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Who Comforts God?

Screams. Wretched, mournful wails of the dead and dying. Its all I ever see.
A mournful baritone echoes through the night. Its timbre so rich, a meaning so clear, it brings tears even to my cold eyes.
Searching these dark and dismal streets the source becomes apparent. Alone, a lone man slumps across a doorstep. ‘Our lord and saviour’ is clutched possessively/lovingly in his hands. He croons to his loves; the old and the new and to the future of which there is none.
His sweet smooth voice stumbles and falls and picks itself up and drifts away as my shadow performer fades into his kingdom of oblivion and southern comfort.
Silence reigns and so I move on. Move on to the next woeful soul of these streets, my streets, and giving him solace and comfort where I may.

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“Water’s beautiful, come on in!” She shouts joyfully to her son, splashing water on her glistening body.
   The sun beams on the water heating the top layer and leaving the bottom refreshingly cool.
   She dips her head gaily and bends her legs, submerging in nature’s glory.
   Her eyes open and behold with wonderment the harmony under the gentle waves.
   Multi-faceted pebbles and stones lie at the bed, the sun catching on slivers of quartz and polished limestone. Prisms of light reflect throughout the water.
   She emerges giggling and shaking her head like the little girl she once was. Fine droplets glide through the air as her silky shoulder length hair flies.
   Her long, golden-hued hands smooth the mane across her scalp and she giggles once more.
“Come on in,” she says again to her son, lying peacefully at rest on the bank. “Water’s great!”
   She leans over, gracefully cupping the liquid into her hands. She sighs as she lets the crystal pure water seep through her fingers and trickle down her throat.
“Mummy,” her son drawls. “Can we fish here?”
   Behind her, water slides rapidly over several large boulders and joins a pool surrounded by smaller boulders. This water then curves it’s way abruptly into the stream below.
   About five hundred metres away through bushes and towering trees lies a small lake.
  A battered red falcon ute pulls up, its rear to the dark water.
   A large boorish man climbs out and slams the door behind him. His feet sink several inches in the muck and he trudges his way to the back. His grunts and curses escalating with each step.
   Finally, with a deft sweep of his arm, he unlatches the back.
“Come on in, the water’s great,” the boorish man grunts sarcastically as he climbs up onto the old ute. It promptly sinks deeper into the fresh mud and stale water in response.
   Without any trouble a second man, not much unlike his mate physically, appears at his side.
   With another grunt the first boor tosses a large barrel at the newcomer who catches it with an ease of movement not expected of a man of his girth. He drops it with a loud squelching sound. In less than two minutes both barrels are bone dry. The lake is not.
   A little outlet formed by many years of droughts and rains and the feet, hooves and paws of the wild life going about their business winds its way towards several large boulders.
   Along this ancient path runs a small amount of water from the lake. By the time the water reaches the stream it is perfectly clear.  However, it is not perfectly clean.
   “Gee – I don’t know. I don’t think there’s any fish here.”

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I’ve had a Bad Poetry Comix story board mapped out for this one for a number of years. One day I might get my mojo back and complete it.

Tbe night begins. A cigarette.
A hard-boiled egg becomes too soft.
REflections of a life, we’v lived.
Shed a tear, for opportunity lost.

The waves of thought,
they caress my brain
New ideas are born.
Old ones gone.

My legs, they waver.
Fall out behind me
My head thumps hard
I slam the tar.

What if men who live well,
Live in reality, a guilty lie.
Reincarnation might just exist.
Wouldn’t that be a twist?

As each man dies, he is reborn.
Judged by reflections of his past.
Condemned or rewarded,
For a life, lived at last.

The man reborn, becomes a woman.
And the womans life is hell.
The proud man never did so well.

And over there a young boy crying
The youth grieves, he feels like dying.
Flies above it all.
No boundary. No Wall.
The life he led was so poor,
He must receive more
AS his life begins anew,
He knows the sound of that bell,
it was different to his death knell.
Rewarded in riches for a poor young boy
Rewarded in spirit as a source of joy.
And there, d’ya see it. A brave new soul.
Born to his world, like a quivering foal.
Never before has it sinned or been best
Its chance is now, to make up for the rest.

Hell, heaven and EArth
Victims of our rebirth
Souls recycled,
Joys rekindled.

Punished for corruption.
Rewarded for compassion.
Given a new, larger than life, mission.

I raise up my head,
Stand up to the stars,
My right foot is twisted
My blood boils so bad.
My only thought: ‘Fuck!
I missed the truck.

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