Mother, Father and the Birthing of the Angel

You have led my course through fractured lanes. Your groaning ballad my only light. Kill blessings from stained lips safely float our steps. Where would I be without you Michael? Crow mother lies broken at our hand. Eyes, lips and tongue smeared on stone. ‘You are just like me,’ she bleats through shattered teeth. Thank you feathered protector, my septic pedagogue. Poisoned Papa gags as we grip him heart in hand. Oesophagus glove binds wrist, forearm and elbow. Pushing down to Hell, void swallows his crushed vena cava. Dislocated mandible squeals leaving the path clear and final. A baptism from a splintered bucket washes away our rusty halo. We have built a fine church you and I. Can you hear me Michael? Are you there? From Father’s secret chest, blades, saws and spikes are repossessed. They are now our beautiful burden, our sanctified implements. Ground and honed to a steely whisper that will glide down to the bone. Beyond the door you beckon to me with your silvery, distant song. Night air sears through our lungs like freezing ammonia as Shifting constellations light our winding passage through London. From Threadneedle Street to Guthrun’s Lane all dreams are devastation. We select a lost tenement as a playground and trudge through stinking mud. There is a family within – Mother, Father and Son. They are the fruits of our maledictions. ‘Cry no more little one,’ his voice congeals in my veins. Soon we will be clean, huge and stinging. At my touch the door yawns like the prelude to regurgitation. In the darkness soiled, saintly fingers caress a razor. Taut, ablaze, locked. Tonight we will sculpt what we never possessed and love what hurts the most. We are Destroyer.