84. Won’t you break my bread with me. (14 June 15).

This is the second of three pieces that were born during the same one hour meditation session while on a retreat at Easter in the Herefordshire countryside. It was a productive hour that, maybe not in the intended fashion, but productive nonetheless.

This is the last one to be finally finished, though it becomes the second of them published here, and is in fact the middle piece of the three. The third I’ll be putting up at the weekend. In my mind the three pieces formed a loose trilogy of Gothic Americana, all death and redemption and retribution in a Cash like country music kinda way. That’s how I conceived them right from their first stirrings in the solitude. The first part, “83. Wreck of the old treble 6” was put up on this page a couple of months ago.

 

84. Won’t you break my bread with me. (14 June 15).

Won’t you break my bread with me,
Tomorrow in the morning,
You’ve listened to my tale all evening,
It seems the decent thing to do,
Especially seeing as one of us won’t be leaving,
So come on home and see the dawn,
That’s my place above the rise,
I thought with your ruddy glow you’d feel at home
Here, let me blow that smoke out of your eyes,

Those eyes,
So cold,
Eyes like cold red coals,
They just have to go,
Eyes too cold,
Eyes where compassion doesn’t grow,
Those eyes,
Those Devils eyes,
Won’t be going along,
With you below the ground,
Their my gift to feed the sun,
To raise to heaven a hope,
Hope for all the souls you’ve stolen,
Thieved from minds half drowned,
And hearts broken in the smoke.
You won’t smoulder no more in your smiting.
Your cold dead red eyes,
Have to burn,
They have to burn for all your charming,
Your charming wastrels ways,
They’ve brought you down,
To hear the moans and the groans.
From your own mouth,
Now you hear your own piper playing.
Let’s see you smile now in your own paying.

My breads now broken,
So has the morning in all its glory,
And tomorrows now today,
Who you were and the names you had,
Are memories that are fading now.
As twin ashen orbs on the ground,
Disappear with the breeze now gently blowing,
Blowing away the sins you traded on,
And the names that you once called me.

 

(c) Jim Laing 2015.

 

Outtakes:
And now you’ve broken bread with me,
Now it’s near the dawning,
My tale it’s all been told in full,
Down in the ground,
Away from the sky,
Your tongue too will go when likewise,
I’ve torn it out by the root,
And then the two are burnt
Under the Lords Hallowed roof,
With incense, prayers and holy robes,
To finally purge your hellish charms,
From the surface of this earth,
But first, or should I say, last,
Let’s break the bread to toast the day,
And give you one last thought to ponder,

Won’t you break my bread with me,
Tomorrow in the morning,
You’ve listened to my tale all evening,
It seems the decent thing to do,
Especially seeing as one of us won’t be leaving,
Now so cold even with their red glow,

Eyes like icy red coals straight from the North pole,
Won’t you break my bread with me,
Tomorrow in the morning,
I’ve listened to your tale all evening,
It seemed the decent thing to do,
Especially seeing as one of us won’t be leaving,

So come on home and see the dawn,
That’s my place above the rise,
I wonder if with it’s white cross you’ll feel at home
Let the breeze blow that smoke out of your eyes
They look so cold even with their red glow,

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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1 Response to 84. Won’t you break my bread with me. (14 June 15).

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