Christmas Tombs card

Wishing all adorers of Greville and the Tombstones a very gentle festive time.

May ghosts come to settle by candlelight.

May bones be placed in your stocking.

May there be a new year for you.

Card design by @tellthee

Ghosts are real

This is... Ghosts are real

Dead relationships are dead.
Ghosts are real.
Haunting the old haunts.
Some people contact them.
I don't believe in them.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead. 
They float silently by my eye.
They never age, but rot.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead.
I hear the shrieks.
I hear the sound trees make.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead. 
I think I must be dreaming.
I hear them in my bed.
Ghosts are real.
Dead relationships are dead.

There's another ten verses I could tell, but everything I've said covers it just as well.

A Perishing Lament

Greville and the Tombstones are not very good at Halloween. But this little one seems appropriate for reading on a Halloween night. Listen and you might hear it through the wind, through the window, through the wall, through to morning.

This is:
A Perishing Lament

It’s not what fleshes our costumes.

It’s not the glow of a lantern,

flickering a face through a windowpane.

It’s a peculiarity which consumes.

A gothic, sloshing, formed within.

It’s an invisible foreboding without name.

It’s joining in a parlour game,

All silk dresses, paraffin lights and warm. 

And sensing not all is tomfoolery intent,

Disguised by cinder toffee scent.  

And the spirit moves on from you. 

And the spirit moves on

Because of what you have done.  

Watching players all sat in the round.

The Medium’s fingers of reed,

Flickering in refined ethereal breeze.

Listening out for your mortal sound.

The channelling is meant to mislead.

The panting in breasts as breaths freeze.

We’re joining your parlour game.

All creaks, knocks and earie manifest.

And moaning out eternal undying torment,

It’s a perishing lament.

And the spirit does rest with you.

And the spirit does rest

Because of what you have done.

S-booky decorations

Composition and photo by @tellthee

Wishing everyone a very spooky Halloween.

Terminal agitation

I wrote this fast in a bath. Greville and the Tombstones appear to take the most melodramatic baths.

This is:
Terminal agitation

I cling to the side of the pool.

My naked body in supine pose of the tormented Jesus.

Knuckles grooved rivets.

A fleshy sac: loose yolk exposed.

My modesty slapped in oil.  

I consider dying.  

It's been two summers.

It’s been so much longer now.  

I wanted ovations.

Men punching the air.

Women falling into arms.

To be beautiful forever.

I wanted certification of life.  

I consider dying.  

I’ll not find ways back.

I’m alright with how I am now.  

Blood lacerated in the dance.

My hair, slippery and lank from the steaming pool.

Hanging willow branches.

Creating little concentric ripples.

Vulnerability coiling fingers.

I consider the pain.

A hymn for a nihilist

This was an interesting piece. I tweeted a couple of early drafts as I worked on it. Then it disappeared, deep into the well. Now it has resurfaced, the stones out its pockets. It is much changed. It went in a therapy and came out a hymn.

This is: A hymn for a nihilist

Wipe clean your eyeball on a sleeve,

This is not a benediction for your strife.

Pick up this note of mourning on cold days.

Days when skies are nicotine yellow lit life.

You could be happier, I’d say.  

What claims victory in war,

when you’re only fighting yourself?

What case are you trying to prove,

when you prosecute your own defence?

You want to watch some drown,

but to do it you must wade deeper in.

Don’t pierce that voodoo doll of yours,

you’ll only prick a finger with the pin.  

Young romantics, youthful dead.

Though who can truly tell the difference?

The trophy on an arm and another

skeleton cluttering the cupboard.

Rattling bones hush the screams.

Out of car windows, Time discards you

like empty tins, rattling on the road.

Seeing the car get small, you’re cut free.  

Velvet, burst stuffed heart cushion.

Dead fragile, vein thin leaf smoked pew.

Wallpaper peeling from humid stress,

Everything needs a redecoration.

Every bit moulders in ruins.

It’s complicated and it’s ridiculous

how decomposition is natural.

Come to terms with whatever the point is.

The perished, holly berry mildew,

worn out as a coat that really suits you.  

Years poured in, paper thin.

All the people are junkyards,

corrugated dolphin companions in the surf.

Wipe clean your other eyeball on a sleeve,

See through your ghosts giving up.

Wring out the excruciating tone.

View terror under grief within.

Creep towards The Word like medication,

Take it anytime, whatever dose,

It won’t cure your mortal bone.  

God, how did you get so old?

Trauma keeps from feeling the years.

Stolen act of misguided kindness.

