DBeard - Hello Poetry

You've been running about in my mind Trying to send me a message But speaking another language So it fell off radar And into deaf ears Trying to send me a message Trying to replace those moments and those lost years But speaking another language So it fell off radar And into deaf ears SdB '16

0

Nov 22, 2016

Nov 22, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC

Deaf Ears

You've been running about in my mind Trying to send me a message But speaking another language So it fell off radar And into deaf ears Trying to send me a message Trying to replace those moments and those lost years But speaking another language So it fell off radar And into deaf ears SdB '16

13

Beggars line the busy streets cup and cloth outstretched the look of desperation etched on their faces like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph they don't ask me for spare change just a simple nod of acknowledgement; even after a shower and a change of clothes I must have their look, that broken beaten look the look of the street. George Square is busy today tourists happy clicking panoramic memories admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph a list of names they will never know and marvel at the antiquated architecture to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance to the passing of a woman named Judith the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings knowing I've been there for 3 hours already because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street. The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway, the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke like a coal fired power station in the sunlight this is where they go for over-priced craft ales with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet that was simply spare change to begin with I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call pretending in mime to be semi-OK that the compadres are running late and "tell me about the theatre show later" the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me because I have the look of the street.

0

Apr 19, 2016

Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC

Pigeons & Demons

Beggars line the busy streets cup and cloth outstretched the look of desperation etched on their faces like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph they don't ask me for spare change just a simple nod of acknowledgement; even after a shower and a change of clothes I must have their look, that broken beaten look the look of the street. George Square is busy today tourists happy clicking panoramic memories admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph a list of names they will never know and marvel at the antiquated architecture to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance to the passing of a woman named Judith the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings knowing I've been there for 3 hours already because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street. The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway, the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke like a coal fired power station in the sunlight this is where they go for over-priced craft ales with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet that was simply spare change to begin with I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call pretending in mime to be semi-OK that the compadres are running late and "tell me about the theatre show later" the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me because I have the look of the street.

40

Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors - through the automatic glass doors of persuasion up the revolving stairs of many stairs sail by the portly security guard (who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash) along the imitation marble airstrip passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts that take the well heeled to their desired destinations without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes and I sit people watching, writing this poem on a borrowed napkin with a discarded betting shop pen amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets faced with a thousand fast food offerings and gaudy coloured tables and chairs littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting and giant Art Deco toothbrushes and 30 foot wiggly mirrors and stretched rhombus sails acting as a blanket barrier to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world somewhere between KFC and Burger King.

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Apr 19, 2016

Apr 19, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC

St. Enoch

Wander from Argyle Street towards the pyramid shaped monolith past the oddly named Benny Hamish - Sicilian Couture Tailors - through the automatic glass doors of persuasion up the revolving stairs of many stairs sail by the portly security guard (who looks like he'd be out of breath after a 10 yard dash) along the imitation marble airstrip passed neon facades and signs for proactive self indulgence toward the carousel of smoked-mirror lifts that take the well heeled to their desired destinations without having to worry about their Chanel leather clutch bag and newly purchased Christian Louboutin shoes and I sit people watching, writing this poem on a borrowed napkin with a discarded betting shop pen amid a horde of timid stomachs and twitching wallets faced with a thousand fast food offerings and gaudy coloured tables and chairs littered in the remnants of repugnant non-ecological eateries and Styrofoam cups and re-composite cutlery under Noah's grotesquely beautiful steel ark lined in industrial tubing and chrysalis shaped netting and giant Art Deco toothbrushes and 30 foot wiggly mirrors and stretched rhombus sails acting as a blanket barrier to the blue skies and arched sun of the outside world somewhere between KFC and Burger King.

29

I call it the Changeover; like an analogue radio searching for a signal sometimes it's clear sometimes it's static sometimes it's in between somewhere between far away and near somewhere lost in the middle between Signal and Static. Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see and the ears can hear and the senses can feel and taste buds pop and linger and revel in new experience and comfort in knowing and wrapped in wonderment. Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere struggling to tune in backwards or forwards or sideways or upwards to something to anything that resembles a signal like hearing voices in another room an argument through a wall the indecipherable murmur of music the clamber of ushered noise the mishmash and cacophony like a symphony of Morse code. Static Day is dark day there is no signal no senses no sound only indeterminate fuzz and the crackle of broken glass and the foghorn and the white noise the confusion and delusion the paranoia of shifting jigsaws changing pieces that never fit together can almost make out a face through the frosted glass the smear like bird **** on a window halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy and greasy chip shop newspaper. In the Static there is no wind no heart to beat no empathy or sympathy just cold hard steel out of place in a room of feathers and feeling. You just have to ride out the storm tell yourself: it'll be calm soon it'll be calm soon it'll be calm soon The Changeover from Static to Signal and the welcome return of voices and breathing and beating and feeling.

