsman, please, your stroke be true
And let my wretched life be through.

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

Based on the final speech made by Anne Boleyn moments before her execution 19th May 1536.

Anne Boleyn was Queen of England from 28th May 1533 until her execution, 19th May 1536. This poem is based on the final speech made by Anne Boleyn from the scaffold, to the crowd at the Tower of London, the full speech read:

"Good Christian people, I am come hither to die, for according to the law, and by the law I am judged to die, and therefore I will speak nothing against it. I am come hither to accuse no man, nor to speak anything of that, whereof I am accused and condemned to die, but I pray God save the king and send him long to reign over you, for a gentler nor a more merciful prince was there never: and to me he was ever a good, a gentle and sovereign lord. And if any person will meddle of my cause, I require them to judge the best. And thus I take my leave of the world and of you all, and I heartily desire you all to pray for me. O Lord have mercy on me, to God I commend my soul."
 
Accused of adultery, incest, and high treason, Anne protested her innocence. Many historians today believe her crimes had no basis, and that she was potentially the victim of a plot to remove her from Henry VIII favour after her failed attempts to provide him with a male heir (which had become Henry's obsession) and in order for him to pursue Jane Seymour, whom he married one day after Anne's execution. Anne was buried in an unmarked grave.

Henry never had the son he so desired - and after 6 wives, two of whom he had beheaded (Anne Boleyn and the 18 year old Catherine Howard) his final legacy was continued by Anne's daughter Elizabeth (to become Elizabeth I) who ruled for 45 years and brought stability and prosperity back to the realm.

Following the coronation of her daughter, Elizabeth, as queen, Anne was venerated as a martyr and heroine of the English Reformation and has been called "the most influential and important queen consort England has ever had". Her skeleton was identified during renovations of the chapel in 1876, in the reign of Queen Victoria, and Anne's resting place is now marked in the marble floor.

At the Beat of a Drum

At the beat of a drum,

The world changed,

Blamed on many,

Caused by few.

At the still of a heart,

The world stopped,

Spun by many,

Ceased by two.

At the loss of a soul,

The world cried,

Tears of many,

All for you.

 Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin
 

Dedicated to the family and memory of Drummer Lee Rigby,
born July 1987, senslessly taken from the world, 22nd May 2013

My Descent

Spiralling down

Into the void,

That I unearthed. 

My nails, imbedded in the stone,

Do not slow my descent.

I repent, but it will not stop me;

I watch helplessly as the world

Disintegrates around me,

As blackness surrounds me

And those that love me,

Disappear above me.

I feel despair

Working its way through my skull,

Like a slow crack

Through weak glass,

It splits my eyes -

They flush red

And pour liquid misery into pools

That I long to drown in,

But falling is all I have left.

And as blackness surrounds me

And failure consumes me,

I acceptingly plummet

Into this abyss.

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

Diary of a Manic Depressive

I felt happy yesterday.

But today I feel sad.

So fuck off

...

Sorry.

Ask me again tomorrow.

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

Unto the Somme

Entrenched
Behind failing lines,
These curtains of shrapnel and sharp steel
Conceal my misery,
So seamlessly, absently
I go on, numb, alone,
For sensation no longer blesses me.

Relentlessly, I force back my fear,
The absent tears never reach my cheeks
And thick blankets of earth and sand
Choke my cries, damp,  pitiful.
I fall to the boards clotted with death
As my breath abandons me
To my miserable lot.

The heavens pelt me relentlessly,
Mocking me, who should ever be here
By the hand in the air, waving frantically,
Stupidity, and with utter lucidity
I have made my own bed
And must now lie down
And die in it.

But before I am done, I am up,
The screams of dawn chills my bones
Gnawed weak by seasons grip,
As I slip in the filth, trip blindly
Over fallen men
That will not see another day;
I envy them.

Distant annihilation mocks me,
Thunder, not made by god, but Hawthorn;
She begs for blood.
And as she throws her filthy innards skywards
The flood of claret and mud
Clots my throat - I reach and vomit
Into my tin skull.

