He wears the evergreen forest
the sharp horns of the strongest beast.
He is life, He is death
He is the valley in between.

He is hungry for a change
As nuclear reactions are released
He is war, he is peace
He is the future still unseen.

He blows holy smoke rings
As angels fall and devils feast.
He is light, he is dark
He is all the shades in between.

He is the wild man of the woods
He is hunted by the priest.
He is love, he is hate
He is lost in a sea of green.

He wears the evergreen forest
the sharp horns of the strongest beast.
He is life, He is death
He is the valley in between.

The devil wears a plastic mac
the truth is plain to see
Time is melting on his back
he’s going to tempt me.

The devil smokes ten packs a day
his lungs are burnt down trees
his followers, the chain saw gang
fall on their wounded  knees

The devil smiles a toothless grin
through sugar coated lips
his blood pumps black petroleum
through undulating hips.

The devil lives in boiling seas
on poisoned fish he dines
the devil thrives on  days like these
he wanders through my mind.
.
The devil’s never satisfied
he’s always wanting more.
The price of progress is too high
I will not be his whore.

The devil wears a plastic mac
it’s plain for all to see
Temptation rides upon his back
longing to be free.

D.Hinson

The Lady wept.
She let out screams
that could not be heard
above the roaring hoards
that had invaded
her wilderness.

The Lady wept.
Her reflection quivered
on the surface, calm
as time slowly dripped,
her past life tripped
through acidic forests.

The Lady wept.
The air filled with fumes
like smokers rooms
Once undiscovered,
now silently smothered
in paradise lost.

The Lady wept.
Her tears filled the lake
dissolved the fears
of unborn years
The people stopped to think
To drink the holy water
Overcome with sorrow

The people wept
For Our Lady of Tomorrow.

D.Hinson

No lines for worries to get trapped in
Gift wrapped in, Sinner and Saint
Torn from the same skin.
Wild hair to catch nothing but the breeze
Eyes so clear no deception could cross
The deserts where thoughts flow
On waves of desire they echo
Crashing onto the shore of wanting no more
Satisfied to reside in the shelter
Unarmed, where snakes lay charmed
Waiting for the heat haze to rise.
Naked, Love needs no disguise.
Unmasked, No need for spare baggage
or a horse drawn carriage
we travel down fresh tracks
with no lines for worries to get trapped in.

D.Hinson

How strange.The Dead flowers
took hours to rearrange.

Ivy wrapped around
his pale skin hiding him
from the wind and rain.

Saturated stems bowed down
towards his pale blue lips.
Kissing him softly.

Roots embraced him.
dragging him deep underground
feeding the beasts in her burrows.

In the warmth of the Earth
he lay as Spring burst through
the wasteland above.

Unarranged, the flowers
blood red and well fed
a carpet on the waste land.

He loved to pick wild flowers
Fill hours rearranging
them to please his  love.

She walked through the poppies
tears drenched the earth
in The Summer heat.

She gathered the wildflowers
as he slept beneath her feet.

D.Hinson
Nov 11 09

Dressed in magpie feathers
she hid behind dark glasses
stole glances for tomorrow
from unsuspecting guests.

Drawn in black and white
the world revolved around her
Attracting gold and silver
she furnished her  fine nest.

Dressed in magpie feathers
stuffing  superstitions
in her lucky bag she found
her sparkle has been raided.

She stormed out of the city
She brooded on the horizon
she learned to love the grey clouds
while her friends became jaded.

She danced in the dewdrops
to the sound of the rain falling
she waited to catch the rainbow
but no longer needed  gold

Dressed in magpie feathers
full of glistening raindrops
they sparkle like bright diamonds
She never can be sold.

They worship their gods
in microchip monasteries
with silicon spires.*

They pray for more memory
invisible storage
to fill with desire.

They crave pure perfection
Nature’s song rejected
by their holy choir.

While They build  Utopia
we are burnt offerings
sacrificed in the fire.

D.Hinson
Oct 09

Inspired by a short story ‘Goliath’  in Neil Gaiman’s ‘Fragile Things’ book.

Miss Mundane is at it again
wrapped in Material World
Crow rises, stretches her wings
and watches the day unfurl.

Miss Mundane trapped in her brain
always wanting more
Crow gathers scraps squawking
as the hard rain begins to pour

Miss Mundane is driven insane
stuck in a rut on the floor
Crow catches opportunities
as they fly through open doors.

Miss Mundane has lost it again
always blaming others
plucking crows fine feathers
then hiding under cover.

Crow will return like wildfire burn
the world can’t bring her down
to Miss Mundane’s level
where her future lies half drowned.

D.Hinson
Oct 09

October candles burn down
dreams of summer flicker in the air
heated by black gold.

Blazing in the furnaces running
out of time to watch dirty habits
wash up in boiled seas.

The black gold slithers through
the rich man’s fingers. The poor man
wanders as desert lands encroach.

Another soldier buried, fighting
for resources. Wisdom lies crushed
in abandoned dreams.

The future waits, impatient around
another corner as geo thermal genies
rise from deep underground.

Solar powered prietesses harvest
the old sun god, wind generated wizards
power new technology.

The winds no longer whisper, they scream
down desert valleys, flooded by indifference
scarred by old mined seams.

Mothers of mass consumption
Fathers of  fuelled corruption
Children of total destruction
cannot be obeyed.

Today’s roars silently stifled
the deaf walls are well sealed
locked behind indifference
in the temples of black gold.

The shells will be abandoned
as they crack under pressure
The walls begin to crumble
in the temples of black gold.

She wore the dress well, covered in mirrors
clinging to her curves reflected thoughts
trapped in the sharp corners cutting
our her fine shape. A designers dream
captured the desires of passers by.
The dress sometimes shimmered
envious green or the deep rose tints
of lust, the sunny yellow  of children’s wonder
or  the indigo blues of loss and regret.

She wore the dress well, not letting the emotions
or opinions of others filter through
it’s polished surface. She believed clothes
were only a reflection of our true personalities.

D.Hinson
Sep 09