HEG George

He traipsed toward my face.
My grey, imperious majesty.
Impervious to strong fingers
and rubber-soled feet
...

Don’t hold me to blame.
The road was never straight
nor the wind mild of frame
...

Like a distant relative, the moon looks down
upon the face of its ravaged cousin, with
eyebrows arched and telling finger raised. All
the while giving thanks for its airless habitat
...

A gathering of whispers travel from breath to breath,
much like trains picking up chattering gossips along its
route. With breath held, they stand and wait to join the
last exhale of the wretch stood on the hanging platform.
...

From cave pictures, with hand sprayed self portraits.
To a churches pulpit displaying Psalm Twenty Three.
The writing's on the wall
...

Inch past spiteful inch I crawl my way out of this hole.
Whilst this screech columned cylinder connected to
my soul sustains a silent scream, residing incandescent in
my chest. And fledgling veins support my effort for early release.
...

A second hand book shop watches the Sunday rain
beat against a resentful pavement. Its second hand
door opens up its second hand world to second
hand people, carrying first class money.
...

Hovering, eyes so keen they see
the imprint of DNA run through
its unsuspecting quarry
...

I sit and wait. I was here yesterday.
Sitting. Waiting.
Dead air. Bereft of sound
...

God's earth shall always take me back. It shows
me every type of oddity in human form and,
though indivisible with His being, selects one
for me from which to start again
...

I listened with intent and watched with
practiced eye.That came to me through
scream on scream, word on word and slap
on slap.
...

I was there, the last time that God lost
His Faith. Admittedly, since the death
of His Son, there have been a few bad
years that could have influenced His
...

Strike like a hammer to the furnaced rod,
emmited sparks of incessant lust

With tempest storm against the rocks
...

Paler than the hills I walk
I hear the bleat of sheep long still
and see the thistles of the Saltire’s home,
yet wear the weave of no clan’s name
...

The grey mists of a sleeping dawn, cosetting birds still
wrapped up warm in bed, watch a stoat emerge from
its burrow and sprint across his meadow, like a caterpillar
making humped back bridges in Concertina motion
...

An offensive mirror
produces my face,
and ears listen to a
hackneyed heart beat
...

Respects have been paid
by those with good manners
and by the mawkish with
restrained curiosity
...

To fly across a cesspool of land with
eyes full closed and chastity held in hand,
with barriers imposed and doors kept shut
against the blind woes of a darkened vista
...

The sun's beams penetrate me,
with fingers delving deeply beneath
the blanket of my surface
...

When you come to stay, you'll stay In a box,
much like any other. With its own rich vein
of concrete running between two green
rivers of grass; supporting islands of tainted
...