A lull, short, but eternal
Fills the dead air,
Then the shouts of madmen
Send me once more to my feet
Rotted beneath useless boots.
I swallow back through the agony
And brace.

Blinded by bedlam, I crawl up.
My breath held, my thoughts lost,
I cast myself over the top,
And into the red dirt -
Clawing my way under the razor wire,
It begins to cut the soul from my back
Then tears out twenty-thousand more. 

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

Battle of the Somme - July 1st - November 16th 1916

This poem is inspired by the first day of The Battle of the Somme which saw the British Army suffer the worst day in its history, with some 20,000 men killed. It focuses on the emotional and physical turmoil of one man, on the frontline trench, awaiting his orders to go 'over the top' and ultimately, to his death - which on that day was almost an inevitability.

The Somme was one of the largest battles of the war; by the time fighting paused in late autumn 1916, the forces involved had suffered more than 1 million casualties, making it one of the bloodiest military operations ever recorded.  In total, over 95,000 British Commonwealth men were killed during the battle.

To the Flames

The inhumanity of man,
His deadliest weapon
And his most fundamental weakness,
Allows the ideology of madness
To choke all compassion
From his soul.

And once his soul is extinguished
Only the acrid embers of hate -
Fuelled by his anger and fear -
Are left to burn in its place.
Until control over the inferno is lost
And evil rises from the fire.

But the inhumanity of man,
Is also the undoing of mankind
And inevitably, inexorably,
Those that are born of evil
Will be dragged back, screaming,
To the flames.

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

This is a Poem (Honestly)

This is a poem (honestly)
I’m writing on the go.
Won’t be my best, admittedly
But hey, what do you know?
There will be stanzas, metre too
(I’ll even make it rhyme!)
A classic poem, through and through,
Though made up line by line.

You could say though, what sillyness,

To write things on the fly,

It could cause problems, cause a mess

(Perhaps someone could die?!)

Unlikely though that words on sheets

Could physically arrest

More likely be some horsey meats

To block a flowing chest.

I seem to be digressing, quick,

Let’s get this back on track;

What topics shall I herein pick

To bring your interests back?

Perhaps the weather (no that’s dull)

Or maybe songs of praise?

(I hear that when the Christians lull,

They sing for fucking days!)

No that’s not fair, let’s not be rude,

A poem should be fun,

Let talk about the latest news,

Or who’s at number one?

It’s probably that Bieber thing,

He’s popular, that's true,

Though when I try to think of him

He seems more 'number two'...

Or what about the credit crunch,

(I hear you groan en masse)

Apparently it was a bunch

Of wankers that caused that?

Oh BANKERS, is that the business

That caused all this bad luck?

I would have taken more notice

If I gave half a fuck…

And there again, a vulgar quip,

My mother would so frown.

I’d say to her, ‘Oh mother dear

Turn that frown upside down!’

‘You made this mouth, my brain is yours

Just smaller, less refined.’

‘And whilst you give your thought a pause,

Get mine another wine.’

Oh alcohol, what a good shout,

An easy one to use.

I’d make a funny comment about

How much I abuse.

Of course my doctors would not kid

And haul me into line,

But drain my veins of their fluid

And BAM - another wine!

But really now, I should not joke,

Booze is a deadly sin

(Especially twelve rum and cokes

Then palate-cleansing gin!)
We should all drink responsibly,
And never more than two
But do not fret as thankfully
The measure's up to you!

Though some advice, from me to you,

I’ll charge you not a dime -

If you make me a rum and coke,

Please add a fucking lime.
Don't get me wrong, I love a drink,
That's splashed across the rocks,
But chuck a bit of fruit in *wink*
And I can sink the lot!

What else is there to muse away

That makes for pleasant chat?

We’re having such a lovely day

Let's try and not lose that!

Perhaps another random line,

That strikes you on the nose,

I will not warn you when it's time

But when it comes, you’ll know!

Oh lunacy, oh silly tricks

This poems’ gone awry

Let’s get it back to the basics

Before I make you cry.

I’ll rhyme a pretty flowers name

With some sugary snack.

I’ll talk of fluffy bunnies, blame

This naughtiness on crack.