I sense works growing cold in my warm core.

Watching tornadoes touch down on the ocean floor

make it worthwhile to endure.

Is this good therapy? I’m really, very, not so sure.

There is no Live album

There is no band. There is no Live.

Many thanks to my friend @tellthee for this great image and design.

It's so realistic. But it is not a real album. Like all Greville and The Tombstones albums, if they did exist, they would be blank. Not even any grooves in the vinyl, I would think.

Hard where it counts

Anita Berber by Madame D'Ora Atelier 1922

Inspired by a line which resonated with me from David Lynch in Twin Peaks, this is...

Hard where it counts

You can’t have rainbows without rain.

I can do without rainbows.

To err humanity, forgiveness divinity.

Lord knows I was mistaken.

Getting soft all over the damn place.

Bless you, we are all dying.

I’m still hard where it counts.

Night of the encroaching thoughts

I've been listening to a lot of electronic beats lately. This is the result.

Faith Bacon

Night of the encroaching thoughts:

Mechanised dust enters by window crack, 
Leaving trails of sawdust self back
In circular tracks
on the sill.
I think: This must be Lucifer!
 I curse.
It flips on its back:
wings pasted down
Weak dust legs cycling upwards
growing stiller
and still. 
Dust is dust.

Smokers with their ointments for pains.

Rubbed fastidiously into veins.

Flowers, bushes and earth

Scent the humid, coarse air.

Reminiscent of a hospital.

And, of course,

this

persistent rain. 

I must remember to take a second breath.

I’ve hidden too long in death.

Clung to it like a balloon,

won at a fare

by a lover,

tin rifle

and
dead dog stare

Move Heaven and Earth for connections.

I mistrust how

Angels sow seeds to grow affections.

I can’t see why

They’re

not

considered demons.  

Flesh beats as wanting, death is a bone.

Existing is lonely, dying is alone.

I’m hanging out in the water tank trick,

denying help.

And I’m painted out as the lunatic.

On the fringes

Of a social circle
I can’t get out of.

Playing with rotting corpses of people I once knew, behind.

Day-freak phantasies in period costume read rehearsed lines

I re-animate in my mind,
wasted embodiment, weak limbs hardly attached.
Dust is dust.

I must remember they’re

All longing acted out
by loathing heart.

I must remember to take a second breath.  

I find five million ways to get over you.

Then given five million and two,

To leave you dangling tie high over

Suffering pit

Sky scores thunder, darkens azure

I cast forsaken

Shadow

with pitchfork

and

arrow tail tip.  

I must remember to take a second breath.

For these memories so final

That they live in death spirals of narrative, which weaves

Intricate tooled fragility into individual grieves.

Each little melancholic cog fastened to me.

A tree

Weighed with rusted scent leaves

In the autumn

heavy dew,

I draw up my fatal position.

My time passes, oh it passes.

The grieves glisten, oh they glisten

in the narrowing light

dejected I see

my
cracked

human condition.

Einmal wird das sich das Licht sich nicht länger dir zuwenden um dich zu treffen

@tellthee has interpreted the Greville and the Tombstones track, One day the light will no longer turn to meet you.

@tellthee told me her translated works are more than just English to German: they are expressions sewn as a quilt of feelings, sounds and imaginations of her reading the original. That, to me, is beautiful.

I am very grateful and love to share them.

This is: Einmal wird das sich das Licht sich nicht länger dir zuwenden um dich zu treffen

One day the light will no longer turn to meet you

I don't think this really is about a lighthouse, y'know. I'm not even totally sure the lighthouse keeper is even employed as one.


One day the light will no longer turn to meet you

Drowned books.

Dashed on broken bones,

Split out at weird angles.

Corpse shallows.

Heaving in seaweed swell.

The Sadness took them.

Can’t you tell?  

The sky is falling in, isn’t it.

Someone should check outside.
Where's light?

The lighthouse keeper says:

"One day this turns away from you"

"One day you will be left in the dark" 

Wound tracks.

Silver laid ice spines.

Over laid down sleepers.

Paper cliffs.

Words rubble down below.

Fell off trembling hand.

Spider ink vibrato.  

A happy pose for a photograph.

Smiles keep only on the film roll.
  No blinking.

The lighthouse keeper says:

"One day this turns away from you" 

"One day this shines on you" 

"One day this leaves you in the dark" 

"The smile will snap closed. 

The sky will fall in.

