Otherworlds

Edmund Jenkin was not an old man but he was weary and reaching the end of his resources.  He had been waiting for his caller who was overdue by an hour and he was worried.  The weather was bad but that was not what concerned him.   What concerned him was that the time was bad, the days were bad, the enemy was breaking through in ways they could not have imagined a decade ago and he was concerned that these were the final days. When he saw Jacob’s car draw up in his driveway he was not so much relieved as resigned.  There was still work to be done.   When he opened the door to his visitor though he shook his head. “You should not have brought the boy,” he said to Jacob.   The child was about ten years old and seemed hidden inside a hooded coat at least one size too large, playing some game on a smartphone that was occupying his full attention. “No choice Ed,” said Jacob, “His mother’s busy, I  couldn’t leave him behind.”   The two visitors entered the house and Edmund disposed of t

Old demons never die, they simply dim their flames And decompose through all the crime scene stages Righteous hatred stiffening in the rigor of history Prodded and examined, Questioned and challenged, The images of fire debated and heat’s meaning discussed. Then decomposition sets in and infernal foulness Mulches down in parody and meme’s rich loam And makes of slicing stamping real, a simple word A name to slander any, every, thing disliked, Dust, then, to dust in sleeping eyes and demons wake Unnoticed and unjust they change their name and sing The same old songs, bright torchlit rallies seen anew Men in rows, coloured spectacles where e-books burn And the old fire kindles and liberty turns to face The dawn with open, readied, leveled arms.