Simple divisions are the most dangerous.
Lines that cut
us apart.
I feel and see too many of them;
spaces we don't want to explore
with great high walls between them
signed in red as "discovered".
And people with too many angers
for their simple faces to tell.
I say it shows too plainly
that blood is only skin deep.
Outside ourselves we are content
to differ at a glance
and fit and bundle and suffocate
all manner of things into one.
In a comparison of many to many
the lines get thicker and sharper
and because blood is only skin deep
we see it more often than we might.
Why does it not register?
Why should its message seem so obscure?
It screams and stains,
thickens and stains,
heals and stains,
it stains us.
Perhaps blood, only skin deep,
is still buried beyond our reach
and in a fit of obsession
we change and twist what we can.
A desperate struggle to rid ourselves
of ourselves.
The blood we know is safe,
or perhaps just too close
to take apart and reinvent
And so we look elsewhere
to sever our connection
with lines we cling to
lines that bind
lines to divide
lines can describe
lines that listen
lines can inspire
lines to imprison
lines at the very edges of our vision
catching all the light for the sake of easy decision.
Our blood is only skin deep
but our lines are held deeper
and so much harder to spill.
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 7:42 AM UTC
I ran across the car park as the train pulled away.
The wind blew into my face and made my eyes water
And with it came the smell of hot oil and metal
That stung my nose
And it lifted me.
It picked me up
And placed me on the platform at Southampton station
8 in long socks and a blazer.
Holding my mothers hand
The station master grinned and sweated,
Grime on his forehead
Smoke on his breath.
He pulled off the cap
And the cylinder gushed
A cloud of ***** steam across the concrete
And I hopped back as it touched my legs
All aboard! All aboard!
Pushed forward
I stepped up
Looked up
And eyes smiling he lifted me
Across the gap at Southampton station
Unsteady as the train shuddered
My hand clung to the rail
Through the door I faced a forest of legs
And black shoes
And briefcases
People were so much bigger then.
I turned
And through the doorway
She seemed so much further away
She waved and blew a kiss
And I just stared wide eyed
As the station slipped sideways
And the gaunt faces of the other passengers
Became a blur.
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
Oh to be in bed with you,
All among the covers blue.
Oh my word!
It's a shoe!
What shall we do with it?
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
pendulum swing
letting the new hour
sprawl noisily
across the night
giving moments
taking empty time
a currency
of second hand
cuttings bringing
each piece to its
natural close
starts new afresh
but carefully
with great method
the unmasking
takes no bribes
the passing game
uncheated by the slip
unchallenged by the price
no tender for this work
the pendulum's swing
is a private service
provided by the darkness
for our own sleepless hour
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
I am sitting in a city
Full and empty
Concrete lines of grey
Smudged tranquility
Quiet almost silent
But for the deafening
Complexity
I am standing in a city
Alone in company
Touched but unfelt
By the fingers of society
Invisible to those above
And those below
Just a flicker on the face
Of the stranger I know
I am walking in a city
Passing colours
Too bright
For my shallow eyes
Every night
They burn away
And fall into the sepia
Lamplight a golden glow
I am hungry for this city
To open up
Fill with light
A dawn to spread the sun
Bright hot
To burn away the dirt
Leaving only clarity and
The human need for
Simplicity
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 6:06 PM UTC
Beneath this ironed shirt and tie
I breath in slowly witnessing
The simple changes
Passed before the night jury
Seven days faded since
But still I see the closest moments
Closer still for distance
Internalised and persistent
We are all due our changes
But masters in the art
Of final ignorance
We never see it coming
Until it finds us
Unready and wanting
To take what was given
Without ceremony or purpose
Leaving only emptiness
In memory of joy
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
He slumps, grumbling at the air
a grunt, no more
admittance of awareness
minimising risk
of developing interest
grunt
the glow across
his face pale
a reflective pallor
shows us his day
has spent him inside
grunt
nourishment calls
a gutted feeling
deeper than his alienation
as food is not forthcoming
he tries to sing
grunt
in letting go
his newfound voice
an interrupted squawk
so disgusted he uhgs
hiding himself again
grunt
daily untouched
but for lonely nights
when in consolation
he hands himself to the
bounty of the sickened screen
grunt
and gurgles
in unity, at one
with images which champion
his waking hours, forcing him
unconsenting
and confused
grunt
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC