Untitled Poem

We're going to Heaven
On our way to Hell,
Is it lillys we're seeing,
Or sulpur we smell?

Do we wait for a life time,
To live for one life time,
Do we hear Angles sing, 
Or just church bells ring?

We kill time in Heaven,
Then we almost forget,
That the wine and women,
Are not finished yet...

I Hate It Here

Wilsi, a decent fellow I met in a bar in the 'Nam posted a comment on this site recently. I cannot reply to it due to the dashed Vietnamese internet. I visited his fine site (www.wilsiwilsi.blogspot.com) and could not leave a comment. The fellow's poetry is good.
I hate it here.

To The Lady Freya

So distant is the rugged fell,

So distant is the icy sea,,

There is no ice, snow or hail,

Across the long Whale Road will be,

Fires where Norse Men drink,

To Her name from Wisdom's Well,

Sea where Dragon Ship once sail,

But in night's as dark as ink

The same Moon's there to see,

So distant is field and fell,

Memories become so pale,

But 'tis Odin's world, made well,

Dusty plain or stormy sea,

Paradise or living Nullhel,

Al-father Odin did not fail,

To craft beauty for all to see,

And where Beauty can dwell,

Lady Freya must be as well.

Death and I

Death and I, we sometimes fight,

But Lady Death is always right,

She heals the sick, She ends the pain,
Only She can make a madman sane,

Deatb and I, we dance all night,
Before we walk into the light.

Images by Harry Clarke and Holly Payne.

STREET FLOWERS

Wrote this a few weeks ago. The Vietnamese hate to waste anything, are generally economical, recycle a great deal and will eat all of the most horrid parts of any animal, yet you are always throwing away perfectly good flowers.There is a metaphor in this some where...

I tire of seeing flowers lying
In the gutter,
Not quite live, nor dead,
Just dying,
Scarlet roses, snow white lillies,
Killed in bloom,
On a damp, filthy tomb,
No ones buying
The brief, beautifull and transitory.

SWAN SONG, Post rommantic poets and vampyres.

Have almost finished a short story, in the post rommantic style, about a 19th century female poet and her vampyric patron. A short extract is included below.

"Perhaps, she thought, she was over reacting. Perhaps the Count had forgotten to give her a key. Perhaps the footman really was mute, or could not speak English.

She searched the house again for any other doors, keys or staff, but found only the silent footman.

She decided that she needed more tea, and after that, she decided that she needed to write her swong Song."