They

They burn effigies
And whisper behind church halls
Self righteous and sly,

They tattoo themselves
With violent lullabies
And laugh through silence,

In strange times like these
They rise up from their gutters
And rustle their hate.

The Sluice

They call
The spittle that gathers
At the corners of his mouth

The sluice of true brilliance;

It shimmers
Under stage lights

And it glitters
Like bravery’s charm,

It glimmers all silver
Like fresh ice on car windows

And it twinkles in the mirrors
Of the busy city bars

Absorbing night.

Feverish with words,
Surfing strange ancient atoms
And watching patterns emerge

He is a winter sharp babel,
Every voice crystal clear,

The playwright now chosen
To relay all our fears

Through the golden humming zeligs
Devoid of any peers.

On The Rise

You are golden
Like the mysteries
Of a lost, lonely jungle,

A photographed crowd
At a Victorian ball,

A heatwave in spring,

The laughter of wild animals,

A winding ancient path
That leads to a fortified town –

The clown we once knew
Is the new king we crown.