The Poetry of Michel St John

     A bloodship sailing over bloodsea, bloodstream trailing. Bloody faces, bloodied hands. Bloody bodies in the sand. Buried deep, a bloodseed sleeping. Soon to sprout, a bloodstalk creeping. From the Earth, a bloodtree born. Bloodred fruits, of hatred, scorn. Bloodfilled hopes and bloodfull dreams, of flesh by bloody branches torn, apart amidst bloodcurdling screams. What a scene, oh what a sight, great gory garden of delight. Dwellings razed and set alight, all ablaze, none left to fight. Just strange fruits fallen, adorn the ground, a Woman wailing, what a sound, bloodsoaked by the corpse she's cradling. All light fading. Putrefaction. Bloodlust sated. Satisfaction. ~MStJ~

  Upon the springy soft green grass I sat beneath the bright blue sky, time grew slow as clouds flew past colours rushed to fill my eyes. Yellow Dandelions grew, purple Foxgloves, wild red Rose, Iris petals shimmered blue, fragrance rushed to fill my nose. A cirrostratus veil of white, gently cloaked the atmosphere, filtering the bright sunlight, Bees buzzed & birdsong filled my ears. Blackbirds on a bramble bush, from branch to branch dancing about, gorging on the fruits so lush, rush to fill their hungry mouths. I sat a while until the wind, began to blow and chilled my skin, I thought I heard it whispering, It's touch sent shivers deep within. I woke up in my empty home, before the day could even start, I realised I was alone and sadness rushed to fill my heart.

Time is running out. Death in the East. Fire in the South. Some great rough beast's, rapacious, grinning mouth, agape. Preparing for the feast. While many wander West, finding Nihil. Gaunt, depressed, and deathly ill. Our true North alone is blessed. Secluded behind icy hills, Beyond all sight we skip and play, with wrong and right. Forsake the day in sheer delight. On bloody beds of thorns we lay. Embrace the cold, eternal night. We fled the fold and your control. A guiding light burns in our soul; To ever struggle, ever fight.  

There are songs that live unremembered inside of you. Their forgotten names evoke no excitement. They seem unremarkable, nestled deep within albums. Peripheral to points of light, which seem to shine for aeons. Like a line in a book read on a sleepless night. Like a photograph buried in a box of memories. Showing forgotten angles of a formless face. If you are lucky, one day, they will find you again.  

"Watch the birds fly". She said to me, & blinked her eyes, smiling, self satisfied. But they don't soar, in empty skies, they weave between concrete towers, chimneys pouring smoke, at all hours, devouring, the bright blue canvass, with dark, grey fumes. Seagulls glide past, dirty, weathered blocks, of flats, with light lit rooms. Over washing lines with socks, sheets blowing in the gloom. Pigeons gather in flocks, on windowsills to watch cartoons. Starlings, Sparrows sing all night, even when there is no Moon. Streetlamps rearrange the light, cycles, now there's no respite, for beast or fowl. No more takes flight, Minerva's Owl, or foresight. But it's alright, for the TV tells us so. Let it nurture you, and grow, in the ways we tell you to. In the ways that you are shown. Shop! Be Happy! Fill your home, With pictures of a World long gone. Tell yourself that you are free, convince yourself that what you see, is simple, right, & filled with beauty. Don&#

Shining Sun, the light of reason, however near or far, I swing from you, throughout the seasons, you remain my guiding star. Illuminating all that's dark, divide above from the below, making light and shadow part, making life wither and grow. Guiding me on all my paths, directing me to reach my goals. Shield me from the wicked's wrath, banish darkness from my soul. Fill my heart with joyous laughs, when troubles they take their toll, Warm the waters in my bath, never let your light grow cold. Nourish me with beaming rays, so my life force multiplies. Make effortless and long my days, short my nights, and strong my eyes. That all truths I come to see, in their multitude of forms, that I may ever break free, from ignorance and other norms. Which keep the World shrouded in mist, and people stumbling forwards blind, brushing shoulders, throwing fists, seeking things they never find. Then sweet light of reason I, will promise you constant devotion. From the snow capped mountain high

  There are objects all around me. A roll of thread. A green glass bottle. A dormant pine cone. There are things everywhere I look, scattered all around my home. Leather bound books. Paperback books. A lifetime worth of books. Dusty, damaged, well worn, ravaged, by these hands of mine. Two mirrors on opposite walls, a ball of garden twine. Two blue weights. A chest of drawers, of rich dark pine. Many pens which often fall, onto the floor, ball points, fountains. A5 notebooks, paper mountains, shifting over time. Two cups in my reach, each stained by tea, one empty. One larger, half full. Lemon and ginger vapours, fragrant, flee, circulate and linger, carried by the steam. Batteries. Remote controls, for radio & the TV, which shape my dreams, with shiny fables. Cables run along the skirting, behind a well used coffee table. Candles, wallet, nicotine, cover it's surface. Earphones and some old CD's. A passport, Watch. Behind it countless things, forgot, and small enough to fa