He Who Speculates

 

speculate

 

He who makes his own bed

Quilted in morning’s riches

Wretched imposter

Calling for cover

 

He who unwinds

Mirrored baptisms of believers

Circling vultures awash

Awakened

 

He who is never-born

Glowing inversion

Pointed hollow almighty

Ever-nothing

 

He who is not

And altogether

Qualified in his absence

Borrowed from none-other

 

He who is charitable

Certain and fragile

In his giving and taking

At will

 

He who is forgiving

Forgives only his fancies

Headlong

Balding and aged

 

He who is fearful

Blinks crematoria

Guarded shit-houses

A watchful tunnelled eye

 

He who is union

In suffering and inflicting

Omni-torn

Juxtaposition

 

He who is one

Knowing what he hath forgotten

Rash harsh flunk

Of a decision

 

He who is woman

Pincushion precision

Prison crimson

Cold nights calling Om

 

He who is indestructible

Steel ridged

Industrial lustre

Engine flamed furnace

 

He who is nature

Standing on his shoulders

Counting sacred patterns

In how you’re wrong immediately

 

He who is silent

Tortured caged beast

Roaming his confines

Screaming imperceptible vibrations

 

He who is the way

Turn back now

And abandon all

Tomorrow is a luxury

 

He who is evil

Strike me down now for saying

Wading in sorrows

Wilderness of hot glass

 

He who is ignorant

Thinks himself at peace

The deceased left to perish

Not least

 

He who is present

Came with the assumption I am

Brick-lane hooligan

Apologies from a spray-can

 

He who is I-don’t-know-what

Stirring the brilliance

Of half-light majesty

A solemn jewel for an ocean to drown

 

He who is I

Will not sleep

Restless generosity

A desert storm and a keep

 

He who is me

Buckled rotten again

A loaded gun

Waiting to happen

 

Greg Fiddament

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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