I Can Not Write Poetry by Andy Scorah (the beginning after the end novel read .TXT) 📕

girl with sad eyes
And the crow saw the sign
taking to the skies ....it flies

They were killed on a night when demons roam

Shelley and Eric in loves fresh bloom
They broke down his door and entered his home
with lascivious glee
and wanton desire
They cast Draven out with colts deadly fire
Through the window he crashed the demons hit home

Sad eyes by the grave her heart was enslaved
By the sadness that engulfed, the friends that she craved
Sarah was she, a waif and a stray
Her mother, a slave to morphias way

He heard the crow call, after night did fall
And out of the grave Draven did crawl
Under a gibbous moon, Draven called Shelley's name
But he knew, she was out of the game

Through the dark streets and alleys, he did roam
Till finally he returned home
While guitars played, a heavenly strum
The crow watched on, anticipating the fun

The demons partied as but they would
Abashed the Devil stood and felt how awful goodness is
For when the city burns he revels in what will be his
Greed is for amateurs. Disorder, chaos, anarchy: now that's fun!
But the crow watched them with hungry eyes, the time had begun

In the mirror a painted smile, guitars playing to a heavenly choir
His heart in pain for the loss of his love
Tonight was his night, he would burn them in his revenging fire
The crow was his eyes his ears
The demons would face him on this night of fear


Tin Tin in the alley of rats, tonight is the night this life you will quit
MURDERER
Murderer, man? Murderer? Let me tell you all about murder. It's fun, it's easy, and you gonna learn all about it
Tin Tin did say : I'd like you to meet two buddies of mine. We never miss.
Flashing blades spun through the night their deadly points looking for skin to split
Draven took them from the air returned them to their master with deaths deadly kiss


Darla in the house of pain, served them their shots, for a needle full of rain
In it goes filling her vein
The crow was there through the window it came
T-bird saw it, and Draven too came
This one was easy, he died on the bed
T-bird lay there with his blood so red

Turning to Darla like a mime from hell, his face unhidden
Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children
Sarah is waiting for you her love is unbidden
Go to her, a second chance I have given

One by one the demons did fall
They all died a year ago when devils night did fall
And now on this night back with the crows call
Revenge is what he needed most of all
And after this night to Shelly's arms
He will return to his dead loves charms

Top dollar was the last to his place they flew
To late for him, in the church of desire the die was cast
And as thunder rolls and lightning did flash
I have something to give you. I don't want it anymore. Thirty hours of pain all at once, all for you.
Through T-birds body the pain was his due
The deed was done back to the grave for his love so true

Shelley came for him in the mists of night
The crow looked on it was the end of the fight
Their love was true and oh so right
And good deeds were done on this devils night
To heaven ascended hearts so tight
Forever love
The crow took flight.


BORN TO THUNDER
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
A tribute to Bruce Springsteen
"

Madman drummers bummers and Indians in the summer with a teenage diplomat

A leather jacketed rocker working the six strings playing out a future skat

Cut loose like a deuce, another strummer in the New Jersey night


Heading down the highway to Darlington county

Rocking like he was born on the fourth of july

In a deadmans town strumming for your bounty


Those subway sages sitting like the living dead

and those south side sisters sure look pretty

when your playing just to earn some bread


That maximum lawmans still burning up flamingo with the rat and the barefoot girl

From the churches to the jails they hear the music that makes the head whirl

In incandescent heat the bare foot girls still drinking beer on the hood of that Dodge

And the man flashes his guitar like a switchblade hustling for the crowd


Born in the usa to the sound of a future beat

you took to the stage for our fun

cause tramps like you were born to thunder

and rip our souls asunder


THIS WORLD - a rant
A Poem by Andy Scorah
"
a selective view of the world today
"


Take a look around and tell me what you see,hear, feel
Is it goodness, freedom, happiness, as we go round on this big wheel
Each of us a microcosm floating in singular form
Touching and parting since we are born

