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London

London

A Poem by Brian Lockard
"

on acid, walking along the Thames

"

Out through the window, opulent fog, ringing of bells of the dead and the living and the terrorists


Equally ominous


And below it is the river


Thames


Styx


Same thing


Down in the pub


On Kingsland


I’m singing a ballad


Some templar


Chants of holy places


With Jack


Who is very unholy


He whispers in my ear


“My dear boy, would you wish to learn how I…how I got away with it?”


“They were w****s, weren’t they?”


I said


He grins, and his teeth are decaying


And covered with moss


A maggot drips down onto his lap


He smacks it


And its juice runs down the side of his trousers


Like the tears of a pressed berry


I cannot see his eyes


But I wish to


When he speaks, he speaks from the black remains of the burning windmill


Spitting kerosene


In tiny droplets along my forehead


“Indeed they were. But I chose them because they would not love me.”

He cried as the arrow was removed from his back. He snapped it in two over his knee. “I do not suffer their poison any longer. My meat was tainted long before.”


“But how did you do it?”


“With the hair of a pig’s arse, and a few sharp knives!” He threw his head back in laughter. It snapped from his neck and rolled around on the floor. 


The laughter continued.


I then saw a flash of his eyes. They were clear, liquescent blue. 


Just like any of us. 


How the terrorist’s eyes have changed. Driven mad by their women. 


They got to Jack, just look at him. Happy to be in pieces.

Like those people of wax. Melting like snowflakes.


“I opened myself to them,” he said. “And they refused me. They opened up fully after that. It was Abberline! It was Abberline!” 


He cackled again and I left him there. It took a lot of guts…


All joking aside, speaking to ghosts becomes tedious. All they talk about is death, and I am alive for now, eating scrambled eggs with a cup of coffee, the waiter knows I am an American. 


But today I’m wearing no fanny packs or knee-high socks or Hawaiian shirts. 


Here’s 50 quid. Go by yourself a new pair of chinos. Wash away my stench.


Or do not. Either way, I’m driving on the right side of the road.


© 2017 Brian Lockard



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Reviews

I loved the journey you described in the poem. Very well written Brian!

Posted 6 Months Ago


Brian Lockard

6 Months Ago

Thank you ;D

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Added on May 23, 2017
Last Updated on September 23, 2017
Tags: horror, comedy, prose poems, poetry, english, London, Victorian era, love, death, life, poems

Author

Brian Lockard
Brian Lockard

Chicago, IL



About
Poet, budding novelist, student, etc. Wish me luck Twitter: @Ave_invicti Instagram: lockardesque more..

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