0

Apr 18, 2016

Apr 18, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC

Static

I call it the Changeover; like an analogue radio searching for a signal sometimes it's clear sometimes it's static sometimes it's in between somewhere between far away and near somewhere lost in the middle between Signal and Static. Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see and the ears can hear and the senses can feel and taste buds pop and linger and revel in new experience and comfort in knowing and wrapped in wonderment. Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere struggling to tune in backwards or forwards or sideways or upwards to something to anything that resembles a signal like hearing voices in another room an argument through a wall the indecipherable murmur of music the clamber of ushered noise the mishmash and cacophony like a symphony of Morse code. Static Day is dark day there is no signal no senses no sound only indeterminate fuzz and the crackle of broken glass and the foghorn and the white noise the confusion and delusion the paranoia of shifting jigsaws changing pieces that never fit together can almost make out a face through the frosted glass the smear like bird **** on a window halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy and greasy chip shop newspaper. In the Static there is no wind no heart to beat no empathy or sympathy just cold hard steel out of place in a room of feathers and feeling. You just have to ride out the storm tell yourself: it'll be calm soon it'll be calm soon it'll be calm soon The Changeover from Static to Signal and the welcome return of voices and breathing and beating and feeling.

61

She stands tall and proud, her elegant architecture that even on winter mornings warms an icy breath and sates an empty belly. In the burst of sunlight, beyond and through the trees, she is a muffle of loud voices, calling out a name, I can't quite catch it, in the rush of a westerly wind and the swirl of Autumn leaves. The echoes bounce off the bark, and in her resonance heralds the death knell of the light and the coming of the children of the dark. The moon wrestles in a patchwork cloudy sky, and I the Watcher can do nothing to halt time or the tide. Left to watch as the Belle Tower fades from sight, silently she hides in the long shadow, and like the moonlight between the trees, flickers as she slowly passes me by.

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Apr 8, 2016

Apr 8, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC

The Belle Tower

She stands tall and proud, her elegant architecture that even on winter mornings warms an icy breath and sates an empty belly. In the burst of sunlight, beyond and through the trees, she is a muffle of loud voices, calling out a name, I can't quite catch it, in the rush of a westerly wind and the swirl of Autumn leaves. The echoes bounce off the bark, and in her resonance heralds the death knell of the light and the coming of the children of the dark. The moon wrestles in a patchwork cloudy sky, and I the Watcher can do nothing to halt time or the tide. Left to watch as the Belle Tower fades from sight, silently she hides in the long shadow, and like the moonlight between the trees, flickers as she slowly passes me by.

5

Fall from grace That which was never given Clash with the Titan Riding the eyes of the storm Resplendent in ridicule and washed in wasted rage. Wrapped in rabid loneliness Comforted by faithless poison Purchased from a concrete German shell Foaming at the mouth of contention A stooping mottled scar for a face and crumpled by a decade of abuse. Such is the light that shines for some Casting long deep shadows for others Flickering in a wind licked alleyway Caked in ***** and discarded toiletries Shifting vision between dusk and dawn. The hidden spectres just a heartbeat away The gloss of a French pastry and the smell of freshly ground coffee a fingers tip away Searching for a random act of kindness or some spare coin to buy the river man a liquid confession so that for a moment, just a moment, to be human again soak up the passing laughter and 1st world problems of the cities streets Ignorant to the roads that lead to nowhere.

0

Mar 26, 2015

Mar 26, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC

Hidden & Homeless

Fall from grace That which was never given Clash with the Titan Riding the eyes of the storm Resplendent in ridicule and washed in wasted rage. Wrapped in rabid loneliness Comforted by faithless poison Purchased from a concrete German shell Foaming at the mouth of contention A stooping mottled scar for a face and crumpled by a decade of abuse. Such is the light that shines for some Casting long deep shadows for others Flickering in a wind licked alleyway Caked in ***** and discarded toiletries Shifting vision between dusk and dawn. The hidden spectres just a heartbeat away The gloss of a French pastry and the smell of freshly ground coffee a fingers tip away Searching for a random act of kindness or some spare coin to buy the river man a liquid confession so that for a moment, just a moment, to be human again soak up the passing laughter and 1st world problems of the cities streets Ignorant to the roads that lead to nowhere.

25

I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets leading to the septic tank of tomorrow. Resplendently dressed in rhetoric silk woven by congenial weevils frantically fed on gypsum and diesel weaving verbosity with loquacity table a motion to make independence illegal; keep the status quo unequal between certain people. There once was a dream called change proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some restrained and contained as hyperbole by others the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames as history repeats itself and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots the first act as a welcome back into the fold of the commonwealth .

0

Sep 21, 2014

Sep 21, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC

There Once was a Dream Called Change

I woke up to the pious sunlight of broken dreams drenched in the faded tear drops of yesterday arcing like a broken rainbow down empty streets leading to the septic tank of tomorrow. Resplendently dressed in rhetoric silk woven by congenial weevils frantically fed on gypsum and diesel weaving verbosity with loquacity table a motion to make independence illegal; keep the status quo unequal between certain people. There once was a dream called change proclaimed to be the prize of revolution by some restrained and contained as hyperbole by others the disenfranchised left muddled in facts unexplained the vocal ambivalence of political unrest is to blame as Union Jacks march on Glasgow with steel toe-capped boots and in the George Square riots the Saltire burns in flames as history repeats itself and the thistle of Scotland is ripped by her roots the first act as a welcome back into the fold of the commonwealth .