Bit boring though, if I was to

Compare a summers day,

The poem may be very smooth

(But you’d suss I was gay!)

So I will lock that secret chest

And tell you it’s not true,

I’m well up for a lesbo fest
(But chuck a man in too.)

See if this poem was all dressed

In flamboyance and flare,

No doubt you’d still be quite impressed

But bored beyond compare.

So just admit, vulgarity

Brings poetry alive

It may not make the BBC

But watch out Channel Five!

So why not stop and take a look

At other poems made,

A lot of pride in them I took

(And all of them unpaid!)

And if you have enjoyed this farce

Please share it as you choose,

And if you didn’t, kiss my arse,

Like you've a fucking clue!

But thank you for taking the time

To read my little prose

I hope you have enjoyed the highs

And pushed on through lows

For now I must depart this page

But leave you with a punt -

Recall that promised, sudden phrase?

Well here it is you *end*

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

Danse Macabre (The Dance of Death)

Oh streets, your weeping cobbles shine

Against the moonlight, wailing sirens

Beckon those that have succumb

To fill your guttered lines with souls.

Blistered, bloated, wandering lost

Through invalid eyes – flies feast

On stale skin, as deep within

The eruptions pulse to a deathly drum.

One by one they fall in line

Upon swarming sewer drains,

Stacked, like broken branches caught

In storm rains.

Beaked with balm-mint, laudanum, myrrh,

Incur the wagon, loaded deep.

Sleepers that do not stir at the death knell

Behind the red cross – mercy, lord

The miasma has them!

Mortal shuffling through perpetual twilight

Presses the weakness into stone.

Wooden wheels buckle, cracked splinter,

As infested bone crumbles to ash.

Dig the pit wide and deep,

Hide history from its depths.

Forgive, oh mercy, forget.

Ambergris, rose petals, camphor - keep them out!

Delirious horror beneath darkened skies,

Reclaim these alleyways, scorched naked,

Under pitch and flame.

Demon, stare from haunted shadows

Cast upon this wagon's track

For death dances, his buboes black

To spread and spread and spread.

Oh desperate streets, oh wretched curse,

Screaming with abhorrent lust,

Bring out your dead,

Oh mercy, bring out your dead!

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

The 'Danse Macabre' (the Dance of Death) 
 Inspired by the the global pandemic, the Black Death

The Great Plague (1665–1666), was the last major epidemic of the bubonic plague to occur in England, killing an estimated 100,000 people (about 20% of London's population).  At its peak, 7,000 people died each week. Caused by the bites of fleas, carried by rats from the continent which came to the docks in London, the plague devastated most of Europe – estimates suggesting up to two-thirds of the European population were wiped out by outbreaks of the plague throughout history.

This poem is inspired by, and written as though an account of an assistant to the plague doctors of the era, walking the dark, diseased streets of London tending to victims and collecting the bodies of those that had succumb – also himself aware that inevitably, he is doomed to share their fate.

Untitled

Withered flowers fastened to a wasting bench,

Its plaque and pickled paint are weathered long.

The buckled slats curl flecks on harshest winter's freeze.

Where age defies intent to which it did belong.

As passers-by whom in their daily cues entrenched,

They, wrapped in woolen shields, look blindly on

And notice not the broken petals on the breeze,

Nor sense the echo of a parting angels song.

Copyright © 2013 by Simon Austin

For I Am Gone

Do not look for me, for I am gone.

I am the silent songs of birds, the words

Of ancient etchings scratched off warm stones.

The lone tumbleweed on open sands,

Spreading nothing more across vast lands

And crashing into sparse trees.

I am the breeze on the path that is left behind.

The vacant mind of an elderly man captured

In a photograph. I am the white edge,

The ledge of a precipice above an empty sea.

An unease of lost origin, drifting aimlessly

Through opaque skies. I am virginity.

I am the lies that are never told,

The arthritic ache of a child

That never grows old. I am the folds in the earth,

The wall at the end of the universe.

I am the moment between now and never,

The eternal forever before it begins.

