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The end of our novelty.

“In spite of all darkness, you have spluttered a light that pierces through my harshness.

We have both shrank under the weight of our glory.

Destined for something, but it wasn’t greatness.”

 

Bolstered progress to bleak process.

We were consistently meticulous to a work that is now fruitless.

 

Our victories..historic? Our beliefs, stoic?

This is some form of mundane madness, but it doesn’t feel tragic.

 

We sought not pleasure in one another,

but only hope, honor and heraldry.

 

Are we the heretics now?

Clinging on to a notion of justice,

but descending into a crescendo of barbarity?

 

I had hoped that our partnership would be immortal,

Enriched with the beauty of both combat and compassion.

 

Together, our hand should have transcended time,

With all pain to be purged, leaving peace as our only fashion.

 

Our marriage of lunar skies and sunburnt trials,

illuminated all that was hidden, all that was strange.

 

Dormant demons now stroll the land,

But we grovel at their mercy,

for it is they who are grand.

 

How did we conceive of greatness, but give birth to Kratos?

Why did I imagine a future that had already been lost?

What did you permit to, that had already been forsaken?

 

We sit on a throne, fit for execution.

The curtains have been drawn, our future has already been written.

Our prophecy drifts hopelessly between truth and imagination.

But the delicacy of my oracle is just a matter of perception.

 

Deceived into believing that we could reform the world.

Our coalition of interests was nothing but a fools gold.

 

Logic is redundant in this land of sinners,

to flight and not fight is to hide among the smoke and mirrors.

 

 

When the conspiracy runs its course and the clock strikes its final hour,

who will crucify our memories?

Lest the precious moments can not be saved.

 

The ‘utopia’ that I walk through, glistens because of you.

In your destruction, in your elegance, in your hope.

It was all in your view.

 

So with our mirage of lost fortunes,

We shall strife through despondent darkness

For the rule of peace does not reside in exhaustion.

 

No nation may bow to us,

but our bond is resilient.

For the density of our union, not a single empire is equivalent.

 

So shall we relinquish our reign?

Make free the pillars of power?

Slither away from our sovereignty?

All that we see now is solitude,

and an empty eternity for us to devour.

 

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Torrid.

Clementine portraits.

Bleach blond horse manes.

An epitaph for our lost leaders?

Or just the gallows? For it is they who are treasonous.

Eco-promises and political paralysis,

Where the strangled successes taste like bitter-sweet molasses.

Will the levee ever break?

Will the swamp ever drain?

Where is our Atlas to hold up our sphere of mistakes?

Or will we simply crumble under the strain?

Chronicling the sieges that our tribes love to wager.

Will the colossal blow give us a silent blissful danger?

Have you ever seen something so serene?

Purged and purified till nothingness is a coherent reality.

A place where beauty and darkness can no longer reside?

It feels so quiet now, like a thick gloopy silence that rings in the ears of a flu ridden child.

The seven deadly sins do not reside here.

Nothing to hope for, nothing to dream of, nothing to fear.

Will this be the fruition of our resistance?

A friction so epic, that the sparks will engulf us whole?

The human life. Ruled by stories. Condemned by nature. Remembered by the few.

They say that free will is the manifestation of the mind.

That oblivion is embedded in to the nucleus of our being.

But where is the freedom from this strife?

The get-out card that gives us liberty and order?

The delicate fingertips of serenity strokes us with their dignity.

But we take pride in our demented cemented cracks.

Where the space is finite and fraught with division.

We are not defined by our struggle, but consumed by it.

The wails are so common now. How do we drown them out?

How do we find peace?

In a land where there is nought.

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reecenerdify, The Essex Writers' Circle

On the cusp. [Glitzy (Glitchy) Paradise Part 3]

Some stories need to be told.
I’m not saying this has to be an ode…but you need to recognise the path we are on.

We were miles away, deep in to something bleak and unforsaken.

Such strides have been made, objectives surpassed, promises fulfilled.
We must be close now, surely?

I have nothing beautiful to offer.
But, my honesty and truth? It will have to suffice.

