Standing in shadow by cemetery gates.
The revenant tenants of this tenement yard,
Raise two fingers to the fates.
No solace to be found in their foetid tombs,
He at leisure to violate those catacomb wombs.
Last sods of earth clawed away,
He knows they know what he knows.
Polite enough to knock upon the lid of each box,
To await their invitation before being so bold,
Cracked heart stutters in hollow chest so cold.
Guiltless here, without compassion. Taking pleasure in their corruption.
It all gets worse when he finds a fresh one,
To be carted off as contraband for the medical profession.
He plays at brother Magpie's games. Heart a flutter of oily black.
Leaning back against a monument, heedless of inscription,
A stolen cigarette fumbled from a hidden poacher's pocket.
Upon the marble town of Yonder.
And maybe just a trice to wonder,
Why her bone orchard saplings never say a word.
And only come out to play, when he requests admission,
Then assuming rite of passage, in decayed passage ways.
And all away upon his toes he goes,
To shower his bone sore friends in their ivory sewers
With gifts all rent asunder.
But all willing, unresisting. Spoiled fruits of plunder.
- Directionless Resurrectio..
- Prey Tell Of The Church F..
- A Prophet For A Pound Of ..
- The Blight of Gods Acre
- The Underside of Eden
- Gatherer of the Pure
- Left Behind As Static
- Corvus Corona, Pt.1
- Corvus Corona, Pt.II
- Dead Love