He wasn’t even that tall, as long as you weren’t standing right next to him. He acted tall, and had the aura of a lofty kind of guy, but he didn’t have the height to back it up. Now, he had good, thick hair and that much I will concede. It was long too, flowed all the way down over his fancy armour and looked tangled like an unattended garden. I wish I had hair like that, but hey, who doesn’t?

I’...

Making is free

Not watched like a kettle

Or marked by the hour

The art is always there

Whether you are or not

That there is peace

Let you breathe with ease

Because you can be still as a rock

Grow moss

And still not live at a loss....

These cold highways stretch like tired arms

Lifting from the concrete sides of that giant

That groans from the pain of life

Trickling cars and people

Igniting themselves for another day

To make their appointments

Made in haste....

The wind blows my hair. I’m standing on the edge again. Fifth time this week. This is the difficult thing about becoming a superhero, you have to learn how to fly. There is the technical approach, with your wingsuits and jet packs, but all that costs money. I don’t have a lot of that. Then there is the other way - the leap of faith.

Now this is quite a literal leap and quite a risky one, and you...

Deal breakers

Move makers

Charging down the street

Shaking down all they meet

And now the ways run red

After all that they said

“Cut them up, cut them up!”

As they filled their cup

Up to the brim

The lights got dim

And the big man stood tall

And made the others seem small

Children with knives

Snatching at lives....

There is a rotten thing

That lies at the bottom of the hill

And inside I hear them sing

There is an old man

Who listens to the birds

They have big wing spans

The thing is a shed

A wooden church so unholy

Within it is only one bed

There is a rotting thing

That lies in that bed

And I don’t know what it brings

The old man breathes his last

Flinching from his lungs

What was present is now past...

If victory had a taste, it would taste like honeyed ash. A sweetness to cover up the bitterness, something to make up for the nothing of it all. For victory is not a celebration, but a devastation, and it leaves no winners. Victory pours down your throat and down to your burning lungs, ignited by the effort of killing - and for a moment is quenches. But the fire revives and year after year you bla...

Funny how someone can be more than a person

But a colour too, the sort that warms and grows

And brings about these daily smiles.

When life comes undone

They know the stitches, how to sew

Not just a fixer but a maker aswell.

They outline a life and you’re there too

Part of the picture

Sketched and carefully painted.

They give it movement

This art of ours

And we live there together....

I have a spot

Not our usual one

No it’s somewhere you’d never think

To look

You might find the clues in my face

If you pay attention

For more than one wasted night

If you make your tracings

Reveal my footprints that drag

Because I’m tired of hiding

And I’d rather be found now

Clinging to a branch or stuffed in a box

Please figure it all out

I’m getting bored and lost....

Still

Watching

Dark coats march

Through my home town

Barking in old tongues

And strangling the red sky

With whipping flags, painted black

Icons of their dreadful rule hang high

A silent taunt to the remaining few....