When we get there, if we get there
You’ll understand how worthy this will be.

I’ve made too many sacrifices in the name of my own delusions.

But the world we’re approaching, it will give us our honour, integrity and purpose.

We can reclaim what is owed to us only if we have the courage to seize it.

For opportune moments are only grasped by the righteous.

But wait, hah! I’m getting ahead of myself. Woe betide, we will self-destruct if we follow these traits.

We have belittled ourselves for too long. Believed in a transformation that arises only out of luck and leisure.

But this path that we stride on, relies not on hopeless devotion or desperate pleas.

For when we arrive on that evergreen hill and the gateway beckons us in, we will be released from this world of resentment and recklessness.

From a world that prizes it’s destruction as something pure and organic.

“Here he goes again”, they say, “chasing falsehoods and foolish dreams”.

But I did not squirm my way through the Lancastrian workhouses to tell you this. Nor did I swim through the murky Celtic seas to face your scorn.

For when my journey is finished, we may not have our truth.

An alternative will be offered, with a chance to return to our youth.

We’ve all seen our reflection, but none of us know what we look like.

Could we right our wrongs and restart our failed chapters?

Or will my path end like all the others, in a dark but final rapture.

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The Courts from Above Ground

Can you hear the Jury grumbling as they take their seats?

The Judge cracks open the session with his bulletined order of events.

 

Like a tombstone of structured emotion, the prosecution states their case with a cackle of arrogance and bitter assumption.

“We are defending “the liberty of love” beckons the defence, but the patronising scoffs of despair and horror are normalised in this world of systematic tabling.

 

But I….feel nice here.

In my pot of soil.

On my patch of mud.

 

Withdrawn from production line patriotism,

And isolated from the sounds of their rules,

their reasons,

their judgements.

 

This pot gives me plenty of space to run,

I can feel its walls, but I can see freedom in the darkness.

And the silence echoes with a special…

“Thump, Thump”. Order! Order!

This striking sound of ‘justice’ deafens my minds(s).

One fails to recuperate such tranquil thoughts with the murmurs of an enlightened mob above them.

 

I do not infringe upon others movements,

The thought of asserting my morality gives me no amusement.

I have not relinquished my citizenship for a hovel of an existence.

But simply rekindled my sovereignty so that I could have independence.

 

I can hear the defendant interrogated and accused of a love based on guilt.

As if the prosecutor understands.. ,

Oh what castle of lies they have all built!

 

You see, in these worlds, grands delusions reign supreme.

Call whatever Witness to the stand.

They will testify to their own hypocrisy.

Offering perceptions born out of the fog and mist.

 

But in my dwelling, I provide no blurred convictions.

The love I hold, is not hollow but honest.

I am not swayed by unrelenting passions.

No bleakness can consume me,

because I have freed myself from my own harsh reality.

 

However, it seems that sentences must be carried out.

Children must be punished.

And yes, we must learn from our mistakes.

People need to have regrets,

and so we must control our own heartbreaks.

 

Though I live for the eternal, I can not forsake my liberty.

For my truth is powerful because it can shift.

It sustains my wriggle room in a life that constricts.

 

So when the jury makes their call, I will cackle in my chair.

For the courts can’t influence me, and their verdict is insincere.

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Journey to the Infinite.

Frosted confusion.

A promise of a revolution.

My pursuit begins in this forest.

My enchanted path resides with those who are purist.

 

The depth of these nights.

Full of austere patience.

Resenting the spirit.

Retaining the hope.

Withholding the haste.

 

They Say Rome was not built in a day.

But that portal is….is beyond our creativity.

I’ve seen Architects pause and ponder.

Watched Engineers argue over such a wonder.

And the Physicists? Well this is their realm, but of an entirely different matter.

 

This century of progress has sewn the seeds of distrust.

Evicting , so we can build.

Killing, so we can expand.

Polluting, so we can shine.

Starved, so we can grow.

 

But heck, Dickens cant save our destiny.

Our prophecy resides in a world that can’t flinch from its broken glory.

The Portal shows that our failure is preordained.

But I must seek a way to fight our fate; to thrust ourselves from this puddle of doom.

