Poppies in fields

Bullet holes ripped through the world

Each one a screaming mouth

A protest to atrocities

A medal of the brave

The ranks of good people who fought to save

Who stood up to adversity

Bullet cases jettisoned in the heat of war

Now cool and buried under a civilian law

How easy it is to forget

To disrespect

That's why it's important to take a moment

A little time

To remember

Remember the fear

The hurt and the pain

The loss

The ones who gave with nothing to gain

The brave that endured

So that we could thrive and be free

A minutes silence for you and me

Echoes of explosions and gunfire for the ones that served

The quiet that can never be preserved

The silence never quenched when you witness people die

Your friends and colleagues

The good times and the highs

Shot down by treachery and lies

Conflict and denies

Trodden underfoot in demented trenches

Ripped overhead by barbed wire fences

Images of terror projected at your core

How do you quiet the spoils of war?

For the ones that served

One minute silence is the least that they deserve...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

#poem #remeberanceday #remember #1111

Purple pours over ashen skies

Doused by distant rain

Moody and wild, unkempt on the ocean

Where waves roll like reluctant children

Angry to sleep, eager to persist

On beaches that steal your breath

In forests that quench depths

Of your soul, unhindered by any man made goal

But societies try, you have the stereotypes to deny

Capitalism has its eye on paradise

But you'd do well to refuse its advances

Ignore the posterity of perceived wealth

And soak in natures riches

Snapshots of experience

Away from the mundane

I hear distant rhythms of societies din

Parties of celebration and social sin

Where we can all fit in

Everyone loves a good tune

Beach fires under an almost full moon

Tribal and unrestrained by rule or law

Sunset celebrations at our core

Stories to score

Too many tequilas have me at the mercy of my thoughts

Where I devour the ambience

Live in the glow of the sun going down

To nocturnal birdsong and breaking waves

And how humanity plays

Under a tequila sunset...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

Pogo wasn’t always his name, he was born with a different name, a civil name that took him through school, college and university, a name that was on his Masters doctorate under the title of, Legal And Political Ethics of 20th Century Britain. Pogo, then and now, believed heavily in a fair system, a democracy and a right to vote on important current affairs.

These ethics are the reason that Pogo became a learned man, a man that studied many subjects considerably for many years: History, Law, Current Affairs; he even extended his thirst for knowledge into Sociology, Anthropology, Psychology and Behavioural Science. This man passed all these subjects within the top 5 of each class, and this secured him a very promising career in politics. He brushed shoulders with all his peers and became a sponge for all the advice they had to offer. However the more he learnt of the studies and practices within the social dynamics of our current government, and its legal system, the more he became indifferent to them.

Two short years in politics is all Pogo could stomach. In those two years Pogo had learned more about politics than he had from any book or classroom in his entire life, real politics, the politics that represent public deception, lies, greed, war, terrorism; all this and more. This was a Government that was so far removed from the general public, that the politicians within would be incapable of representing such values. Pogo became more and more frustrated with these bureaucrats, their red tape, the unnecessary paperwork, the secret paperwork that attempted to justify the unnecessary paperwork, the paperwork that no one would see, such as, who had to be bribed, or paid off, to allow the wheels of progress in our society to move forward; usually for the wrong or unjust reasons. Pogo’s frustrations made him desperate for change; he wanted a fair society devoid of injustice and greed.

Several weeks ago he had been fortunate enough to acquire sensitive material of the Prime Minister and another man, that Pogo presumed was a friend or colleague, and a prostitute, in various erotic acts, not all of the common vanilla variety that ordinary folk seem to practice, their faces displayed with irrefutable clarity. This was his first bargaining chip in an attempt to right the wrongs of greed and injustices against the general public. Pogo was still in office then, and when the time was correct he presented the Prime Minister with this dilemma, a manila envelope placed before the head of the country.

“What’s this?”

“Open it, may I?” Pogo gestured at the chair. He was nervous but self assured that he was doing the right thing.

“Certainly.” The Prime Minister opened the package and eight glossy photographs tumbled out on to the desk in front of him, clear pictures of the PM and another man in various states of ecstasy with a prostitute who seemed to enjoy her work a little too much and to every sordid detail. The PM remained calm, a little more flushed perhaps, a slight sign of distress and anger in his eyes.

“What do you want Mr. Williams?”

“What does the country want?”

“We all know too well what the country…”

“Why aren’t you providing then?” Pogo interrupted. The PM sighed.

“How long have you been here?” He asked the question as if Pogo should have known better.

