The Singer

Where black rocks bare their fangs and roar
and sea shouts angry at the shore;
when rain comes sweeping wet-walled night
and lamps are pools of yellow light,
the singer stirs from out the deep
where phantoms of his memory sleep.

He trudges by the lighted inn
as jest and laughter ring within.
“Blood is the bond,” he thinks, “of brother love,
roots fit others for the glove.
Solo is a finite role,
no mirror for the choirs deep soul.
My lonely strain was not a theme
that bound the past to future dream.
I played my part. I sang it strong
but feel no call for further song.”

He wanders on along his way
where seas shed tears of spume and spray.
Now cries the wind as rain comes down
to draw a curtain o’er the town.
Charlie Gregory
Cardiff

The Shadows of the Night

Do they frighten you like they frighten me?
these downcast sons of low-caste mobs.
As you lock them away and lose the key,
their parents sweat in low-paid jobs.

These downcast sons of low-caste mobs
mime rebellious-dreams in drugs and beer.
Their parents sweat in low-paid jobs.
They chant coded-prayers in a football-jeer.

Mime rebellious-dreams in drugs and beer
to ease the day-long searing-pain.
They chant coded-prayers in a football-jeer
in the gloom of a dark-slum-lane.

To ease the day-long searing-pain,
as you claim the dues for their squalid-lets
in the gloom of a dark-slum-lane,
pale parents wail and rail against the debts.

As you claim the dues for their squalid-lets,
children scream of cruel-oppression.
Pale parents wail and rail against the debts
as they spiral through depression.

Children scream of cruel-oppression,
trapped on a treadmill-track from womb to grave
as they spiral through depression,
training for the life of a low-wage slave.

Trapped on a treadmill-track from womb to grave,
youth stolen by forsaken-school,
training for the life of a low-wage slave
in lawless-class where bullies rule.

Youth stolen by forsaken-school;
dull-eyed masters screaming at sullen-mobs
in lawless-class where bullies rule;
churning-out fodder for the low-grade jobs.

Dull-eyed masters screaming at sullen-mobs
whose minds are brutalised by stress;
churning-out fodder for the low-grade jobs.
Dream-escape is a drug's caress.

Whose minds are brutalised by stress,
seek false-pity from none, nor spare a friend.
Dream-escape is a drug's caress,
For there is no prize at this journey's end.

Seek false-pity from none, nor spare a friend,
where honest-labour will not pay;
for there is no prize at this journey's end,
and brute-frustration rules the day.

Where honest-labour will not pay,
the deprived will study the plumper-breeds;
and brute-frustration rules the day,
when the fat-one flaunts what the lean-one needs.

The deprived will study the plumper-breeds.
The game is called accumulate.
When the fat-one flaunts what the lean-one needs,
cruel-rules are there to contemplate.

The game is called accumulate,
where they dirty-deal for the master-share.
Cruel-rules are there to contemplate;
when the winner takes-all, none will play fair.

Where they dirty-deal for the master-share,
beware the shadows-of-the-night.
When the winner takes-all, none will play fair;
paupers leap-out to snatch their right.

Beware the shadows-of-the-night,
as you lock them away and lose the key.
Paupers leap-out to snatch their right.
Do they frighten you like they frighten me?

Charlie Gregory
Cardiff