 

We will not survive a world of bitter republics and shattered nations.

Where skeletal chrome towers are worshipped instead of congregations.

When, sovereignty means ‘Mine’!

And the collective doesn’t shine.

Nobody can sit here and tell me that this future is God’s design.

 

This portal offers grand omniscience.

Chronicling our mortality.

Revealing our third eye.

And with this blessed vision,

we can foresee our dark inhibitions.

 

So with this rusty Claymore and my leather satchel,

I will crush that window of modernity, that promises a world of peril.

 

The circus floats from Dublin to London,

Like a snowflake swimming amongst the air.

Searching for its white froth.

But eventually, all must melt.

Its intricate beauty shall not be allowed to disturb the minds of good men.

Its rotten purveyor will be seized, exposed and caged.

 

Our future?

Pivotal.

My Purpose?

Absolute.

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reecenerdify, The Essex Writers' Circle, Uncategorized

The Delinquent’s Dance

The gathering has begun.

A ceremony of delightful beasts.

The crimson sunshine once elevated our heart.

But now a thick smog suffocates the peace.

 

As the traffic lights flicker from scarlet to amber,

You wait for an end to this awful slumber.

Trench lines of scorched Fords with many charred Hondas,

A blistering inferno awaits us, as the demons cackle with their cameras.

 

The climatic froth simmers towards the surface.

The sewers crust over with such acidic purpose.

This arena has been sealed with our hawkish volition.

A bystanders curse, apathy’s very own admission.

 

The conjoining of the red sea floods this principled vessel,

As they channel the anger inside, a great tunnelling begins to nestle.

Starved of tranquillity, we’ve consumed our grim fairy tale.

Blamed for playing the victim, their path of villainy is destined to fail.

 

As the crescendo alights, a mesh of colors fills the air,

Black Eagles and Rainbows descend above us,

Symbols of past and present, giving us that ferocious flair.

 

To spectate doesn’t simply vindicate.

But with the remnants of reason cowering in the corner,

Our descent to savagery grows ever closer.

 

Gone is the soapbox with openhearted minds.

We have a new audience of a more evasive kind.

Happy to watch the darkness devour us from within,

“Just in time for tea”, we say. Its the 7pm bulletin.

 

Jungle, parliament or rally. Barbarity is omnipresent.

The element of protest has vanished.

Their passion for disruption is anything but pleasant.

 

The guttural sounds of hate boom from this tattered stage.

This war for our minds…was it first fought on the page?

Like puppets on a string, ‘like freaks on a leash’,

We now dance to our own apocalypse, all logic has ceased.

 

Once the tingly tears have cleared the horde,

And the road has been choked of all hope.

Onlookers cry for more blood.

The search for reason has become a joke.

 

This spectacle alienates our heart.

Makes fools of humanity.

So the answer is to be further apart?

Now that is insanity.

 

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Glitzy (Glitchy) Paradise. Part 1.

The transcendence of love.

It’s evasion of our bodily constraints.

It resides in depths both dark and murky, pleasant and bright.

How far would one travel to feel it, see it or simply understand it?

The seer had foreseen my moment in the distant future.

“The chance for a John Doe to find his other crescent heart!”

His tone was riddled with that crusty croak of a man who always had the last laugh.

But there was a comic truth to his pitch.

A sarcastic sound lingers, seasoned with the age of an oracle that has seen too much.

But his voice touches you, invites you in with a defiant sincerity that could promise you the universe.

 

“Step Right Up, Step Riiight Up!”

Venture forth into mankind’s eternal portal!

Your grand destiny awaits but beware of the deep abyss.

Your future of pleasure and modernity exists, a destiny so bright..you’ll forget to reminisce!”

Imagine a world where the English yoke does not swing from your charred necks”

A world where you are known not as the Fenian monkey but as the Chrome jungle king who issues cheques!

 

His tongue seem chiselled with such enchanting sounds.

A bystander’s momentary lapse was his easiest prey.

But the secret of his cause remained hidden in darkness under a robe of such rich fabric, only he would say.

