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