This morning I was convinced there was someone behind me.
What they were doing there I do not know.
For whenever i turned to see them.
I seemed to turn too slow.

They followed me to the station and sat behind me on the train.
And although I still can’t see them.
I’m sure they’re there again.

Peeking over my shoulder and spying on my plans.
Plotting and jotting notes in hidden books.
Becoming smoke somehow,
When I turn to look.

They’re with me all the time now, they’ll never leave me be.
And although I still can’t see them.
I’m sure they still see me.

Beaye - 2012

In peels of light the Angel explodes.
His halo snuffed out in consummate close.
The She Beast stood up and brushed off the feathers.
Her ebony wings the softest of leathers.
Her body a dark and glorious temple.
Eyes of blue fire and a voice that was gentle.

The Sereph had dreams and thoughts of his own.
And recently started to stray from the throne.
Drunk from the wines of the fountain of youth
He’d wandered the desert, a sojourn of truth.
Muddled of mind and furrowed of brow
He wondered now why and pondered on how.

She’d seen his decent from the banks of the river.
Most golden of chances this moment delivered.
She’d sung with a tone no male could resist
Inviting the Angel to treasonous tryst.
Ruffled and radiant feathers and claws
Their bodies like tyrants creating new laws.

A moment of pleasure brought feeling of guilt.
Corrupting the vessel that heaven had built.
He let out a bellow of exuberant joy,
His life at an end, his binding destroyed.
The Angel undone, the cost of his prize
But within her womb his seed still survives.

Beaye - 2012

Under the house on Salvador road.
Safe from the sun, the wind and the cold.
Safe from the eyes of unwanted neighbours.
The completed outcome of Mr Barraclough’s labours.

Ms Chandler lived in the opposite house.
Peaking through curtains like a curious mouse.
She never once saw the structures below.
But one time she swore that a drain cover glowed.

Old Barraclough kept himself to himself.
No relative visits to check on his health.
No milk was delivered and rarely a sign,
Let people know the old man was alive.

Alive he was, and constantly digging.
Under the streets and the feets of the living.
Under the pavement the man was a king.
The roaches and rodents were slaves to his whim.

He sat on a throne made of bicycle frames.
Rusted and broken but a throne still the same.
Ruler of all the dirt he surveyed.
This suburban underworld that he had made.

His verminous horde was preparing for war.
Practicing tactics and sharpening claws.
Waiting the signal to conquer the surface
Each fox, rat and worm an ominous purpose.

Poem by Beaye - 2012

Bound in brick and shadow
Under of southwark bridge.
The path gets damp and narrow
And with no foreknowledge,

I came across a man
His brow a map of lines
Over the course of several months
I saw him many times

Huddled in the darkness
He muttered all alone
The stuttered words he uttered
Like a soft gregorian drone,

They lit my fires of inquiry
And although strange I know
I pledged to eavesdrop on him
And understand his woe.

Hidden in the shadows.
I drew in close to hear,
Wrapped in battered blankets
His face a stain of tears.

The old man started speaking
To himself or unseen kin,
It seemed his life was troubled
And full of death and sin.

He remembered all his past lives
Each one described out load
A litany of murders
But no more killing now he vowed.

As a roman solider
He’d slaughtered man and child.
Another life in Norway
Saw twice as much defiled.

A silver-mine in bohemia
Saw him kill a man to steal,
His job, his horse, his home
In one crimson ordeal.

His endless life repeating,
Piling sin on endless sin.
This time he’d got past 63,
With the help of Sister Gin.

So drunk and dulled in darkness,
He’s staggered through this life.
If only I could help him!
Ease his struggle do what’s right.

With gloved hands I approached him,
To free him from bondage.
I choked the old man silent,
Underneath of Southwark Bridge.

Poem/Lyrics by Beaye 2011

Professor Quinn had long withheld,
An ardent urge to change himself.
He’d searched old books and opium dens,
To find the secrets of life. My friends.

You’ll see,
This clever use of chemistry.
You’ll see,
Professor Quinn’s laboratory.

Inside his lab he distilled the truth,
To life and death through tanks and tubes.
Floating in floatation rooms,
His mind distilled the night and moon.

Copper nails, galvanic fields, acid baths, what proof they yield.

Arsenic and antimony.
Apocalyptic apothecary.

Quinn slept not and saw no day.
Months on end, he stirred away.

A drop, a dash. Reagent, flash.
He noticed not, while six months passed.

An elixir to immortalise.
Eternal life the final prize.
Formulae from ancient tomes.
Concoctions changing chromosomes.

You’ll see,
This clever use of chemistry.
You’ll see,
Professor Quinn’s laboratory.

Finally his brew in hand.
Life and death at his command.
Quinn then quaffed the potion down.
His body fell dead to the ground.

Intangible and without form,
The Professor’s spirit lingered on.
Invisible and endless state.
The ghost of Quinn forever waits.

Poem/Lyrics by Beaye for Grave Fables 2011.

There is a cave past Hawthorn Wall
Past rivers edge and waterfall
Where lives a beast with eight red eyes
and eight long legs to terrorise.

Her armoured shell is slickened black
Obsidian sheen across her back
Her silk is thickest in the land
And fairies covet every strand.

They use the web to build their homes
And crowns for Queens on fairy thrones
The thread a thousand uses found
On snail shell spools the treasure’s wound

So Sycamore of the fairy folk
Was sent far from the ancient oak
To quest within the spider’s cave,
A perilous task for any knave.

He made his way through thorn and spine
As ground underfoot grew crystalline
He ventured then into the hole,
Where poisoned fangs may feed on souls

He could not spy the beast inside
But felt the gaze of arachnid eyes
The golden thread within concealed
The wings and parts from former meals

He wound the web with grace and speed collecting silk for fairy needs
But the spider heard the sounds he made
And lumbered out from where she laid.

Now spider struck with the legs like knives
And Sycamore feared for his life
With bleeding limbs he raised his spear
It’s poison point now struck his fear.

He pushed it in then turned and ran
The precious web still in his hands.
The monster shrieked at fairy sin
But she’ll get the next one who comes in….

Poem by Beaye - 2011.