Thoughts fall over one another
scrabbling to escape my head
They know they are not welcome
here in this little dungeon home.
They press their faces against
my fingertips, in the hope
that I may start to bleed.
Isn’t that what writers do?
Smear their privacy on parchment
then display it for others to see.
They know it is only a matter
of time before they see daylight.
September 8, 2014
Audience, Bleed, Bleeding, daylight, English, escape, Hope, Parchment, Poetry, Privacy, Thoughts, Unspoken, Writers, Writing
Once, A Traveller
My mind still possesses its eye
travelling by the light of those dirty diamonds we call stars.
I ride bareback on the
gravity of foreign planets surrounded by absolute nothing.
Up close to the Sun, I can
tell you one thing for certain – he has never outgrown his acne
and when angered, he spits
like a sailor who is wandering drunk and blinded, in the rain.
You only want me
for my indecency
and all the things
I could do to you.
Such sweet, talking
But know this: I can
take you or leave you
but I don’t leave you,
now do I, my love?
More than anything
I fear the fondness
attached to all my
So I let you rain
your lies upon me
Collecting pools in
my hands, like milk.
You have made
filth my only friend.
Time is like a spider
that wanders, out of sight.
Flickering and inconsistent,
inviting shadows to breed.
We soft, unmoulded children
all eyes, fists and elbows
try to capture it, but
manage only to cage ourselves.
To know its form is to step
outside, see its shape,
to allow Patience to catch
its breath, and die.
We forever envy the
lost knowledge, creeping
through the powdery fingers
of the infinite dead.
The most beautiful thing
about being alive
is that we are here for
… A LIMITED TIME ONLY !! EVERYTHING MUST GO !! …
Time’s beauty lies in its
… scarcity value is the economic factor that increases relative price …
Life’s meaning in its limitation.
Is that not Time’s evasive nature?
Squirming away like
… eggs on a low heat, the yolks still runny …
that escape over the sides
and never leave enough in the bowl.
We were always
… bound to crack a few head gaskets on such tough terrain …
for we are nothing but
… Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall …
His dreams are the faked moon landing. His eyebrows are smugglers’ worry. His eyes are weary travellers. His nostrils are half-boiled kettles. His cheeks are uneaten sandwiches at a picnic. His sneer is milk as it curdles. His humour is Christmas cards in June. His walk is a seven-legged spider. His patience is a Roman army. His sorrow is fool’s gold His departure is an interrupted dentist.
Beware, beware: the metaphor man!
Wave after wave
of paper lies caress a concrete shore.
Our throwaway society
are greedy for information, but refuse to buy the truth.
They choose instead the stench
of cheap meat and the sting of sore feet.
They draw moral symbolism
from the faces that sell. Truth suffocates; evaporates.
Sandwiched between sensationalism
and the rumour mill slurry, like sweaty commuters, it cannot survive.
A tree chopped, to accommodate
and circulate absurdity. Discarded before the last leaf could fall.
The Bubblegum Tax
(now i’ve got my ticket,
i don’t care about the dirt and grime. we’re together this time and it’s beautiful.)
one … six … thirteen … twenty-three … twenty-nine … thirty-four
(ok, so i jest.
reality is only image and text, the feel of space between your fingers.)
sixteen … thirty … thirty-four … thirty-seven … forty-one … forty-two
(i’m starting to speed up,
my bubble still holding, thank fuck.)
three … five … twenty-three … twenty-eight … forty-two … forty-nine
the jackpot this time: ten million.
(i’m left empty-handed
my soul sliding down the glass encasing this bubblegum town.)
(This ‘found’ poem was adapted from Irvine Welsh’s
Acid House, pgs196-197, and the UK National Lottery Unexpired Numbers Archive)
Art born in urgency and illegality, in ragged whispers and on tip-toe. It tells mud-stained fairytales to burdened ears with a sequence of sprays, pauses and strokes.
Dusty angular voices speak brutal truth in their secret, rain-splashed hieroglyphics. Tattooed on the flesh of brick-and-mortar angels, graffiti spells out its own paradox.
A siren in the night is dragged away screaming by its flashing blue hair, wailing protests to no one. Left alone with relief and the urban silence, this faceless prophet hears his own sweat fall.
Revolution in Heaven
litter the skies.
The fork of a lightning tongue
greets the dead.
Guerrilla angels have
their bellies in the mud.
I cower beneath,
fortunate in my insignificance.
We are witnessing
revolution in Heaven.