From the high thrown of power going down the line
you are told what you see, hear, feel, do you think thats fine
One day its good for you next day its bad
And we go along because they who tell us went to university dad

We are dumbed down from birth to death
Conditioned to this life wear this, eat that, watch this.
Its all vitreous imagery and a false babys breath
A Panopticon world delivered with a molasses kiss

It starts with the young girls have dolls, boys have guns
It continues in schools you have to do and learn what they say
Told to be societal fathers and sons
Toe the line in this powerplay ballet

Hate and prejudice now fill this world
Separation and segregation hold sway too
Mans inhumanity to man increasingly unfurled
It began with the king of the sand pit and his playground crew

We have forgot the writings of dusty codex
Our neighbour now hated where once there was love Manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination spoke Malcom X
We are ALL immerced in a shackled curse rained down from above

No easy walk to freedom there will be
To shake off these rightous chains
The world needs to open its eyes and see
Eliminate greed power prejudice learn to love, feel, hear and see.


End of a year
A Poem by Andy Scorah

Another year ends
And the world turns
We raise a glass to absent freinds
And sing the versus of Mr Robbie Burns

Empty words and empty hearts
We have entered a cycle of madness awry
Is it a dream of Descartes
Or time for the Orwellian goodbye

Nature abhors a vacuum
The absence of goodness created thus
Mr G closed the door and vacated the room
Now we enter the age of vagarious mistrusts.


Not a Poem but one of my stories.

THE ROAD TO WHEREVER
A Story by Andy Scorah
"
A biker heads for redemtion. Can one good deed take you to heaven.
"


The Road To Wherever


The road to nowhere, and everywhere, stretched into the shimmering distance. Blackie halted his Hog, a Harley Nightster, at the crest of a hill and gazed into the distance. The heat of the eternal sun hammered down unabashed onto the tarnished blacktop, which disappeared into a shimmering haze in the distance. He took a swig of water from his cowboy cup as he referred to the water canister strapped to his pannier and swept a leather-clad arm across his face. There was silence all around except for a whisper of wind as it swept across the desert floor. The only sign of life was a sidewinder slinking across the blacktop, looking for a home Mr Slinky.

Blackie sighed and gunned the engine, continuing his journey along route unknown. He did not care what name or number this road had nor did he care about the names of the towns he passed through. I t had been that way ever since he had returned from Hells county, that little swathe of sand in the middle east, run by and inhabited by madmen and all trying to kill him and his buddies. The memory of what made him join up had vanished in the mists of time for he had no need of the money, indeed he never had to work again for the rest of his life as his parents had left him millions in their will. A car accident took the life of his parents when he was ten years old and the money placed in trust until he was 21. Blackie, real name Wayne Blake, had been under fire somewhere in Helmand province when he morphed into the multi-millionaire he was today. No way was he going to be a spoilt little rich kid and so he had joined the ranks of his countries finest, pushing himself harder than he ever had in his life, earning his place through blood sweat and tears. Blackie had done his time. He had seen friends die, seen sights that would curdle the blood with the inhumanity of it all before catching a bullet, which sent him back home. After ten years, he had had enough and so his career ended with the heady rank of Sargent first class and he headed off into the bad lands of a civvie life.

Thirty years old and with no idea what he wanted to do with his life but with buckets loads of money with which to do it. A memory resurfaced of a television show he used to enjoy, Renegade, about the exploits of Reno Raines, bounty hunter and cop on the run. Riding around the country on a Harley righting wrongs, and that is where he found his immediate future, not the righting wrongs bit but the idea of travelling from place to place on a hog appealed to what he supposed was the gypsy in him . So here, he was, two years later, cruising along the blacktop into the shimmering heat haze of his future.

Blackie and his hog crested the brow of another hill and saw in the distance a collection of buildings that was the next stop on this road to nowhere. He decided he would pull in here as