“Don’t start that with me! We all know what’s going on, organised privatisation, real estate control, a fraudulent legal system, stealth taxes, farcical wars, terrorism…”

“Yes, yes I know, and you know as well as I…”

“Save it” Pogo silenced the PM for a second time.

“I want change for the people, you sit here day after day in this ivory tower with no real clue of what’s going on out there! We provide a second rate way of life and I can’t be a part of that any longer! …You need to stop listening to America as well; they’re more destitute than we are; yet you follow them, or you’re advised to follow them by the rest of the cabinet, what are you? Scared they’ll turn they’re back on us? They won’t, they can’t, they’re tied in to the same ventures as us, and keeping cordial with a nation for fear of war, is terrorism in itself, represent the public for Christ’s sake!” Pogo composed himself with a silent breath, he had no intention of getting irate and yet he was half way there.

“I apologise, but we have lost the way.”

“You’re values are very commendable, you remind me of how I was when I started on my journey into politics, ready to right the world of it’s injustices and wrongs but sooner…”

“I won’t lose my way”

“It’s not about that, there’s more to…”

“I wish I had some other means, but this is politics now, this is what it has become! Justice, truth and honour are all very dead in this place…will you accept my terms or shall I release these?” Pogo tapped the pictures. The PM had a saddened look on his face, he had travelled in that brief moment to somewhere else, perhaps he couldn’t deal with the realism of this moment, his career on the precarious edge of a frying pan, to burn or continue taking the heat of a nation? For a moment, he was relieved that he could have been absolved of the pressures of this status, only to think what his wife and children would have to face, and then the fear represented itself like a panic stricken worm at the centre of his brain. That night was much bigger than the pictures could illustrate. He became ever more terrified, a world treaty would collapse on the release of those pictures, not to mention the investigation into the whereabouts of the now deceased hooker. He was deeply worried, his face went pale, he became light-headed and his mouth went dry.

“I’m willing to listen to your terms but I’m not the only…”

“Yes or no?” Pogo interjected, he knew he had very little time, he had no idea of how far this went or what he was really holding.

“What do you want?”

“You mean the people, what do the people want.”

“What do the people want?”

“It’s simple, give pensions, education and the NHS the money from the stealth taxes that are in place for future law and the personal fund, it’s taking far too…”

“How do you know about future law? I can’t touch tha…” Future law was the funding for the Global Police network that had become GloPol.

“You will or your arse will be all over the papers!” The PM paused for a second.

“Very well, I shall begin negotiations tomorrow to abolish these ventures, but these people are above you and I, you’re playing a very dangerous game Mr. Williams, I’d advise you to reconsider well you still can. Try to change things the correct way, you don’t want to do go…”

“A desperate disease requires a dangerous remedy, politics has become far too diseased to change the correct way.”

There was a knock at the door.

The PM raised his voice slightly.

“One moment!”

“You have two weeks, by then I want to see progress! If anything happens to me, my job or my position then these pictures will be released to the news networks and all the press, do you understand?”

“Perfectly.” The Prime Minister said through gritted teeth, he looked angry and scared; the way Pogo thought he should look, things were going well. The Prime Minister stood up and composed himself.

“Come in!”

A rather attractive lady entered the room in a perfectly fitted business suit, she had dark sultry features, her long, straight hazel hair had been tied back in a posh pony tail, she gave a short stare towards Pogo, her eye shadow perfectly matched to her dark brown eyes, she smiled wryly at him as she walked by and engaged the Prime Minister. Pogo felt flattered and took this as a good omen.

“Ms. Styles, do you have the repor…” Pogo closed the door. He walked away from the Prime Ministers office on shaky legs, blackmail had never been in his ideology, nor had he intended it to be, but he could see no other way.

The opportunity for blackmail had presented itself at one of the Prime Ministers personal functions. He had heard early on in the evening that the fourth floor of the hotel was to be off limits to all guests, however the PM was allowed access, Pogo was curious to find out why and he found it surprisingly easy to gain entry, perhaps most politicians no longer exercised free will, or had any curiosity, but Pogo had oodles of both, fuelled by frustration and desperation, he climbed the unguarded fire escape stairs at the rear of the hotel which took him to the fourth floor, a fire escape door stood in front of him, naturally, it was unable to be opened from the outside, however, there was a large ledge spanning around the external perimeter of each floor of the building, Pogo quietly walked this ledge past two windows before spying the Prime Minister and his debauched group, in their forbidden act of lust, the curtains had been closed carelessly, offering a slit where he had a view of the bed, and armed with a camera phone, he had caught enough of the incriminating ordeal on film. Pogo had no idea that this was or what he’d find, at the very worst he had expected a secret meeting with power hungry business men, and at the least, a secret rendezvous with his wife, engaged in a stolen moment of passion, away from the busy PR schedule that the Prime Minister had to maintain. Ironically, this act was a perfect metaphor for Pogos’ interpretation of modern politics; everyone screwing everyone over just to get by, simply not happy with anything other than greed and excess, it was also a beacon of hope, because now, perhaps he could really change things. Leverage.

