If he is not yet dead

then perhaps he might be better off being so,

for the passage of time ticks slowly in his direction.

Comforting words as the fate of his future is decided

in crumbling office blocks and in the same dusty relics

of men who plot and call coup

in a world of insane potential

and irrational market forces deliverance.

 

These same market forces that made him God,

now turn and bite their master of illusion

hard and nip, drawing blood, it dribbles waywardly

circling grooves and welts, salivates its way past

stubble and matted long gone hair and slobbers

over the blue tinted lips

like a sick lover spreading her depraved, decaying warmth

over the mouldering skin, flashes of green not worthy of

Penicillin’s and Iodine’s immaculate Time.

 

If he is not dead yet, then we should grieve harder

and then when the dead is finally done,

we can wait with baited breath to witness

the next incarnation of a possible crazy arse mother but not

waste Time getting on with the business of peace.

For would he grieve for you as you stand up and

gently beg for Time to put things right? Put things in order

and right the abundant wrongs made against you,

for we are not yet dead and the clock will not strike,

the hammer will not find its way down onto

the sacrifice and the sword will not deal the swift, final blow…

…not from this madman at least.

 

Draw the curtain gently over, ruffle the pillow

and check the breathing against a thousand polished mirrors.

Bleed him dry if you must as he sleeps silently,

make sure it congeals and then like the famed monk

mad, eyebrows blazing, cassock swirling in the thought

of his Queen sucking at his

neck and undoing his trousers to reveal his impressive

prowess in the

confessional box, throw his body into the river, set

fire to the man who would be God

and let us reach out and be friends once more.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015