The lid will snap closed

The earth will fall in" 

The lighthouse keeper says: 

"The lighthouse shows us pulsing as what we are"

"One day the light will believe you"

"One day the light will leave you"

"One day the light will no longer turn to meet you"

"One day you will be in the dark"

Light blinks across books,

Corpses, travels and paper cliffs,
Collapsed skies.

The lighthouse keeper says:

"I am getting older, and I am in pain"

"I will one day go and leave you"

"You’ll think the sky is falling in.

You’ll have to go outside to check" 

"Go outside and check"

"The sky is where it has always been"

CODA

Everyone ends.

Hasn't a chance.

Still, you are the sunrise in me.

A Tempest breeze.
Rough ground in a church yard.
Detached trusted light.

Betrayed song of a strained life.

You are the stone sunrise which gets me up.

Bones and plant

Unknown source. I like the aesthetic nevertheless.

Time paces

I've looked at this for so long I hate it. So it seems it is as good a time as any to put it out of its misery.

This is:

Time paces

Sometimes there is a hell of a lot of time.

Far too much of it.

Immense plains of time.

To be found bloated in echoing waiting rooms.

The chance embrace at the sand dunes

Has gone,

So move on.  

Lord knows, it’s breaking me all up.  

Time is not on my side: yet steals nothing.

It paces, tick to tock.

A switchblade of position.

Wound back in typewriter’s bluebottle ribbon.

Struck letter spooled, once hidden

Has gone,

So move on.  

Beautiful sadness, it's breaking me up.  

Time is no protector, it sanctifies unease.

It’s chewing me up.

We are all done for now.

Cut to the end: all this: the pulpit faced,

Faith with whatever it replaced

Has gone,

So move on.  

Shifting sadness, it's breaking me up.

You'll have to wait a while for broken me

A fight to death.

Time will win the last bit of me.

It feels like there should be a chorus now.

Time lined up tick to tock preaches only raw howl:

[optional]

“Time is not on your side”

“Time is not on your side”

“Time is not on your side”

“Time is on no one’s side”

Aristotle’s potentiality and actuality

This might be a story about death. It might be about dragonflies.

This might be a poem about death. It might be about my recent mental health.

This might be finding comfort in knowing I'm not accepted or not accepting. It's OK to not belong because others don't belong too.

There are no dragonflies on me.

This is:
Aristotle’s potentiality and actuality  

Saturn would float in enough water.

I Imagine its discs would dip and roll barely under the waves.

Like a capsized craft.

Or an underwater entity from way out of the depths.  

This silt sunk and settled down here.

A deathly knowledge, then, all can be excluded.

Electrical buoyancy.

Destined for displacement from some deep oceans.  

Under the water is welcoming coral.

Hold a soul-sized breath to be at the bright of the coral.

To be an added colour.

To forget so much of rejection to believe in it no longer . 

I visited the coral and saw myself.

Under grandiose waves I swam as part of its eco-system.

A bone vibration.

“I too am of shell”: held tight to your ear, tales I will tell.  

My bones soon compressed tho’

Turned oil slick, know fear of the water between the coral.

As life exhales death

The deep quietly excises oil, keeping coral unchanged.  

An oil slick trying. Slicking and trying.

Trying to dive to reach the coral lighting the water’s bed.

“Must be close to coral by now”

Only eyes like discs dip and roll barely under the surface.  

Fragile as bubbles. Thin and nervy.

Balanced finely on the very merest edge of water tension.

I cannot convey how mere.

More spheres floating on top of the ocean.

Existing together.

Loving in a lonely scape away from submerged coral.

Without atmospheric pressure.  

Was this death growing tired of life?

Floating gently from dreary acts laid way to new lifeless

Is this a push or a pull?

The jagged coral grows tired of the roundness.

The orb orbiting,

Sees the coral as jagged and can’t understand.  

Can’t stand the touching.  

Marble blackness:

Above the heavy dark water, emitting psychedelia.

To the corpse scape:

Iridescence spectrum swirling beyond the upwards

To the coral scape: 

Up from below grandiose waves, only the oil slick sky.

If I lay still on this couch, will you tell me if I’m a sufferer?

It's been a slow process to get back to writing again.

I hope you don't mind.

This is:

If I lay still on this couch, will you tell me if I’m a sufferer?

I need to know if I’m a monster,

The reason I ask,

I’ll tell you why

I don’t seem capable of dying

But I’m so far from alive.  

I seek dreams of the blessed

I sleep with arms crossed on my chest.

I awaken tired, nevertheless.

I rip others’ history and give it away,

replace it with magnetic tape memory.

