Colour me in and erase all doubts
That we're not living the life we ought to be.
Thoughts from a mind full of longing
Have suddenly been subdued,
I forgive you for not loving me.
My mind has been settled.
I am finding peace.
Peace within myself,
That i had hidden for years.
But now. rises to the surface,
Emerging once more in your shadow.
out of the cracks of her chapped lips
poured out the slow stream of scalding coffee
and all her thoughts that she could not
put on paper.
and I longed to kiss her,
to taste her favourite colour
to feel her thoughts touch my lip
(all the things she would not -could not- tell me)
to let her know that she is not leaking -
she is just overflowing.
5:00 am - Happy New Year!
I look like I should be a musician not a poet.
"It's so easy being a poet
so hard being a man"
- Charles Bukowski
5:14 am - Passing Rocklea, no sign of the dawn.
Coopers Plains station.
3 people get on.
Florescent lights cast a spell of sleep.
I wish I could sleep right now.
Eyelids droop like sad flowers from a convenience store.
I write metaphors like a drunken amateur.
Trinder park - Sounds like a bad neighbourhood.
FUCK ME ITS WOODRIDGE.
Where even the McDonalds sign is fucked.
XxXxxxxxx, Xxxxxx Xxxxxx :
She could be fun. So tight, she sometimes felt illegal.
Tight and bald. I would slide up to the balls.
She loved it rough,
golden hair wrapped around my fingers
as she was pushed into the pillow.
She was loud in the mornings.
I could feel her tight ass
grinding against my thighs
as I fucked her harder and harder.
Until I came :
either inside her.
Or on her chest.
Or in her
Tightening my grip on her hair as the hot semen spurted against the back of her throat.
The head of my cock, throbbing as she gulped it down with silent satisfaction.
That only happened twice though.
5:37 am - The Dawn begins to rise over the Suburban Nation.
Final remnants of night
twinkle like stars
against the silhouette
(and the omnipresent)
Beenleigh station - A pinch faced older woman gets on.
Business suit, lunch box.
Short hair, glasses.
Her earrings are imitation mother of pearl
(step-mother of pearl?)
She sits next to a window covered in graffiti.
Prim, tight mouth
Over in the distance a smokestack cuts through the sky above the horizon.
Trees do mask the sun and sky.
"Hippies; they spend their whole life trying to get to a microphone and when they do, they don't tell anyone to fuck off." - The Wolfman.
5:52 am - One more stop.
The clouds are the colour of smoke against the pearl blue sky.
6:00 am - Arrival.
Clouds are tinged with fire and blood
You can watch it spread and grow
Taxi driver was a foul mouthed Indian.
Part 1: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-1/
Part 2: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-2/
Part 3: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-3/
Part 4: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brisbane-street-sketch-4/
The quiet servants to a neon god
walk beneath blind stars.
The sightless man sits, as two lovers pass
him by, under his feet the ground the changes colour,
Off time with the chatter that surrounds me.
He takes the hand of an elderly celestial
and they exit the scene
the way of waves.
Laughter explodes like a bombshell
the only casualty is silence.
Through the steel arch I watch
ivory wave burn the black
A child chases a seagull
through the slits of sea-fog
caught in the light.
The barmaid leaves and my eye follows her,
resting on the corpses of our modern age;
bullet ridden with boredom and the chill,
swathed in the sear cloth of modernity
and eyes glazed by rum.
The "Sons of the Silent age"
who's thoughts are as stolen
as this line,
stolen from greater men.
The Lindbergh baby has grown up.
I bear witness to the silence and pressure
of the girl to my left, it encroaches this space as
her gaze encroaches the distance.
These streets were once filled with the
of wasted youth,
the steady stream of touristry.
Now, in the winter
they lay empty, cold and pecked
by the multitudinous hordes of bird and man alike.
Where once they writhed with life
now they sit dormant and sleep atomic
on a chill stream,
at once both mirror and glass to our
If we are the dreamers and music makers,
then our instruments sleep in dust
and our dreams walk silent in this defeat
he thought it was
not the centre of
came by chance.
i think you will
find it is sir.
it is the little things
that make it so.
the tears of all my life,
the colour of the day.
flowing like water in a hillside river
your words pour from your mouth
and form cool pools of liquid good vibes in my content ear
i cannot fathom, you have the tangled pathways of my mind mapped out,
your feet know just were to land and where not to stand
i know because your words are pure reflection
of what my inner thoughts are begging to hear
your eyes are the light moon in my dreary midnight sky
your tongue the soft flame that lights my way
your breath so warmly sweet and fresh it is the only thing my aching lungs will accept
your hands bleed colour back into the black and white melancholy my mind has grown accustomed to
i love you (but i hate how i need you)
small Colored blOcks
every hue of the raiNbow
all different shapes and sizes
staCked randomly Every which way
filling gAps with more varying blocks
more carfuL the sEcond time
filling Darkness with colour
built into a tiny mansion,
to complete, a moat
with it is a diFferent purpose
its to trap, keep things in, not out
filled with dArk murky water, Lots of it
evil creatureS liE under the surface
deep enough to remAin unseeN
hiDing and waiting out pray
until it’s close enough
plucking up courage
an unsuspecTing Escapee
in a last ditch effoRt to get out
swims despeRately wIth limbs Flailing
getting awaY from a place of vile hues
fake pIgment deceiviNg eyes
coverinG it’s true colours
tints of black, grey
It's been a while since we drank wine,
On the borderline somewhere between love and great desire,
I was a miser, a pauper in the ways of romance,
With space in his heart for two but a want for one.
You were the elegant lotus flower,
Unfurling each delicate petal of venomous beauty,
I was taken aback with what I may never know,
Your eyes like none I'd ever seen before,
Possessing all the wisdom I need in this lifetime,
I stood shaken, a stray dog in the rain.
You beckoned to me to dance across celestial Babylon,
But in my haste and in my darkest hour to date,
I procrastinated and that glorious morning sun returned,
Ripping down each pathetic colour from the rainbow,
Until my whole world fell grey and limp,
And silence dawned upon my heart and I was then,
As I am now, alone, and so forever I shall stay,
'Til death do us part, my heart and I.
He's bending down to shove some glitch through his veins
The flattering colour blends in
His flesh is covered with days from before
remembering how his seed always used to ask for more
There's a window showing a gap of the world
the world he used to live in before he got bored
Tired of seeing, tired of always being down everyone's core
He's better like this
like a cherry tree, always in bliss, always in bleed, never sure
All the drugs he could fit in his lungs were never enough
he could never stop
But it sure felt great to always be on top
seen from the terrace above
this rectangle of water
absorbs the variousness
of the late spring skies
from folds of uncertain cloud
past brief appearances of blue
to the sudden closeness of rain
the preciseness of it
this rectangular pool
set in an oblong garden room
on a terrace the middle of three
that fall away to the valley’s end where
up and through and which a funnel of trees
climb to the tops the very heights today
severe against a modulating sky
yet in the camera’s eye
this horizontal mirror
is a painting fit
for Le Musée d’Orsay
a season’s accident no less in
light and growth and colour
where the chequered strings of
toads’ spawn and darting tiny fish
are brush strokes come alive
kneeling on the stone rim
as if in prayer afore
this reflecting space
attentive to what seems
between what is
this woman holds within
her perfect hand the pond
its image as it moves and stirs
across her gentle gaze