(More lyrics for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)

It crawls up the wall
This vulture. Clinging onto
Concrete forests, hunched,
Beak in a dirt trough.

Let’s watch it,
Give it a chance…
Slowly, head raises, twitches,
Wings set in posturing gesture.

Suddenly beak opens, dirt vomits,
Spewing gall and bile.
A fine mist of poison,
Seeping in.

The vulture picks the bones,
Pulling at what’s left –
Tendons, sinews, marrow, blood –
And waits for more corpses brought.

It purrs and caws
Testing its voice, the range of tone, the
Lies. And how the ears and eyes
Receive them.

It practices a death song,
Over and over, repeated and chanted,
Louder and louder until
The ears accept it.



Brocken Spectre

(Lyrics written for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)




Rich descendant of its

Poor and stupid ancestors.

Hoard-obsessed giant,

Arms wide on its mountain.


“Oh yes, I am the light.

A rainbow shines out of my face.

Shadow-cast your little minds with

Crazed joy – keep you in your place.”


We are of dust and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


Feet fused with foundations of rock,

Too much time to roar and stare.

If its face had formed, it would have

Mouth contorted in a grimaced grin.


Delirium – you’re blind to its cloud-stride,

Trembling bones at laughter’s crack,

Shivering in spatters of cold rain.

Yet the little feeble chant comes back:


You are of mist and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


(That poor mortal tragedy,

Necks bent, shuffling in the dark.

Overshadowed by the mountain giant,

Ever crawling through the mud.)


Poor giant, as the light dims,

This light illusion blurs and breaks –

The cloud shifts, disturbed and rolling,

Pierced through by jagged peaks.


It ends, curled up, foetal,

Imagining its mother’s arms

But falling through dispersing fog

Turning to a broken ghost.

Brocken Spectre

Them Good Folk

There’s a lot of good people in the wasteland

Amongst the bastards on their lofty thrones.

Behind the screens we sit and form a band

And dare them all to break our thinning bones.


I’ll ne’er see thee, not eye to eye, but read

The tappings on your desk at witching hours

And mark the words of anguish and of need

To find some form of touch that topples towers.


Exit the dungeon. Matters not the likes

And loves forced at this time of the morn.

Support for fighting ghosts, or rousing strikes

To voice the discontent that feeds the scorn.


Their out there, in the wasteland, them good folk –

Don’t shrivel back and silent shrink away.

Above the turret poek and drop your cloak,

Eyes open, smiling, join our happy play…

Them Good Folk