A spinning of stillness, unthinkable thoughts,
The unbreakable part of the atom
And the fathoms of gravity left by the majesty 
Of a dying sun, undone.

I am the nothing between turning pages,

The ages of stopped time; not rhyme or reason.
I am a treason, uncommitted, the pitted marks
On a flawless star. A grain of the world unscarred.

I am everything that is no longer there,

And I am everywhere, and always will be. 
But do not look for me,

For I am gone.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin
 

Abandoned

They left, the last of them, some time ago,
Fear drove them out, but fear of what?
Cowards, the lot of them.
They know not from what they run,
As though the sun below should cause such distress;
I confess, I was restless at first
But I stand and attest to their unfounded concerns,
That which burns, it has done so in secret
And the chasms of earth still there keep it.
There is nothing to run from, a concern, benign,
For we no longer go to the mines,
Where there, even Mercury melts
And smelts to its primordial parts.
This is art we have made, a mere accident
Of cataclysmic beauties
That now roars to the chill
Of a thousand degrees.

My neighbours, now shadows and ghosts,
The poisoned remains of their homes
Their pathetic legacy, running frantically
Down roads that simply go
Nowhere anymore.
I do not care, I will not flee, not be tempted
By money, by promises empty as those caves
That apparently, eventually and suddenly
Will claim me.
The poisonous air that would choke Venus' skies
Belies the reality of their irrationality
And the lies they eventually ate -  insanity.
My god, I really do hate them all.
The fall of this town will not happen
As long as I stay my feet
And show them all that it is their white livers
That will see their untimely defeat.

And I say it again, I will not go,
No man should be driven from his home
Which he built ‘til his hands blood-stained the stone.
The devils lair just below my feet
Will not defeat me. Let him rage at me,
Threaten and engage with me,
Burning the very foundations of me.
I swear to him now, wiping sweat from my brow,
And scream through the inferno beneath -
“Hellion, hear me, I will not go!”
Hand my town to the damned should you wish,
I will not be demolished.
Your poisonous gasses, your fiery breath
Will not conflagrate me, I will survive your hell, 
And as your final fires die out
I will stand on your smouldering ruins and show
That even in death, I would not go. 

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Inspired by the events of Centralia, Pennsylvania

A lone, still occupied house in Centralia, Pennsylvania where a few residents still remain despite the huge mine fire raging beneath the town

Centralia is a borough and ghost town in Columbia County, Pennsylvania, United States. Its population has dwindled from over 1,000 residents in 1981 to just 10 in 2010, as a result of a mine fire burning beneath the borough since 1962. The cause of the fire is disputed, though it is believed that a routine rubbish tip burning was not properly controlled and therefore spread to the mines underneath.

The fire is expected to continue for at least a further 250 years.

All properties in the borough were claimed under eminent domain by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania in 1992 (and all buildings therein were condemned), and Centralia's ZIP code was revoked by the Postal Service in 2002. However, a few residents continue to reside there in spite of the failure of a lawsuit to reverse the eminent domain claim.

Kennedy

Around the shadowed corner, wicked lies,

Through telescopic lens and focussed eyes.

The autumn trees encapsulate the path

And crunch beneath the wheels they idolise.

The building crowds descend before the knoll

To catch a glimpse of this passing idol.

He, showered from all sides with the applause

And peppered from above by seasons fall.

Idyllic is this scene to which he greets,

As smiling faces line the city streets

But soon the smiles will fade in disarray

Through murderous intentions indiscreet.

The polished carriage turns the corner slow

Whilst soaking up the rapture in its flow

And then it steadies to a deathly crawl,

Allowing three their targeting to hone.

And as the open casket slows its pace

A crack of rifle fire fills the place.

But drowned by cheering crowds that do not see

The terror on the now condemned man’s face.

His wife, confused, knows not quite what to do,

Attends the man she’s loved since ‘52,

But with a further crack, the bullet falls

And splits her only love at once in two.

Her screaming filled that plaza, flecked with hate

But few were yet aware of this man’s fate,

She falls onto the metal painted black

And scrambles to retrieve her husbands’ traits.