With a violent swish and flick, his mystery was upon us.

“Behold! The Portal to your wonderful desires”

 

The invasion of my psyche.

The mimicking rhyme of my words.

The seer had foreseen my future, my wish to see other worlds.

 

 

A grand and smooth mirror stood before us.

Its hard and shiny exterior glistened against the dim moonlight.

 Proud and solid it stood , but deep within its powerful reflection lay a ripple.

It was minuscule.

Almost indistinct.

But it existed.

To be ignorant of this feature was to play the royal jester in front of his bloody majesty.

For only God could have created just majestic beauty within these frames.

Casting a blind eye to this fine specimen is to reject the Lords work.

I will not be privy that.

 

We approached the Portal with a dark but eager curiosity.

The pitter patter of our footsteps crunched against the white slushy grass.

Like a distorted heaven, the murky and foamy snow acted as clouds to the gates of greatness.

I stretched out a hand just to skim over the reflective surface.. The seer snapped, ” it’ll be 9 shillings if you want to escape this circus!”

Was a week’s wages of toiling in the factory worth leap in to the unknown?

 

Logic might have prevailed, but I felt compelled to believe.

 The crowd eagerly awaited my decision.

I handed him a plentiful sack of coins.

A grin beamed upon his face with a dastardly cheek, that should have made me check the amount twice.

 

I anticipated two sets of corrosive and rotten teeth.

But instead, they gleamed with a lunar whiteness unseen in this land.

It was as if if they were sculptured and polished by a Venetian artist himself.

He uttered the words, “Do not fear the awe that radiates from that world”

I reached further once more, my fingers were mere inches from the land of St elsewhere.

 

 

 

Euphoria swept my mind as my fingertips scratched its surface.

A blanket of blur blocked my eyes, but the sounds were ever so crisp.

Sharps clanks filled the air, as if huge metallic elephants were all at battle.

A great murmur lurked behind those deafening sounds.

An assortment of voices simmered across this new horizon.

Their dialects echoed viciously throughout my body.

 A mass of tall silhouettes dashed back and forth.

 The focus was restored to my vision, but only to witness their faces consumed by constant distractions.

 Their eyes darted at every angle like children spinning a model globe on its axis.

 

 

 

The fibres of my soul were transported to realm of a different dimension.

 I felt overcome by a fleeting sense of loss and discovery, the circus had vanished but a new horizo had emerged.

 A thick smog descended from the heavens.

Its stench was reminiscent of the biblical plagues and biological wastelands I read about during Sunday mass.

 But a fiery hail did not descend upon the skulls of these humanoid drones.

 For they prospered under the protection of Gothic machines that seemed to scrape the clouds.

 

 

 

As I peered through one of its windows a familiar figure emerged.

 I choked on my saliva as my legs stumbled in astonishment.

 “A Doppelganger!?”

 His (my) glare struck me with an unrecognisable awe.

The hair on my back shivered uncontrollably.

I clutched on to an onlooker, desperately seeking solace.

As I pleadingly questioned him to reveal that familiar figure’s identity,

a transfixed grin was stretched across his face whilst his hazel eyes began to quiver and tremble mechanically.

 

 

 

“Why good fellow, he is the new Mayor for the glorious People’s Republic of London!

 He may be a grandson to that IRA fool but its a true rags to riches story, they even say he was born in a dungeon!

 The Onlooker began to depart from the scene, but he took one final glance at me.

 “Ha! You do have a likeness to that crazy old Dublin man,

 I wonder if the Mayor thinks the same, you could pass for his clansman!”

 

 

 

I began to sprint for the window.

My legs had been energised with a resounding purpose.

He was the crescent moon that I would soon give birth to.

My future. His past. Both hanged delicately in the precious but fleeting moment.

 I began to witness the environment crumbling away.

 

The enormous Gothic machines began to fade in to obscurity.

The grim silhouettes seem to crack and fizzle out in to the atmosphere. 

The misty glass of the window seemed to merge in with the Mirror that I had once entered.

 My legs lost their faith as the circus suddenly reappeared.

That world had vanished into oblivion. But my purpose remained.

