Is it still love or am I just used to it?
The everyday grotesque is just fine.
Content may mean good...
But the crying, why is it,
that I find it so easy
to walk away
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 5:02 AM UTC
Some leaves
never give in to autumn
but blush red with anger
for too long.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 5:09 AM UTC
I think I left a domesday device
in big yellow storage-
no the grimoire, Doktor Dee
had that, think he lost it while absolutely ******
on K cider. Losing all his teeth.
The pages are scrunched up, trodden, sodden
on some minor wasteland path, probably in Coldean.
You know, those treacherous corners of *******
resolutely and hopelessly parked upon by a dog ****
Papa Lebron's been making it rain down
most of Lewes Road,
but it never floods.
Leads to the sea, you see.
Old warlords sit on monobloc chairs
outside the garages they rent out
with their war chests & loans,
gesturing slowly across the way to each other.
My shoes, my jeans, my jacket,
all falling apart.
What I need is to raise a
good old army o' the dead
and take those rusty garagesm
store them for ransom in Big yellow Storage and
wait-wait-wait
for the bounty to roll right in.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 6:24 AM UTC
We shouldn't be remembering war
we should be remembering the aftermath
the smoking shells of homes,
the lasting hunger,
no Johnny or Jimmy or Dave or Sandra or Sarah or Marie
at the dinner table tonight
flowers gathering on graves.
Learn a God ****** lesson, don't retake the class
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
salt stings wounds
salt stings eyes, entering, leaving...
healing, healing. The sea will take you away.
I tire of hearing abot these migrants
well they tire of the rick-shaw of an untested boat
of their homes becoming rubble & dust clouds,
of seeing blood in the dirt.
As long as there is war,
as long as there is famine
as long as there exists somewhere
called 'refuge'
then there will be refugees.
Oh child, rocked to sleep by the tide...
you should never have to answer for adult violence,
innocent & sleepy, sinless.
You have been written in blood in the old books
you have been decided for.
Your dice have been rolled by strange hands;
born amid angry eyes,
and so shall die,
washed ashore upon sand,
carried quietly away
to your final crib
to your refuge.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
My boy...
You were going to grow up strong
in the dust of the village;
you'd nurture the weak wherever they'd lie forlorn;
you'd make life, in your love's belly,
in the soil,
in the lined smiles and creasing eyes
of young through old.
You'd ***** the land, modest, humble;
seeing the light of life for what it is,
taking & giving.
Sometimes you have to take- but you always give.
Life is unfair, but you would've broken your back
heaving the scales into balance...
Except you never will, my boy,
my blood, my name,
pale and silent,
uncoiling from your mother.
I held you in my arms, feeling in them the exhaustion, the gift of fathers, mothers, uncles, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters...
In your death I realised your not-life,
my boy. My love. My son.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 8:24 AM UTC
really really warm. she glances at me
Forget how ******* amazing
I forgot how much
bring an audience
yeah but lie on her bed
psychiatry is the wall...
you cannot belittle me. for i had a lovely day
a girl in the picture
wow i can't see With ice cold hands
the prettiest dresses are worn out
alone in a moment
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
Lying there
lights off; her body
dark and abstract
no words no touch
cold cold cold
Lying there
I feel his eyes;
His fidgets and twitches
warmth unwanted
embrace me night embrace me
Goodnight everyone.
Goodnight.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
** hum. Days work I suppose.
They come and go.
Riches they want.
Power they says.
Fame they wants.
Corrupting things these pale sweaty men yearn for poison.
Ah well, they pass bread over to my thin fingers, they can have it all.
But why doesn't anyone every wish for
the lasting sight of rolling hills cut under a deep and dark sunset?
Or to feel soft hands
worked and worn hands
child's hands
loving hands
****** and resting in their finite palms?
Why don't they wish for the pen to touch the paper,
so that when they read it back
they can't help but burst sealed lips whispering
'beautiful'
for themselves but so that themselves can beam at everyone else...?
Gone are the days when simple people wished for truer things;
these are the days of calculated idiocy, of boring invincibility...
It may be spring, but tucked away in my tent on the side of the road,
undying, starving, bored,
I shiver a little as vehicles eternally roar by
following the road into a dull and predictable oblivion.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
The village is reaching the end of eternity.
The story has been told, written, read.
Out in the borderlands,
David still
fights Goliath.
The crowd have been around them for thousands of years,
chanting names,
fists in the air,
***** angry faces.
As the chanting of his name increases,
David grows in size,
unfolding like a redwood,
gleaming tanned bark.
The crowd becomes uneasy;
a giant among them? whose children will he eat?
which maidens will he devour?
and so they begin chanting Goliath's name;
David's strenght ebbs, they're feeding Goliath with their tongues now,
as he hulks and looms more and more over the shrinking David
alas, the crowd learn their mistake,
bite their tongues,
twisting them
until they are saying "David" once more.
This fight has been going on for thousands of years.
The crowd continue blindly shouting, 'David' and 'Goliath' being the only words they have uttered for aeons
unrealising they hold the power to release themselves
from this eternal fight.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC