So, yeah, my first draft of The Caitiff is essentially finished. I sent it off to a friend of mine (who incidentally runs a blog over at Artionis, which you should check out if you like GOOD poetry instead of the drivel I occupy my free time with) and I’m just messing around with the final chapter at the minute; which I can’t help but feel comes across as expositional but I’ll see what other people think because I think it likely that I’ll need to adapt the penultimate chapter in order to really accomodate the kind of ending I intend. Anyway, now that’s over, please enjoy another poem written whilst I waited for the kettle to boil; No.

No Gods, with petulant laws
and ungodliness disguised as justice or
wrath; like weeping sores
on humanity’s flesh.

No kings, with insecure demands
and a cowardice to set the skies
aflame; with shaking hands
and personal enquiries.

No priests, with arguments dubious,
and their eyes alight with the great
fear; with conversation tedious,
and revolving like a grave-tenant.

No men, with their knives
in their hands, their backs on mechanical
altar; blood escaping with sighs,
and eyes rolling behind the lids.

No author, with dancing metaphors
and similes hidden behind their weakest
flesh; voices stretched like the legs of whores,
and coiling lies,
like an imagined enemy,
in an imaginary garden.

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