Relentless failing abject misery  

I need to know if I’m a survivor,

The reason I ask,

I’ll tell you why

I don’t seem capable of dying

But I’m so far from alive.  

The turn of my situation here

Leaves what is left as traits too near.

Transformed into what I appear,

My virtuous principles do betray

Smudged and shaded outside their edges.  

What if pain of grief sharpens my teeth and weakens my nails?  

I need to know if I’m a sufferer,

The reason I ask,

I’ll tell you why

I don’t seem capable of dying

But I’m so far from alive.  

I feel it all, decay, all the time

Every single conceivable angle and line

All at once and again separately

I’ll write an unforgiving play

And perform it with dolls, painstakingly  

I need to know if my silence makes me a monastery

My counsel a sermon of scratched out names

A lectern of suffering preacher

Held clasped books laid on darkened shelves

High in the tower of the cranium, quietly a wretched creature?  

Through all the trouble

I keep on functioning

I keep on being.

Fluids keep on agitating

And I keep on strangling others’ sentiment

As gentle as sunset  

World of bones, dread of feeling

Lightbulb eyes cast upon me beaming

I need to know if I’m a monster,

I need to know if I'm a survivor,

I need to know if I'm a sufferer,

If what I am, I am not being.

The reason I ask,

I’ll tell you why

I don’t seem capable of dying

But I’m so far from alive.

Photo of asking the devil for the answer, Jeanie

Photo credit: Jeanie Laub, 2017

"I will go ask satan" by J Laub.

I don’t know what to say to the dying

This is a rough sketch of something I've been working on. It's not exactly perfect.

This is for World Poetry Day. It evens rhymes in parts.

It is...
I don’t know what to say to the dying

Photo by Cecil Beaton, Gwili Andre, 1932

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

What worth to my words by the morning.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

Would they hear the obituary I wrote them.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I say it’s OK, it's fine, and I’ve no idea why.  

I’m no voice of comfort to the dying.

I hold their hand tight so I know I’m not a monster.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

So I listen, but they never ask questions of me.

So I listen, and I hope they can speak of things they see.

So I often believed a death bed was as comfortable as the life led.

Then I needed to forgive me and them for all words un-said.

Because communication is breaking and can’t be mended.

When bones, cartilage and shallow cold breaths are at the last of a life ended.

When everything is failing and crashing and giving up the ghost.

God knows, what was important in this life?

Why do I never say goodbye?

It always troubles me.

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I find it easier to talk about my working day.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I try to talk in uplifting ambiance imagery.  

I don’t know what to say to the dying.

I tell them who they’ll meet, I’ve no idea why.  

I collect pieces of time from the dying.

Not like teeth so I know I’m not a monster.

Guest graveyard poem: 'When dying is beautiful', by Little Miss Funeral

Graveyard poetry is seldom practiced thing these days.
Little Miss Funeral has written an honest, poignant graveyard poem entitled "When Dying is Beautiful".
It deserves to be read more.

"When Dying is Beautiful" is a graveyard poem that flies.
It can be read here:
https://littlemissfuneral.com/2017/03/17/when-dying-is-beautiful/

~/~

Imagine an evening of readings by Graveyard poets in the back room of an old Edinburgh bar. Standing in front of the small, shuffling, audience under fairy lights, lens flaring through the nectar pints of I.P.A.

I would love to read Greville and the Tombstones stuff on the same bill as Little Miss Funeral.

There is super authenticity in her writing and landscape. Little Miss Funeral is a funeral director in New York. Plus, I mean, Little Miss Funeral is an awesome poet name. Think of the promotional posters for that reading gig!

We would make a good evening mix of graveyard poetry, nihilism and death positivity.

Anyway, enough day dreaming of sell-out gigs and crowd-surfing. I sincerely hope to read more of her poetic writing whenever Little Miss Funeral would like to write it.



I know you'll enjoy it just as much as I. Here is: When Dying is Beautiful

by

littlemissfuneral

When I think of dying I become afraid.

Not of death itself,

but of the act of dying.

I don’t want it to hurt.

I don’t want it to last long.

I want to slip from this life into the next.

And when I think of dying in that way,

as in being born again,

I’m not afraid.

I think of how I’ll feel when I’m with my grandpa again.

And if I think that the ocean is beautiful now,

think of how spectacular it will be in paradise.

When people I love die, I hurt.

I don’t understand it.

But I’m not meant to understand everything.

I’m meant to do my best.

I’m meant to trust in God.

What we have here is only temporary.

But one day when I close my eyes,

I will open them to a permanent love.