21

Memories: the back and forth trajectories the internal out-of-sync in-sync directories of treasured moments, of pleasantries and the reviled relived accessories of treachery. My memory is pitted with chasms like Swiss Cheese the phantom dreams of being hit by a car in a winters bite the realities of unconsciousness and brain spasms the fathoms baffles in batches and waves of breaches disfigured features like a frosted window caked in creatures burrowed and riddled like a parasite in the spite of night. By the time id got to hospital id forgotten my own name fortunately I had a gas bill in my pocket which hadn't freed itself while being violently hurled over the red car bonnet and it became the one and only evidence that I even existed even though the A & E nurse insisted and persisted on asking questions: my address, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact - like Id have it tattooed on my body like a scene from Memento amid the voices in crescendo and brain-damage thumping techno. That was a few years ago, or was it, I couldn't be sure now but some days I forget what I did in the morning so I just have to live for the moment somehow the memories like Swiss Cheese constantly morphing to the piped tune of the cerebral banshee buzzing in my left ear like a perpetual honey bee makes me wonder though; I am lactose and diary free - the dominant dietary preponderant some modernistic conglomerate causing ultimate lethargy. Does this mean if recollections are like Swiss Cheese I am intolerant to memories?

0

Sep 9, 2014

Sep 9, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC

Swiss Cheese

Memories: the back and forth trajectories the internal out-of-sync in-sync directories of treasured moments, of pleasantries and the reviled relived accessories of treachery. My memory is pitted with chasms like Swiss Cheese the phantom dreams of being hit by a car in a winters bite the realities of unconsciousness and brain spasms the fathoms baffles in batches and waves of breaches disfigured features like a frosted window caked in creatures burrowed and riddled like a parasite in the spite of night. By the time id got to hospital id forgotten my own name fortunately I had a gas bill in my pocket which hadn't freed itself while being violently hurled over the red car bonnet and it became the one and only evidence that I even existed even though the A & E nurse insisted and persisted on asking questions: my address, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact - like Id have it tattooed on my body like a scene from Memento amid the voices in crescendo and brain-damage thumping techno. That was a few years ago, or was it, I couldn't be sure now but some days I forget what I did in the morning so I just have to live for the moment somehow the memories like Swiss Cheese constantly morphing to the piped tune of the cerebral banshee buzzing in my left ear like a perpetual honey bee makes me wonder though; I am lactose and diary free - the dominant dietary preponderant some modernistic conglomerate causing ultimate lethargy. Does this mean if recollections are like Swiss Cheese I am intolerant to memories?

30

Black Space (eyes without a face) Poverty lingers like an ill gotten taste giving up her secrets to no man; teaching lessons in life at every turn. Poverty taught me to be frugal how to beg, borrow or steal live on £1 a day to eat once a day the truthful instinctual perusal the unreal zeal blocking the thoughts of hunger the puerile senses; the basics on how to feel. In the near dark I found you sheltering from the storm under the bridge just like I was wrapped in mottled harsh cloth sitting on cardboard for warmth. You spoke many languages had a degree in anthropology and a penchant for gambling and alcohol; we shared a bowl of disregarded noodles in the rain.

0

Sep 6, 2014

Sep 6, 2014 at 12:16 AM UTC

Under the Bridge

Black Space (eyes without a face) Poverty lingers like an ill gotten taste giving up her secrets to no man; teaching lessons in life at every turn. Poverty taught me to be frugal how to beg, borrow or steal live on £1 a day to eat once a day the truthful instinctual perusal the unreal zeal blocking the thoughts of hunger the puerile senses; the basics on how to feel. In the near dark I found you sheltering from the storm under the bridge just like I was wrapped in mottled harsh cloth sitting on cardboard for warmth. You spoke many languages had a degree in anthropology and a penchant for gambling and alcohol; we shared a bowl of disregarded noodles in the rain.

27

We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden; we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite for destruction in the name of civilization. Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space; we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ****** the demon of freedom with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum. We are mad and frenzied in our passion; we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope. We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care; we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there. We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake; we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain. We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden now only the snake remains and there is no escape freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept our epitaph will read: humanity stepped back to be overshadowed by an ape.

0

Aug 20, 2014

Aug 20, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC

Garden of Eden

We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden; we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite for destruction in the name of civilization. Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space; we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ****** the demon of freedom with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum. We are mad and frenzied in our passion; we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope. We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care; we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there. We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake; we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain. We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden now only the snake remains and there is no escape freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept our epitaph will read: humanity stepped back to be overshadowed by an ape.

21