Dear Calv.,
I’m still down here
with the grim dogs,
those bearded cavaliers
who turn my guts to nightmares
on bushed and burning streets
and where broken gates
gape with ingrained grins.

Where is the petal of yesterday
or tomorrow’s golden flower
that has led me like a dishcloth moth
forward towards reward?
There is no stamped tattoo
on my discoed wrist
for I have stood outside without
the currency to even view
the coffee cup elite.

Turn me around.
Remove your shard,
Snow Queen. Wind
and face me on the pathway
to the sun,
away from this grim dog chaos
and this cold
thorn tree of tears.

Now who will pluck up the fallen?
Which of you shall heal the sick?
(Come, sweet girls this pathway leads to glory’s death too.)
Aye, who will turn the barren earth
and light the bloodied sun?
That wounded,
bloodied son?
Sin searingly,
R.E. Hill.



Mike Mcnamara
Montage: Rupert Loydell




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