Pogo left the House of Commons that day feeling like a soldier of the people, he was satisfied with the changes he had requested, and the sacrifices the political world would have to make. He caught the tube from Westminster which would take him to his apartment in Canning Town, and sat reading one of the better broadsheets, it reported disaster after disaster, more terrorism, more poverty, more death, raising taxes, more injustices, less room for prisoners, a failing justice system; on any other day, each bold, black headline would feel like a bullet fired at him, BANG! BANG! BANG! But today he felt different, today he had armed himself with hope, and once again he felt he had the power to do good, to make some steady, productive changes, he had began to think about his next moves when a pair of big, bright red shoes caught his eye from the gap between the base of the paper and his trousers, they moved about in a peculiar fashion. He moved the paper aside just enough to peer around and witness a psychotic looking clown, holding a rather large fish, he was grinning at him.

“Can I help you?” Pogo asked nervously.

“Nooooooo, no, no, no, no, no, no…I can help you though, new clothes, haircut, a little facial hair…bikini? No, that ain’t for you is it? Save that for Elizabeth, yup, gonna need weapons though and armour, you could do with that RIGHT now! It’s all a bit…”

“Excuse me, who are you, what are you talking about?”

“My names Whoopee...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

For Chapter 1 go to https://theprose.com/post/110639/chapter-1-yesterday-had-48-hours-extract

My eyes darken on the horizon as 3am draws in

and I watch the fires ignite on the shoreline

It’s nearly time...

I walk the beach beyond the broken boardwalk

Seething with the nights compulsion

Sharpened to every heartbeat

In tune with every soul

A silhouette of a ripped and stained frame

Stained with danger

My ashen demeanour, tense and alert

Broken and berserk

I’m a lived-in character

You could say…

But I confess to you that mortality is a lie

If you decide not to die

and those shadows that you fear

Is a sanctuary for your tears

While darkened angels watch over you

Voyeurs in a fabricated garden

Never free from fantasy

A product of your insanity… Perhaps

Stuck between the ragged seams of the living and the dead

But supercharged beyond all you’ve read

Darkened angels ready to pursue

It’s nearly time...

To come for you...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

Lost in the dark, tangled in silken threads

Caressed by the warmth of the night

Staring out over a slumbering city

Far away in impossible thoughts

Until I hear the softness of your voice

And you...

Muted blue against the cream of the moon

Shimmering in the threatening darkness

A silhouette made of satin and lace

Shadows replaced by the light of your face

A trojan horse for seduction and tainted games

Midnight waterfalls cascade your frame

And your fingers indulge mine

As lips collide and ignite concealed sparks

Tongues entwined between erotic remarks

The urgency of your hands at my waist

Clothes discarded in our haste

Pink traces of passion stain my skin

Until I’m enveloped within

On your knees with your hands on your heels

Aesthetic impressions mixed with a tease

As oil slides and glistens on moonlight skin

Highlighting erotic outlines of us

Pisces in our demeanour

I’m intoxicated by the scent of you

Captivated on your taste

As stifled cries tell me you’re near

Your body more rigid, more impulsive

Sincere…

While traces of saliva connect me to you

Refusing to yield until you succumb

To the hot wet caress between your thighs

Your mouth on me with muffled sighs

Inching closer to our own addictions of sin

Trying to resist the inevitable

Until we become one

A body of tactile addictions

Alive with carnal lust

Overwhelmed with endorphins

As you trace the tip of me

Push me to the limit until I’m empty

Your body reciprocates as hips rise and fall

The silence broken with sounds of provocative release

The taste of you lingers on my tongue

Shared in a kiss witnessed by the blush of sun...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

Twilight, and the ocean breaks

A world in turmoil, like the heart that breaks

On rocks as ragged as broken bones

Ships seek shelter like orphans from broken homes

Like the lost and weary, the misguided sailing in the eerie...

Of the unsettled ink that whispers on your thoughts

A puzzle of your mind, fragmented by crosses and naughts

Solutions and stories that remain untold

Hidden on the waves for a moment before they fold

And renew...

