Cold as Ice

Cold as ice, no fun no vice. Locked in your mind-set, stiffened, rigid. No give no play not tempted to stray.

Comfortable land of certainty, no joy, no glee. Tunnel vision, ahead you see, bypass emotion the attraction of the ocean. No emotion, icy steel, always on an even keel.

Wounds fester, never heal, underneath that ice-cold layer that never peels. Time squeals, yearning to bellow into deep voice, but the heat of the moment hits the ice-cold layer, never thawing.

Bleak winter’s cold tears seep into the molten core, deepening the coldness, never to melt like before, never to leave those rocks so bare, so sore. Fossilised emotions on the frozen wastes of time.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

Serial Killer

In the shadows of the night, hidden from the moon light by the dark, stands a man cloaked in black. His blade sends a glint of light as the beams from the moon bounce back. This man of darkness is not here to fight.

Dark destroyer, killer in the street, not the kind of guy you want to meet. Yet dark is the alley where he strikes the blow and crimson life does flow. This man you never know. Never seeing his eyes, he attacks from behind. Leaving you oozing in blood and mud and street crud. Life ebbing out of your body and clouding your mind.

Into the night the stranger goes, where he is, no one knows, he could be your friend or just your foe. laying there dying in the street, a passer-by crying at your feet. Wondering how many other victims he will cheat and carve them up like pieces of meat.

Months pass and there are no leads to the man who makes innocents bleed, then, from the shadows he strikes again another victim savagely slain, blood spreading across the ground washed to the drain with the rain, soaking the ground.

Serial killer again and again no motive nothing to gain. He kills again and again, communities terrified they will end up the same. Streets deserted no children playing games. He lurks in alleys out of sight waiting and watching people pass in the night stalking his next victim then fading into the night.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

They Know You Know

They know, yes, they do, they know just how to get to you. They know how far you will go and that you won’t say no. They know, you won’t tell, they know you won’t make their life hell.

They know how to hurt and to cut and they know you are in a rut. They know who to pick on, and who will let it carry on. They know they will get away day after day and they know it won’t matter what you say, you’re the one who will pay.

They know their confidence will grow and they know they never reap what they sow. They know that you have died inside but they bring their mates for the ride. They know you want to hide, that you are weak because you cried. They know, you know.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

 

Touch Me

Slowly touch me, caress my body with your fingers, let this tingling feeling linger. Let this feeling resonate like the voice of a singer. Feel me shudder as sweet words I utter and free my mind from daily clutter. Just concentrating on where you choose to wallow, savouring each and every hollow.

Calming my spirit, my racing heart, that sensation I love right from the start. You move in patterns as though it is some kind of art, this feeling is tearing me apart. I want to touch you caress and hold you, but I never want this feeling to depart. So, I lay there just admiring the painter applying her art.

Then comes the climax there is no holding back as you find the erogenous pathway and I struggle to hold my emotions at bay. Until finally I must let go, to show you what you have done, the final rush of feeling, the moan, the sigh as I realise that the end of this feeling is nigh.

© All rights reserved Mark Symmonds 2018

 

 

Mac 10

Spray and pray the gangster way, the little boys play, making their way owning the day. Settling arguments, making them pay, violence and revenge, Mac 10 takes the day. Deadly spray, hope and pray, life ebbs away.

Black clad, bandana, bad cussing and fussing street talk, killing on the sidewalk, Mac 10 trying to make them men. Hip hop and rap, street culture and crack. Mac 10 to end the deal rat a tat tat bullets spat everywhere.

No one was there, turn a blind eye letting kids die and mothers cry for ones who lie. Don’t break the code the silence mode mac 10 will keep you quiet. Death and fear the daily diet, wheeling and dealing, robbing and stealing. Life freewheeling, fast cars failed three R’s crime pays dangerous days. Mac 10 to graves it lays shortened lives in shallow graves.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Satin and White Lace

A collaboration between Mark Symmonds  and Debra Sasak Ross

Through satin and white lace.
I can still see your face.
Your features I can trace.
No one could ever take your place.

