A Poem by Brian F. 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



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 F. Lockard

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

Posted 12 Months Ago

Brian F. Lockard

12 Months Ago

Thank you ;D

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1 Review
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


Brian F. Lockard
Brian F. Lockard

Chicago, IL

Poet, budding novelist, student, etc. Wish me luck TWITTER: @RealBFL more..