Oh Fuck ! – said the dying Spartan
(number 245)
From who’s mortal wounds
The raging tide of his life
Ebbed, quick, quick, slow
As he gripped his knife
Wholly, utterly, unaware
That La Grande Histoire
Of epitaphs, in granite
Was his fate to share
And his parting thought
As his soul took flight
Was – I hope the other 299
Will be alright
A metaphor, to light the night
That small, yet right
Can piss on might
When the crunch has come
And they make you fight
This legend of the  underdog
Regained, remained and thought ingrained
Til man forgot to teach to read
The manifold, where he’d spread his seed
So bountifully, that the Earth had sighed
That the less man read, the more he multiplied
When the last book’s leaves
Light a fire for thieves
Then The Spartan dies
Free at last, he leaves
As a littlle green chap, said “it,s like this”
And let us have it –
The species you have chosen to inhabit
Is testament to your spiral core of purpose
Your insights, cells deep
Where nothing’s known, but intimitely
Even disintegration and defeat
“Were ne’re the end of me”
And we come back here
To ride the breeze
Play and tease
With weathered ease
Who are these?
You make me wheeze
Your cheap cologne
Your ancient cheese
You cloud of spirits
Cloned like bees
To slake your addiction
To Triumph or humiliation
To play The Bad Guy
While you’re far too simple
Stuck between a black eye
And an accompanying pimple
Or the holier than though
Lesser souls for to mock
Gazing hard at your ringpiece
As you suck your own cock
Well it seems there’s a place
On the next hill we take
Where it’s changeable, malleable
We’ll see what we make
All regrets and mistakes
All pulled loose of their stakes
Forgiven, unshriven
Our heart fit to break
Someone handing out cuppas
And great wedges of cake

Chris the Poet



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