midnight poem
his blood was black
he climbed to the highest branches
that would hold him
in the end of the world start of the
world corvid tree
featherless plucked and clean
he lay before the
no star sky in the unmoon night
he opened his veins
letting all that is black invade him
until he was full
there was no more light waiting
on opium dawn
there was no more light and
love was done
he had enough of the dark within him to be
the man that she wanted
he had enough of the dark within him to be
the man that she wanted
he had enough of the dark within him to be
the man that she wanted
a terrible laughter rattled from his lungs
like a death bell
his blood ran black he had enough of the dark
within him to be the man that she wanted him to be
After a lifetime of denial Nick Allen is finally willing to admit his poetry habit in public, mainly in the dark back rooms of public houses. He gets most of his sustenance from double espressos and malt whisky. He believes in global worker solidarity because “there is a class war going on and our side is winning” to quote billionaire Warren Buffet.