Like thoughts disrupted and clarity disguised

The ocean of the soul refuses to carry lies

And so we come to this

A revelation in the mists

Of dark and stormy waters that purify...

Clarify?

Make ready for tales that no one knew

From broken vessels that ignored the lighthouse guiding lights

We find entertainment in the wreckage of firelight

And begin to write from secret shores

Calmer waters that make their own laws

We scrawl new histories of brighter days

Enlightened nights that follow the unforgiving sun and it's haze

We choose days to fade away

Step back from the world and play

New games, word games, puzzles and rhymes

These are the pages and these are our times

As we inspire

Set fire to the night

And party to twilight as the ocean breaks...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

Alice sits and plays with her hair

At the edge of the world she's without a care

Alice, dressed in something other than blue

Perhaps she's happier than you

While she fumbles with ribbons of white

And paints imaginary pictures of delight

Cats inside-out and bloody things

Squashed caterpillars infected with wasps stings

The despair of rabbit, crucified on a clock

The Queen left dead on a chopping block

Yes Alice skips the day away

Insanity is only a conviction if you see the crime

The dazed, distressed, those very first signs

The delicate fall from grace that's a feather in the wind

But its final decent will crack the world with its sin

Little drops of mercury that turn to led

Found in the stomach of a hatter, poisoned and now so dead

Like the rest of Wonderland as it burns in burrows all over the world

Alice's pyromania has the news confused

Don't cross Alice or she'll bring you your death

And their will be no tea party for you before your last breath...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

He had feared the coming of this day all his life, he was 27 and terrified for a brief moment, but then it happened, the numbness set in; one moment, distressed and tormented with the fear of what was happening and then, the void; an absence of care, an absence of feeling. He sat there for about twenty minutes staring into space like a zombie before getting to his feet and staring out into the garden, it was barely seen in the last remaining light, the bright colours had faded to grey, he stared some more before feeling something on his cheek, he lifted his hand and expected to wipe away an insect of some sort, instead his finger was wet; he was crying, he looked at his finger with indifference and then stared some more. He thought of doing something insane, taking of his clothes and running through the back gardens of his street, stealing a car and smashing it into a wall at 100mph or picking a fight with a gang of youths, those gangs who thought they were tough because they were five or six united, but were pissy little cowards on their own. He had a stirring at this but while ushering himself towards the front door, he thought it better just to go to sleep. Apathy is so tiring.

Monday came and went, he had barely moved, he didn’t get dressed, didn’t take any calls and kept the room absent of the beautiful day that was threatening the blackout curtains of his room, the curtains were not intimidated and refused to budge. He left his bedroom reluctantly at 6pm to pee and discovered on the way that he was hungry, a feeling that had not left him, the need for food, other than that he still felt numb but almost happy about it because he had felt hungry; but then he forgot about the happiness and prepared himself a cooked breakfast and a big pot of tea. He ate this while watching the mundane programs that broadcasted across his retinas from the television, if you had asked him what he had watched, he couldn’t have told you and he wouldn’t care that he couldn’t. At 10pm the insects were on his face again but they turned to water on his fingertips and he looked at them with indifference once again, and then, with heavy, deadened eyes he fell asleep and dreamt.

He dreamt of himself, but he was different somehow, he shared stories with people who seemed to have the infliction he has in his waking world, telling them with great passions of how he was going to change the world, how one man can make a difference, and how he would execute this difference in rhythm and rhyme, poem and song, how the world was unjust and if only more people would stand up for the rights and fight against the wrongs then the world we be a better place. The people he spoke to, had turned grey though, infected by an invisible disease, he wondered how they couldn’t see his plight and why they weren’t prepared to be inspired by his ideals. Instead they nodded mechanically or delivered an answer that seemed like a shortcut to thinking, “that will never happen.” Or “try if you like but it won’t get you anywhere.” This angered him but he could see that they were ‘too set in some way’, pre-occupied with the mundane, too dead to care, or even attempt to offer a valid argument to get the creative ideas rolling in one way or another, there was nothing…

He awoke Tuesday at 3am and cursed himself for messing up his body clock so badly, he remembered nothing of his dream, he felt agitated and irritated, like there was something he was meant to do but he couldn’t remember what it was or whether it was important. Instead he drank two pints of water and went to sit on the garden steps, he stared up at the overgrown bushes at the end of his garden and wondered what spectacles of nature they were hiding, in the pale moonlight he could see the grave of his dog, she had been sleeping ten years, he had seen her occasionally since then, she seemed to hang around in his shadow when times were rough, a silent clown, ready to cheer him up when things had kicked him a little too much, an ever loving companion, that touched him from beyond the grave. He felt the insects again but knew by now that they were really tears. He sat and let them run from his eyes until there nests were empty and then he lay on his back in the short grass and stared up at the vast night until the sun began to bleach its edges with purples and blues. He felt an ache where his heart should be and decided to smoke.

