William Hogarth


A moral satirist.

Pimps and politicians meet

romantics and radicals

with no class distinction.


A RakeÕs Progress

with bloodline infected

by patriarchal contagion

travel sick in embryo.


A HarlotÕs Progress

portrays seductress as victim

safe-guarding hypocrisy

for respectable women.


Marriage A- La- Mode

sees mercenary couplings

who are merely a commodity

for aristocratic rights.


They marry for connections

pissing on tradition

so cash replaces lust

and love is irrelevant.


The Denunciation

as polite society is punctured

posturing families mocked

and captioned by absurdity.


Common people are abandoned

in Fleet debtors prison.

When the gentryÕs in debt

they hold a parliamentary inquiry.


Thieves steal a living

poverty is a polemic

but final exit is the scaffold

swinging into history.


Death comes from a ruptured artery.

His paintings disrupted life

now disharmony lies broken

by-passing his critics.



Killers and Composers


killers and composers

a sinister duet

a rhythmic pattern

between knife and baton.


symphony failed its premiere

dissonant music clashes

with pitiless slicing

in a monstrous melody.


a maestro in murder

orchestrates a fast movement,

sorrow slashes the strings

as a romantic restraint dies.


a rhapsody in red

opens the wounds of love,

harsh tones become unplayable,

though beautifully scored.


a surging movement

rising in intensity

conducted by hate

blood drips on the podium.


hears a blood-red adagio

the pulse weakens

as the tempo quickens

in the wrong key of D.


a virtuoso killer

of instrumental ingenuity,

an unfinished compulsion

with infinite variations.


an everlasting repertoire

concludes the concerto

in a triumphant mood

life and death binds us together.



Going Back


I am walking the streets

retracing my old steps

revisiting old memories

renewing a lost life.


ItÕs a blind guide

to the past,

just wordless promises

left far behind.


The years are almost forgotten.

Old-time friends

have wrinkled faces

with no absent rapport.


IÕm wrapped up in nostalgia

distorting time,

my emotions are transformed

beyond recognition.


I have inherited memories

words born and died

a mute spirit

for a legacy lapsed.


Our bonds are now weaker.

Only surface harmony

of things passing

lingering for a while.


I have been through a portal to the past.

It closes as the horizon fades

with thoughts expiring.


Nothing left to posterity.


© Alan Ford