Not two, nor three but four times they have won,

As autumn leaves fall drunk to winters sun.

The cheers begin to give way to the screams

For now they see their idol is undone.

And all the while the cowards sit up high,

Watching with sheer gladness at him die

But soon the grandest act is to begin,

As conspirators set the greatest lie.

And like a virus, they are quickly spread

As nations demand justice for their dead

But all the while his woman holds his hand

And mourns her shattered love upon the bed.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

 Jacqueline and John F. Kennedy

  

John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35th President of the UnitedStates, was assassinated at 12:30pm Friday, November 22, 1963, in Dealey Plaza,Dallas, Texas.  Kennedy was fatally shotwhile travelling with his wife Jacqueline. The ten-month investigation by the Warren Commission concluded thatKennedy was assassinated by Lee Harvey Oswald acting alone and that Jack Rubyacted alone when he killed Oswald before he could stand trial. The Commission'sconclusions were initially supported by a majority of the American public.However, polls conducted from 1966 to 2004 found that as many as 80 percent ofAmericans have suspected that there was a plot or cover-up.

Contrary to the Warren Commission, the United StatesHouse Select Committee on Assassinations (HSCA) concluded that Kennedy wasprobably assassinated as a result of a conspiracy. The HSCA found both theoriginal FBI investigation and the Warren Commission Report to be seriouslyflawed. While agreeing with the Commission that Oswald fired all the shotswhich caused the wounds to Kennedy and Connally, the HSCA stated that therewere at least four shots fired and that there was "...a high probabilitythat two gunmen fired at [the] President."

Kennedy's assassination is still the subject ofwidespread debate and has spawned numerous conspiracy theories and alternativescenarios.

Seven Kids from RG12

Monday’s child is fair of face,

(although their nose is out of place)

Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

(when they're not pissed out of their face)

Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

(it's tough to choose from smack or blow)

Thursday’s child has far to go,

(with DUI's you would have though)

Fridays child is loving and giving,

(and everyone knows that they’re game for receiving)

 Saturday’s child works hard for a living

(but benefit fraud is well worth a look in)

And the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
Is undoubtedly,

unquestionably,

undeniably

gay.

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin

Writer's Block (Distraction)

I sit with pen and paper firm in hand,

(OK, this is a keyboard, mouse and rum)

I cannot find a rhythmic thought, well planned

(And let’s be frank, I’m probably too drunk)

I think of misery and frosty nights

(But really want to watch Episode 4)

My brain is ploughed for ancient thoughts and sights

(God damn, my glass is empty; just one more)

How can I make these sentences connect?

(How did that bloody spider get in here?!)

Why are my words of scrambled dialect?

(Why did I eat that spicy lamb paneer?)

I screw the paper into snowball piles

(It’s more 'control, select all and delete')

My words are dull, dim-wit, disorganised

(...I think I’ll have a quick pick at my feet)

I light the candles, mood must simmer down

(I’ll save a fair few quid on leccy too)

I draw the curtains, darkness now enshrouds

(You think they’ll launch HD for channel two?)

Now the moment, creativity come!

(That spiders’ gone a-missing, FML!)

I feel the words appearing, I succumb

(I swear... I just heard someone ring the bell)

A flourish of beauty adorns the page

(Wikipedia: Random Article)

It’s been so long since I have sat this stage

(... how can the bloody thing be 8 feet tall?!)

My masterpiece, my magnus opus done!

(… there’s only quarter bottle of rum left)

I’ll have it printed, published, run, rerun

(I better hide the coke and down the rest)

And thus, my gifted waters flow again

(And thus it’s time to bleed the lizard dry!)

Never shall I be common, cold, condemned.

(... and now I got the hand soap in my eye!)

I sink into my joy, my well deserved.

(I think I’ll shut down now, I’m proper whacked)

My sleep is long and peaceful, undisturbed.

(Long as that fucking spider don't come back...)

My writers block is cleared, I'll race ahead
(But best that I don't drive 'til after three)
My next poem will be my pyramid

(Inspired on a buy two get one free)

Copyright © 2012 by Simon Austin