A love that fully embraces me.

And when I think of dying in this way

I think death is very beautiful.

You can read more by Little Miss Funeral via her blog.

Avery's dreams and the club of the damned

Jeanie Laub, artist and someone I am humbled to call a friend, has a blog:

Avery's dreams and the club of the damned

It is wonderful pocket watch sized rabbit hole of emotive, curious images.

Recently I was delighted that Jeanie put my poetry there:
Poetry of Greville Tombs
Life flashes into rolling death

I can call myself a member of the Club of the Damned. That is very pleasing.

An overly worded allegory about how the sun will rise after a death

In ways this is the reflection of Life Flashes into Rolling Death - A something that offers hope after it. It's my most hopeful work yet.

It is a little wordy though. This is my effort at a stream of consciousness like Michael Stipe.



This is about the great cosmic truth.

Irina Ionesco - Sylvia Kristel, ca. 1980

This is:
An overly worded allegory about how the sun will rise after a death

Like a log from the woodpile,

I take a day and toss it onto the fire.

It jags itself into the melee, gripping fast so that it makes a dull knock.

A chuff into the white ash remains and the dying warmth is shocked alive.

The log draws back its jagged, cracked lips, hissing a sneer from within the consummation.

“You can burn truths from me only once”

….

Peppermint green lichen sprigs along the log curl with flecks of gold

cutting from thermals.

Tiny fires spiral upwards and zip out of existence hither and thither.
Rings softly blacken in the lazy heat and I wonder at the catch.

….

The catch latches as it studies the form

and flames appear as if summoned from the loose veil.

The bark bends in a stretch of cracking ecstasy.
Glorious and painful sounds:
A firecracker whipped – once, twice – three times quick!
Short puffs of smoke.
Like a cornered man who paid for the bullets getting his shots fired off.
A hazy, stinging, spice science scent mixed with mellow nature entwine in the air.
They catch my breath and sting terrible water from my eyes.
….
There is fizz from the rings, a dry boiling.
Flames emerge through the log.
They shiver as springing new-borns and quickly find their confidence
blooming into thin petals, with roots, feeding on the log.
Flimsy threads, with the precision of a surgeon and the intent of a back alley ripper
....
The flame incants:
drumming and throwing quick dash shapes almost recognisable in glow.
Firelight splashes uneven surfaces in strokes and smears of rich oranges and warning reds.
Arteries form on the char wood.
Lava lines pulse through the block.
It is being used up by the hot death in a cauldron of lurid stroke marks.
….
Low now. Low.
The pastel fire cares little for the log now they are well acquainted.
Ammonia pink and eggshell blue at the heart base of the hearth.
A molten, swirling pearl from the Indian Sea.
Flames:
languid and calm from a veteran heat, settle on the log.
A darkness is in fire, a flame is not all bright – a black root fuels the deepest leaf.
….
Dark, darker still the day:
the black oil blues of a crow’s feather.
The work of a deep violence, captivating and purifying in the deathly swallow.
It spits and spritz final curses from between those jagged, singed lips.
….
The morbs drape over me like a heavy woollen rug wrapping tight round me.
My soul:
still warmed from the primordial fire – the log – now fully black of soot in the hearth.
Heat has melted this weighed monochrome rug of morose into round, dark droplets.
Then I watch as they too melt, to be absorbed and to scuttle about my grey being.
Touch:
the searing lancing truth of philosophy.
A thousand pin pricks.
Shadows:
bird wings forcing dead air down upon me.
A thousand flapping wings.
This melancholic fever, a gloom of urgency on my time, will not break.
For how long this mistress of my soul wants to keep me for her bidding,
I do not know.
I toss another log onto the fire.
….
Then first tentative light of a new day again.
It takes only a little point on the circumference of the turning,
burning sun for it to fill the room.
Waves hit the drawn thin yellow drapes, blushes into a diffuse, innocent yellow.
It fills this empty box, like I am living through the surface of light itself
I sit cross-legged in front of them like a screen projecting pure unshaped wonder at me.

Lebensrückblenden in den heranrollenden Tod, Von Greville Tombs

I am very honoured and privileged whenever the Greville and the Tombstones' works are reinterpreted.

I am very lucky to have a friend in @tellthee who I deeply appreciate of her great efforts in transforming her very favourite words from the band into her native German language. Unlike songs with musical constraint, Greville and the Tombstones has no music so can be rendered beautifully into German which never fail to leave me awed in their new sound.

