This World, At Times 

Is A Death Shroud 

This world, at times, is a death shroud.

So many chores must you follow.

In chains peddling your pedalo

As though it is destiny ploughed

 

To die in abstinence of life

And to drown in compound sorrows

Many protracted tomorrows

We're dreaming of an afterlife.

Oh, and wave after wave we fight.

To survive, then drown in a tear

A broken heart frozen in fear

Trapped in a cave, like dolomite

 

Sedimentary existence

Hoping for one day to be found

Refined into a gemstone round

And at someone else's insistence

And find a good reason to wake

Draw back the curtains and give thanks.

And sing loudly from your larynx.

Never again feel so opaque.

With Little Fortuitous Moments Of Love

I've doctored to all your ills

But we're still dearly departed

Like the melting snow

Going separate ways - don't you know? 

 

Oh, I'll kilter to the coast wind

That follows the howls

And the smiles on your face

As if it's all a grace - don't you know? 

 

I can't explain how your sorrow.

It fills my veins with passion.

That doesn't go, how my heart.

It is like a plummeting arrow.

 

Fired in Eden long ago

At a raven with wings as black as night

Like I said, I can't explain how this girl

Palpitates in my hand my distress

 

We'll not live forever without our clothes

We'll not survive if we forget to dress

Our agony and our misery

With little fortuitous moments of love.

There's A Man Called Mr. Genocide.

There's a man called Mr. Genocide.

He does all he can to make things right.

For his address, his own sake

He's taken all the ballot boxes.

And he's chucked them into the blood-drenched snow.

People don't know what to do.

Or where to even go to vote.

 

There's a man called Mr. Genocide.

He's now running the whole god damn show.

People said it would never happen.

People said it would never happen again

But they all sat back and decided

They would not clap or join in the parade.

 

People said it would never happen.

People said it would never happen again

But they all sat back and sang like mockingbirds.

As the victims went unheard forever more 

People said it would never happen.

People said it would never happen again.

But all the same, it happened.

And a lot of good people joined Salem's Lot.

 

And Mr. Genocide took power.

Of a new empire and an aspiring young flower

And no one looked any higher.

Then his blood-stained combat trousers

They were all licking his boots like miniature Schnauzers.

Pleased he still needed people, 

People pleading on their bended knees

Pleased, glad he still -needed a corrupt few

Who'd do his bidding anything at all? 

 

There's a man called Mr. Genocide.

He has a private seller door to his catacombs.

Who would give up your heart to the devil? 

If it pleases him and serves him right tonight.

There's a man called Mr. Genocide.

He started without a fight.

Because you showed

You were afraid of the leaden darkness in the night.

Before you could even pick up a gun and clean up the dead.

 

Mr Genocide He poisoned the water well with your blood.

But all you could think of is will he show you any love? 

You now think you are vile right down to your soul.

And hope now for a bullet hole.

Right through your head, you wish you were dead.

But that's never going to happen. 

Because your heart is blind to the darkness 

That surrounds you when others fall and join his catacomb wall.

A trophy buried in stone, blood and bone.

MARK ANDREW HEATHCOTE

MARK ANDREW HEATHCOTE is an adult learning difficulties support worker. He has poems published in journals, magazines, and anthologies online and in print. He resides in the UK and is from Manchester. Mark is the author of “In Perpetuity” and “Back on Earth,” two books of poems published by Creative Talents Unleashed.