The rest of Tuesday went by as a blur, a simple mission was to be executed and that was to stay awake until 11pm, this was almost impossible between the hours of two and seven, however by eight o’clock he was wide awake and feeling revived, he decided to go for a walk.

The evening was serene, the air smelt sweet and the streets were quiet, he imagined a world like this, empty and quiet, he liked the idea for a moment before going against it with such ferocious rage that it burst into flames and exploded. The evening was calm enough for him to regain composure very quickly and he even chuckled at the malicious attack on such a remote thought. He had walked for about thirty minutes with his thoughts before he saw another person, a girl in a short yellow summer dress, she had long golden hair that seemed to radiate in the remaining sunlight. She was walking towards him almost whimsically, they made accidental eye contact on nearing each other, he felt a little shy but she just smiled and glided on by in slow motion, he glanced back and watched her walking for a moment before he realised she had glanced back at him, he turned away quickly and slightly embarrassed but continued his walk with the signs of a spring in his step and almost forgot the last two days of numbness. He returned home around 10.30pm and managed to sleep from 12am. He dreamt again that night of himself and a beautiful lady with golden hair sitting on a sandy beach, a beach fire, crackling as quiet as possible, almost cursing itself to be silent so it could hear the conversation between the two lovebirds, they gazed at each other and hung on each others words in between tasting the ‘dark berry fruits’ of a delicious red wine. She was an inspiration to him, a muse for a cause he had not yet known, the dream ended with a perfect embrace and a kiss that delivered the most erotic and passionate energy he had ever known.

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

I drink a cocktail of moonlight

Laced with a million shooting stars

The intoxicating scent of darkness

Accompanied by the candlelight of long forgotten midnight bars

Where I tussle with my demeanour

Surrounded by the righteous and the wicked

The lost and the wronged

Amongst all the dysfunction is somewhere we belong

Some sort of serenity hinted at in a thousand different songs

While we sway in time to the nights rhythm and rhyme

From nightclubs and quaint forgotten bars

To star adorned bedrooms above parked cars

Intoxicated by the floral scent of you

Infecting my thoughts with serpentine visions of lust

Discarded lace and satin under the stasis of moon dust

Bodies writhing amongst the flickering flames of candlelight

Shadows dancing in carnal tribal celebration

Fingers wet with desire and temptation

The open blinds cast moonlit lines across the room

Shadows that fall and rise with every passing car

While I trace glossy lips with hungry fingertips

Mouths caress wantonly in the electricity of the dark

The silky smooth skin that blesses my fingers

Lost in the heat of you

Your thighs tight around me

Addicted to your feminine wiles

On the invisible shore of the night

That takes us closer to ecstasy

Wave after undulating wave

The tranquility broken by urgency

Carnal greed and fire possessing our souls

Extinguished by the caress of slumber

And on my lips your number...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

I wear your fears on my skin

Keloid scars that offer a sinister grin

They tell me I am insane

But I know, I know

Genius is just being ahead of the game

That's why I welcome your shadows

The ones that cascade across this city with pointy ears

An immovable object against an unstoppable force

It had to be this way of course

Your symbol, your power

You’ve changed things my toxic flower

With your ego blazing in the night

That spotlight like an erection across this city

An infection to prevent the atrocities

To promote the fear of your justice

But fear is just a word

It can’t be delivered to the absurd

Y’see I understand fear

I promote it more than you

Mine is true, I have no code

I’m willing to go toe to toe

And dance a merry little waltz

The order of chaos can contribute a thing or two

Anarchy devours the order of any code

I cut my fame into the flesh I expose

A forced bloodthirsty grin

I like to get up close and personal with my sin

I like what I do and I do what I like

You had to tumble and then I broke your bike

A rabid dog racing cars on life's broken road

Flipping coins on faces that corrode

Introducing a little anarchy

Exploding in a thousand decks of me

Welcome to my insanity

At least I don't chase my tail

I leave that to the people of the law

I watch them fail

As I insight war

Make you break your own rules

Turn you into my demented fools

I watch you wail, I see all of your distress

So so angry at the man in a dress

Or a nurses uniform, but I digress

Can you guess what comes next?

As I put my nemesis to the test...

© Richard Withey. All rights reserved.

- Inspired by the film The Dark Knight