Here is:
Lebensrückblenden in den heranrollenden Tod, Von Greville Tombs
(translation from Life flashes into rolling death)

Life flashes into rolling death

This is Pancake Tuesday. Greville and the Tombstones doesn't do Pancake Tuesday. This is a new track.

Inspired by the idea of Britpop - that attempt to create a way to transmit a feeling from matter-of-fact life for others to associate. Added to this is a slight stream of conscious method to provide an element of the "woozy". Finally put through the alt-gothic filter of Greville and the Tombstones.

The success of it is perhaps as intermittent as a radio receiving a broadcast from another era during a storm.

This is.... Life flashes into rolling death

Rich lit ‘noons would stretch out like stick chewing gum.

Tempers calm as the pond.

Life had scented skin of verve and was effortless in sinew.

As you were.

Remember before the church roof burned down?

Me neither.

And they nailed up a cross using burnt beams.

Dune bugs longed for carefree acoustic coffee hang outs.

Experiments found bounds.

Threat of bad weather was no threat at all to the hip kids.

As you were.

Remember our gravest deep and meaningful?

Me neither.

You arrived out of Texas looking like you'd just had sex.

Bitter spiced smoke of wood fires along quiet streets.

Streets we knew the kerbs.

Laid paths by stories make for far stranger encounters.

As you were.

Remember they found the body in the city reservoir?

Me neither.

The company said tap water was probably safe to drink.

Occasional cars slowed, allowing bees to weave safely.

Nature took its course.

Baritone sprung grandfather clocks caught sun slithers.

As you were.

Remember when storm wind couldn’t blow us over?

Me neither.

And now the black swinging gate is all I can hear.

Throw away lines floated out in a scrap paper gloom

Felt the eye of lost twilight

And you really liked me. Velvet soft, red lipped sunset.

As you were.

Life, equally with purpose and for no reason.

We would lie back wasting, just to listen to death rolling.

We thought there must be a universal truth,

Because no one stayed long enough to witness everything fade

and wash off.

Cantatas cracked lines in the bone china, contents seeping.

Surface tinged pink.

Tree roots cracked the surface, amber words poured to be held.

As you were.

Remember how often we’d offer our goodbyes?

Me neither.

You wrote down: “I’m a bit of a dick, but who isn’t?”

in indelible ink.

There was a stone set by the garden, I never had seen it.

There’s many deaths to die.

I saw you laid in a lining of white silk, you looked all to be as you were.

Remember what happens to us afterwards?

Me neither.

Although I’ve got all points of reference to hand.

I blink. Sometimes I do remember what it maybe was like.

Patched imaginings recollected.

Remember flashing smiles and saying things were OK and mean it?

As you were.

Curse behind the white picket fence

Greville and the Tombstones are not an imaginary protest folk band, Greville and the Tombstones are an alt-gothic band that doesn't exist.

These lyrics took 2 months to write. Only in the past week have they revealed themselves to be a gothic protest song.

Perhaps it's Greville and the Tombstones absorbing the zeitgeist of the times and projecting it through it's prism.

Perhaps it's simply a horror story that isn't real.




This is:
Curse behind the white picket fence

It doesn’t matter what was said,

Or what is going to be said next.

ALEA IACTA EST

Only flowers transform in one place.

And the dead.  

You’re shrivelled of the soul.

I wish you to wither under your own failing toll.

There is no art to you.

And if nobody cares,

then why do I need to forgive myself to you?

And if nobody cares under this sun,

Then who else is left to do

what needs to be

done?

Claim to be a leader, a learner, a teacher.

This is not where the strengths lie.

They're in arrogance and to blunt falsify.

Why make of altruism not being a game.

Then play a deck hand where losers drown.

For to appear elevated, hand slyly pushes down.

I know the Godless: biology without faith.

Like a watch which needs wound every day,

there are times even the

faithless should

pray.

Don’t gift me life, bring me a death scene

of twisted character traits

and compound fractured debates.

When an arm is needed tight around despair,

a broken one is useless there.

All you are, all you do

will ossify, mulch and turn to mildew.

Like roses you cut when they beautifully

grew.

Crows protect us from your flight.

Glare from the graveyard to the above

feathery night,

shelter us from the hellish dove.

Then why do we need to forgive you with love?

When our raging love career at hanging night,

an abrasion of rain at your

execution.

Your white picket fence is riddled with woodworm

No more protecting, no more holding firm.

I am scraping at the posts,

With my

thorns.

The Church of Crows is welcoming

After the alt-goth came the Church of Crows. And it was good.

All are welcome in the congregation.