Antigen

He knocked at the door

Shouting ‘let me in!’

Tempting us to go out

With his whisky and gin

He hid around corners

Under tables and chairs

Trying his best

To catch us unawares

He was sitting on benches

Where others had sat

He was on garden fences

Where we’d stop for a chat

He was hanging around

Tesco trolly parks

He was all over door han...

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The Devil Don’t Own Me

He may have saluted the corrupted cross

In Hitler’s Germany,

or whispered to Judas Iscariot,

hanging from a tree,

he could have pulled the trigger finger

back in nineteen sixty three,

he may own the soul of rock and roll

but the Devil don’t own me.

He may pollute the air we breath

or the raging, deep blue, sea.

He may breath on pola...

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Dockery Plantation Blues

In a Mississippi graveyard,
as the midnight hour crawls,
sits a young boy and his guitar
wailing tunes at the moon.
He prays his fingers faster
as they dance across the frets,
weeping at his inability
to speak in tongues from the strings.

He is lost in a fugue
of chaotic chords and strumming,
as the Delta Blues pour muddy,
like the churning brown river,
fr...

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The Crooked Beast At The End Of A Crooked Path

I saw him rise like a dark spectre
in the clouds
at the end of a crooked path
his horned head cocked
spreading his cloven claws
astride the graves that nestled
safe beneath the trees
his wings unfurling
across the sky
and gathering in
the long dead souls
beneath the ground
and I thought
I heard the demon say
“I told you I would not fo...

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His dog craps in my garden

to the sound of metal rock.

His kids creep round my greenhouse

scrawling balls and giant cock.

His wife is bruised and beaten

all around the fucking clock.

His preferred weapon of choice

is to hurt and maim and shock.

Home from church on a Sunday,

he has a bonfire burning -

pitchforking rubber tyres

and dead meat that ...

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