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Saturday, 29 September 2018

The Butcher's Son

As the butcher’s son
Is held high
I look to the skies
Where Bacon rolls
Gravely under
Parameters squashed
Of science applied
This life’s eclipsed
Humanity’s lost

Some welcome
Generations of generated
Neutral networks
With arms
Another tool up the sleeve
Of the creative sorcerer
But paint me soul
Paint me passion
Over matters grey
And the truth of beauty
We will take to our grave

© Mark Coverdale

The Lumen Prize - 2018 Winners

Mark Coverdale Art School Mod Poet. Born in Darlington the year Elvis died. Now in London via Oldham writing and performing socially and politically observational poetry.
Twitter: @cov_art

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