My heart starts to race
As our passion quickens pace.
My hands pull at your lace.
To reveal the satin of your face.

Debra Sasak Ross-MarkSymmonds (c) 11/07/2017 All Rights Reserved

Heaven

Angels floating on clouds, rescuing the dead from their shrouds leaving the bad to the Satan clan, angels take the sole of good men. They soar to the sky with the big wing span, a succession of souls from women children and men. Skyward, they fly through invisible sky to the utopia on high.

Then, the pearly gates emerge, their purity in the sun glistens and all the souls listen to hear the name of their loved one. Families reunited, spirits get excited, to see them again. Now they are all angels in a heaven so calm, where nothing is bad and no need to be alarmed.

Before Saint Peter, they are judged, all their life and every grudge. What have they done that is good? did they help someone when they could? Will he change his mind and chuck them out and send them down to eternal hell? can they think of a reason why he should?

Then, comes the judgement, the bad outweighed by the good and suddenly they’re in God’s neighbourhood. Will they see the great principal himself or will he be around, but cloaked in stealth? Who will they know? where can they go? can they just sit there and grow? For they have been chosen to sit with the spirits and watch the world as though they are in it.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

Hell

In a murky world, where demons rule and eat and slash and drool over human parts from faraway lands to where this hell fire land expands. The fiery world of Satan, where, humans are slaves and work in caves and the living souls the devil craves.

For they have come here from fires, tombs and graves, each one, heaven they crave. Each human with guilt to bear, something bad sometime, somewhere, that haunts their minds and never heels with time. No matter how much they pray at their shrine.

Satan was watching seeing the evil checking out how far they would go. Now they are here in this kingdom of lost souls, working for the master of evil, yet they still crave for heaven or to be back on earth, so they can put things right at rebirth.

Alas, Satan has got them they are part of his gang, with the baddest of all they now hang. He is their godfather, head of the clan, they are but foot soldiers not even men. Dispensed with at the nod of his head, twice dead. Nothing lays beyond that evil, nothing to rebirth, just the damnation of Satan’s evil on earth.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

Heart Thief

Your pulse is racing, what are you facing, door opens, you are embracing. Candles in silver holders sit on the table, perfectly laid, willing and able. Pour a drink, none alcoholic, it helps you think. Sitting opposite gazing into his eyes, wondering what behind them lies. Your lips red with cherry wanting so much to soak his with your passion. But, you hold back, put up a wall, you have been here before, memories not good at all.

Your body language says I want you, your head says he will use and abuse you. Pour another drink and laugh at another joke, small talk and charm, if only he knew what harm they would do. Then comes that moment you dread the one you played over a thousand times in your head. He reaches in to kiss you.

Your spine tingles and knees go weak, as lips meet first, then tongues of fire, full of desire, you pull away as it’s stored in the mire of undesired of memories burning on a funeral Pire. Your head is in a spin you want to draw him in but that would be a sin. Replay unhappy memories this you didn’t want to see. It’s time to make your excuses and leave. Your heart pounding and sense of relief you have escaped from the heart thief.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

 

A Good Man

Life should be so simple for a good man, who should have lots of fans. He bothers not about convention what’s more important is his intervention. From violence and insults he chooses abstention, very rarely the centre of attention. Deep down he fights his demons, which to others he seldom mentions. For he is a man of good intentions, of many kind deeds too many to mention.

Yet when he does good and helps the neighbourhood it’s never reciprocal when he is in need and his heart starts to bleed and help he needs, he is left on his own and no one wants to know. This man, would do anything for any one, now look at how he is repaid, when he is down and glum.

He is tired and spent, fed up of being a gent of being used then abused, that’s not the spirit in which it was meant. That man who offered his all and asked nothing in return, who will never learn as he is driven by genuine concern. Look back at your memories, he will not be there, as he helped you when you were in despair, now you look past him as if he is not there, until, you need him again and more of his compassion to spare.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017