The Winter Punk

On sepia's lost-summer stage, squats a rebellious sage.

A great colourless punk.

Ruler of mulched-up funk,

hoary and sweaty with diamante evergreen firs bristled down the ridge of his back.

He arrived last night in our shivers.

Faster than light and brimming with smite, he rode in on a graffiti of stars, swirling to earth on mists to crash cars while spitting out crystals as kisses.

As he touched ground, he stretched out a love-hate hand and slapped the old gold land hard. All the while, he looked night deep in the eye, and with a tattoo of silent tears, he cried.

Without so much as dabbing a cheek, the moment he had landed, he strode on with his freak in a holy, mesmerising streak of tantric tessellation:

A petrified dance featuring captured angels in a trance, fluorescent in expanse and exaltation.

His is an elegant rage, born of an unwritten manifesto on an edgeless page. Rapturous and meaningless at once, it riddles all life and death with ruthless truth and airless breath and condemns beauty as a lie.

After his excretion was complete, he lay down for a sleep, exhaling peace in whispering murmuration:

A hushed song of souls, ghosts and old woes spiralling up into heavenly fascination.

Now, the sun threatens to rise into dawn's indigo-layered skies, and he lies awake among a skulk of silvery shadow. A lurking recluse. At odds and obtuse in the honied promise of tomorrow.

As day steals the way and blue beats brackish grey, it seems he still has one more punch in his hand. With white knuckles gripped and teeth brash with spit, he stares up at the dawn of the light.

Without a tremble in sight,

no fear...

just fight,

he steps proudly out from the dark.

Stark before larks. Hard and pock-marked, he stands fully frontal on old sepia's stage. He sticks out his chin, flashes a fuck-you-all grin, and, unto sun's first hello, he glitters.