 

The crowd had dispersed, the only sound that could be heard was my awe-stricken panting.

The seer stared at me with an arrogant and spellbinding smile.

He knew my fate.

“I have to go back”.

 

 

 

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There will be others.

Prologue: “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

 

The rich scarlet curtains draw back.

The stage lights jump on.

The crackling, rustic anthem booms. Its the same old track.

 

The swishing of the soft velvet opens the charade.

Her smooth and shadowy silhouette is a mouthwatering appetiser for what is to come.

Her glittering sequin shows her allegiance. You know what she wants.

 

She entices you with fantasies.

A land of milk and honey

A world of opportunities.

You know its all phony. But in this hour you want to believe.

 

The spotlight dimmers. You skim over the manifesto.

Its packaged so sensually with all the delightful models parading the deep scarlet, ivory and navy tones of this bustling party.

Earlier, my neighbour said “come on down, there’s something for everybody!”.

Oh give over.

Every carnal desire? Every fetish? Every necessity guaranteed and delivered in a synthetic pamphlet, courtesy of TRNSNTNL.INC?

 

Your eyes glance back at the stage.

You can see her trembling lips, puckering up to disguise the very she fear has promoted.

Her slender legs begin to buckle under the transfixed glares we are giving her.

Fragile, but not broken.

 

You may say she is weak, but we’re crying for a saviour.

We are the drooling, starved sharks.

But we do not ask for a distinct flavour.

 

Maybe in the past, those houses of pleasure could actually deliver the will of the audience.

But it is a mere ritual now.

Our tastes have watered down, they have become incoherent, ambiguous and without purpose.

 

Tonight, we have visited the pole.

We have watched her dance seductively and without grace. Subtly skipping past the darker and more pertinent requests.

Aesthetic satisfaction? Hardly.

A retired writer whispers to me, “that large ugly fluorescent elephant will probably still be here in four years…”

 

Next week, we will deliver our verdict at the polls.

The forecast seems bleaker than this overcast sky.

But at least we demonstrated our mind, we showed that we tried.

We thought her loss was our loss. After all, we were the crutches upon which she could stand.

 

If the media are the ones pulling the strings. Then can we really shield her from its gaze?

The polls may cast upon us a blanket of rejection.

If so, our saviour will be chosen at our next demonstration.

We thought she could have been our messiah, our special national lover.

 

Oh well. We will have to retake our seats.

Who knows what we might discover.

For this century is young, there will be others.

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Cistus in Flames.

Prologue:

This world is not our own.

Centuries of roots have been laid down but still nothing has grown.

Dynasties, communities and families.

All built on a notion of unity.

Yet we still struggle alone.

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It has begun.

The mobilisation of our dark spirit.

Many cautionary tales, many warnings.

We refused to acknowledge it.

We planted a grand dream.

 

Its buds were conceived in glistening haste.

Its thick, rocky and chunky roots squirmed and squelched through an infertile soil.

It was as if this earthly paste denied us the blossom of greatness.

 

We were never really ready, our speakers preoccupied with the sounds of social gratification.

Our worm-like fingers grasping hopelessly to respond to every notification.

 

The instruments of our minds are constantly suffering from trivial withdrawal.

But a feast of freedom lies within our reach!

If we could just block the frenzy..

maybe we could find the answer we seek.

 

The subconscious craving for something precious. Peaceful. Precise.

The yearning for this purity; only stemmed by our fear of the puritanical.

These fleeting sensations of hedonism need not be a sign of vice.

For our pursuit of pleasure is honourable. It is natural.

 

Under what pretense will our social achievements be framed and frosted in glory?

The fossilisation of our nobler efforts have been blissfully ignored.

Our collective actions radiate like the dying embers of a broken sun that can no longer protect its children.

 

The refurnishing of our soul requires a plentiful mental harvest,

but should we resupply and reproduce for a world that doesn’t try its hardest?

 

How can we be guardians of a home that seethes and hisses of our very presence ?

Will it end with the jaws of the earth swallowing our existence whole?

Allowing it to breath smoothly and freely, but alone.

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