Hard Cell [the last Morocco piece!]

[The moment you’ve all been waiting for…the last Moroccan piece. After this, I have to write real posts instead of just drip-feeding you depressing poetry I wrote on holiday!
As a quick aside, if you are interested in glum existential reflection, just explore the tag ‘Morocco’ from my tag cloud, which is somewhere in the sidebar… and here.]

Grey gazes from stone windows
into souls imprisoned
Hardened minds trapped more in themselves,
in society, than in cells
For we have made these prisons
but really it is the world
The way we’ve made it, greedily,
that has killed everyone
leaving grey gazes from souls to souls with no link and no differences and no feelings.

The Boy on the Bus

[Despite yesterday’s post, there is more Moroccan magic to be had! And my magic, I mean angst. And by more, I mean this and one more piece. Don’t worry folks – it’s almost over. The months of angst will soon pass.]

[I suppose this is for him, in a way at least. May he avoid the fate I’ve set out.]

A cacophony of energy a shout a leap
No one can tame the young so changeable
From glee to sorrow in moments
Free from conformity
Only to grow into boxes with clipped wings.

What It Takes From Me

[A brief interlude piece written among all the other angst in Morocco. We’re nearly there, two to go!]

This has been my most productive day of writing and I feel drained the world has thrown words at me and sucked life from me.
My blood was richer with imagery but it was all made to rust to dust and blow away and take my soul with it. I have written what the world told me and I am done.

The Cursed Mythos

[I know, I know, it’s July and I’m still posting angsty stuff from my holiday in March… but this one’s Cthulhu-themed, I couldn’t leave it out! There are only a few more to go anyway so I’ll just post them all this week. Anyway, sending y’all Lovecraftian love!]

Pounding on my prison door
Clawing at these filthy walls
Take my eyes but still you cannot see
Take my freedom but still you cannot be me

i am lethal i am dying but still time is against you
you can’t hold me for much longer i am gonna get you

Apocalypse
The end of days
The nameless ageless one
Breaking out this feeble cage
You will see what I’ve become
The suffering you gave to me
will be repaid a thousand-fold
You made of me
Your enemy
The final terror to be told

Scythe

[You guessed it – Morocco poetry! Now with custom artwork which I may have drawn first and then written a poem around…]

I put my skull in a box/
tied it up with ribbon/
and gave it to you

You cut the ribbon, threw it aside, recycled the box, and held my being in your hands. “It will do,” you said.

You plugged my skull up with wax, then stored your gold coins within. Such treasure I had never seen! “Soon,” you said.

My body still stood in the corner. For fun, we threw knives into it. The soft thuds were satisfying and I felt no pain.

Later we took the eyes from my old body and made soup. You poured it into my skull for me, but the wax ran and the soup spilled. You threw my skull across the room and it cracked on the bare stone wall. It lay broken on the floor and suddenly I was in it again and it all went black.

The View

[Short piece from Morocco. Can you believe we’re still going with these? I know, right! Enjoy anyway…]

I walked through a valley with guns and dust on each side and skulls grinned from the ground and vultures grinned from dead trees.

I came to a cement plant and told the workers what I’d seen and they threw me into the mixer ‘to cast my lies in stone’.

rust was blood

[More Moroccan misery. Seriously, what got into me? If anyone else has found Moroccan coach trips make them write depressing poetry, please get in touch.]

What is this
lush green life
there is no place
for you here
We are heat
and dry oh so
dry death
wearing away
resistance
the soul we
are the soulless
place where
life cannot be
Be gone green
devil we do not
need your life
here we were
fine with dust
and death and
aching slumber

Life is too loud
We strangle you
And sleep again

Phoenix Seasons

I burnt up once already but
I came back with brighter eyes
and stronger bones that jutted out
of me like swords.
I faced Death grinning and told
him no the fire in me would
not go

he wasn’t happy but he had no choice.
I am the light now
and I will burn for the
lifetimes not of men but of
stars

Filled with so much life
the world must be less
for I am here
A beacon of fire

He is here my ice I did not know of Him and now He has come Fate has changed and worlds hang in the balance for I am great and strong but He is ice and hard and cold this was not the way but what will be will be for all eternity.
He is come to freeze me so that the world will seem warmer but really it is losing heat millennia will show my truth but now I am condemned a martyr with no pyre but frozen in ice.

Ice and Cotton and Wolves

[It’s a piece from Morocco. Prize for the winner.]

alive – so broken
and ‘do what’ to ‘don’t just’
the puzzle is itching,
it’s clearly inside.
i come to pulse out
no one knows it’s gonna fit.
what pieces of the creeping
do you pound into doing?
i am them.

33 – 18 4
5 ’40 9′ 31 ’16 35′
26 15 25 24,
34 3 28.
1 32 10 27 30
6 7 8 38 39 17.
37 12 13 14 29
11 23 20 22 36?
19 2 21.