Swallowed by the jaws of time
Suffocated, left for dead,
Was their keeper hapless or culpable?
Forensics make a statement
But not as bold as the life buried,
‘Lucky to get there before the Tomb Raiders’,
Parody’s the Officer, ‘these gems are legends at car boot sales’.
But it fell on deaf ears, this was eBay gold ready for the global auction.
Tragically, the toll would rise as the wooden tomb
Gave up its secrets beyond mower and workmate.
Lucky to buried in a man cave, such wisdom, such foresight,
Left at peace to sit up-ended holding those off-cuts and nail jars behind the rolls of felt.
The dryness preserved the very skin and bone of each and every one.
Psychic Maude knows the weddings and funerals the deceased attended.
She says the pull form the red stilettos is so strong she can pinpoint the night they came off and got carried home.
And the black with the gold clasp carried a lace handkerchief to her cousin’s funeral.
‘That one over there, it, well it exposed its purpose and pointed to you’.
The date engraved on the silver napkin ring beside the favour would make her true.
‘Some had fun’ said Maude, lifting the two-tone,
but I already glanced the silver hipflask nestled in satin lining.
Faugh – a – Ballagh
Today they opened Remembrance Way,
simply pulled off the Union flag,
no plaque, no memorial, no words to pray,
a British road sign had it all to say.
No last post, no badge of honour,
No pomp, no ceremony.
So to you Diesel, and to four hundred and
fifty-three comrades in the bravest battalion
in the Kingdom of Heaven; I salute you.
Fallen, never forgotten, salvation, a soldier of Heaven.
Your presence from above touched the congregation,
long before your mortal bones were taken,
lowered with honours, through Christ elevation,
the rain, dewy tear drops a baptism from heaven.
A young cub, one score year and a box of days,
boy to a man so fast your loving family
choked, no time to gasp a breath,
gone but never forgotten.
History will show that the poppies
Helmand grows, bloom red with
blood from contact, man down,
and for the entire world, we’re proud of what you’ve done.
Ranger David, Diesel to all your friends,
we remember you as you walked this earth,
we pray for you as you march in his Kingdom
a spirited life, a Christian soldier.
Mindful of the valour and sacrifice
of those who have gone before us,
clear the way for those that follow,
through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.
For Ranger David Gordon Dalzell 1990 – 2011
Lights lasers off rearview mirror roused up early morn’ noddin’
Could be back doors open, flat tyre or tail light broken,
The truck rumbles off the black to tan, let’s see what’s up
with man behind in van.
Pulls up short reverses back, steady mate you’re gonna crash.
Then unseen from before, a shadowy mask is banging my door.
From mist a balaclava stare, has one eye cocked down the barrel.
‘Get out or you’re dead!’ words that blunt that bold; blood cold.
Backdoors burst wide open; Three Santa’s pull me to the grotto
‘Get this on yer head and tie it tight!’ not that but that intent,
How tight is tight when roping a sack around your head?
No words were spoken, tap tap to Morse the man in cabin.
Zippo lights the fags, smoke swallowed in great gulps and whistled in exhale,
Remembering oh God, dark days; ciggy burns a punishment behind the lines.
His boot cracked off the back of my skull, ‘lie still’ not that but that made him laugh,
Face down I could feel the beat of stamping in applause; for the cause.
Tippity Tappity tap, tap, tap, gunmetal planted hard deep in temple,
‘Quiet there’s a road check ahead’ not that, but that was whispered.
Open the back, break me free. Waved on; not looking for me.
Equal amongst men who themselves reeked the butt end of fear,
And I could feel the gun come off my temple and stroke about my ear.
‘Kneel! No round the other way’ tugged my lead head smashed back,
the perfect time to pray. Pain is my companion I clench close,
‘Take off the sack, stare at the door, yer’ getting out, we need you no more.
Did they miss the trade? Was the hanging Christmas beef the only order?
On my count jump, eyes ahead or the men on the street will see you dead.
Not that but that was said and I didn’t look back but up and thanked the lord instead.
Radicalized revenge by a daughter
Not yet seen her teens but taught the lessons
brutal force thrust home, again and again
and again until her pawed thighs could
read the words, open wide, with eyes shut tight,
ostracised by gang rape, demeaned for
escaping sex slave, brothers beheaded,
her time had come, to strap thirteen
candles [church size], to the studded vest
beneath her flowing birthday dress
and walk, amongst market stalls,
homing, locked in on the Kasbah bazaar
stealth mode, seeking men in sarong’s
sucking on hookah’s beneath canopy shade
hiding from the burnt orange sun that spotlights
her progress, silky sari, strolling, under the
same sun from which they hide,
thoughts ripen on her pomegranate
sperm seeds, close to bursting,
to pepper dash and snog the face of
each and every one, their own blow
job to kingdom come, her work done,
their brute force, penetrating thrust
leaves them now as body parts in the
blood-soaked dust, and tomorrow
will be the same stage
different actors, same play,
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