You sit on that ***** bus seat,
all seraphic and glowing-
hovering above the filth.
The beauty your body possesses
makes my heart flutter
and my eyes avert-
unable to bear the spotless, striking
quality of your shining form.
But beneath That is what?
Under this gleaming exterior what is there:
If we were to peel back the skin of
your perfectly symmetrical face;
dislodge those glittering green eyes
to look within-
into your true essence;
that thing that,
although invisible,
exists inside your faultlessly proportioned
mass of tissue and bone.
Who are you?
Your name doesn't matter.
Jane, Justine, Charlotte;
**** all that.
what are you other than beauty-
other than a twitter handle,
or your favourite food;
Other than your preference of hot beverage.
I want to know you,
YOU
When you breathe,
what do you feel?
When you sit on this bus, gliding through streets
and past buildings,
are you over-whelmed by the magnitude of it all?
When you step from your little man-made cave in the morning
and above you,
instead of a closed off ceiling,
is the seeming boundlessness of space,
Do you wonder how the **** we can all just keep going on
and not loose our minds at the slightest
glimpse of this stark, partial reality?
Tell me all this,
tell me.
You can't.
You're just a girl on a bus,
and I'm just the guy who falls in love with possibilities.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
My motionless body on which you grind;
Torrid, primal and seemingly blind-
My thoughts my mind, both count for naught;
My mannerisms I was so flawlessly taught.
Your body wants mine but where's your mind?
Above the inner lizard to which we're all confined-
Up top in your frontal lobe,
Besides those fingers with which you probe;
What's there? Anything at all?
More than the name your mother called;
Under all the impulsive acts and symbols and sounds-
At the core of the mass of meat to which you're bound.
It's got to be there, quelled by your grunts;
Beneath your instinctive need for ****
Just stop it now, and sit real still;
Humanity must now continue, uphill.
Oct 8, 2017
Oct 8, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
Immaculate sun,
Shine your radiance upon
Her battle-scarred soul.
Nov 28, 2016
Nov 28, 2016 at 7:22 PM UTC
The leaves crunch below
the weight of her frail,
thin frame.
I have never seen such freedom;
an expression of which this seems the epitome of.
Goose pimples rising on my arms and neck
in acknowledgment of the fractal quality of beauty
within this finite reality.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 10:28 AM UTC
The light of the sun creeps across the duvet
under which you and I are entwined.
Our limbs entangled like a pair of neglected earphones,
stowed away in a now unused jacket pocket;
both of us pleasantly unable to ascertain where our body starts
and the others begins.
The room smells like stale cigarettes and wine,
which is only intensified by both the heat of the sun
and the warmth of our own biology.
The aroma transforms from stale to fresh as I crack a new bottle,
pouring us both a healthy glass,
whilst you light our last cigarette;
Taking a few draws then passing it to me,
along with the over-flowing ashtray.
Our unwashed skin is sticky with dry sweat,
accumulated during sleep and **********
Our mouths rancid from the wine
and the lack of toothpaste applied.
To the naked eye there is a thick and smokey cloud of filth
occupying the space above our heads;
creating an atmosphere uninhabitable to anyone but us.
This mass of pollution combines with the salt-filled air,
streaming in from the open window;
making for an interesting cocktail of unpleasantness.
To all this we are blissfully unaware,
and we just lie there,
basting in it;
caring not a jot.
Our thoughts only for each other
and the tingling in our nerve endings
when we catch the others eye.
For eternity we lie there,
until one of us has to ****
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
It swirls
as it turns
and it twirls
as it spins
the beauty
is in the complexity
and the emotion is
in the movement
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
Editing my thoughts;
A spoonful of porridge in one hand,
a pen in the other
My two main forms of sustenance;
One for the body,
The other the mind
A bite turns into a meal,
A written word into an expression of 'soul'.
The primordial biological urge is constant
Without the food I would not have the strength to pick up the pen;
Without the pen I would have no desire to eat.
Their unison might be the only thing keeping me in motion
Long may it go on.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
The heart beats;
The blood circulates;
The cells receive their required oxygen;
The breathing is sharp and rushed;
The shaking hands and fingers fumble with the packaging,
Nearly spilling the invaluable contents;
The arm is wrapped with a belt to cause the veins to rise,
and await the needle;
The parlous thoughts and feelings of discomfort begin to dissipate
as the lighter heats the spoon.
The skin pulsates and the muscles ripple under the point of the needle;
The natural reflexes of the body try to pull away from the pain;
The prefrontal cortex allows the will to keep the arm steady
and the determination to continue pressing;
The skin breaks and the needle slides into the vein
As the thumb plunges the plunger.
A warm, rushing sensation travels up the arm;
The mouth curls into a smile,
the eyes crinkling at the edges;
With a sigh of relief the needle is pulled from the vein;
The syringe drops to the stained carpet below;
A hot trickle of blood runs from the crook of the arm;
All the muscles relax,
sofa and body now one.
A wave of euphoria sweeps the body
and the mind;
The voice of God reverberates around the room,
revealing the secret to eternal life
and the meaning of everything.
The heart stops beating.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
One day, I will leave this world.
The energy that pumps through me will dissipate;
The body I know will begin to rot and decay;
The thoughts and emotions I feel now,
with great urgency and severity,
gone.
The people I love will put me in the ground,
to cover the stench of my rotting corpse;
They will visit 'me' once a year with obligatory tears in their eyes.
They will auction off all of my personal belongings,
All the things I cherished and valued;
To look upon them will be 'too much'.
Slowly I will fade from their memories:
My personality;
My laugh;
My smile;
The way I held my face when I was concentrating really hard.
All the little things that make me me, forgotten;
Like I never existed at all.
In their loneliest moments, perhaps, they will remember me.
Not the real me, of course;
Just my name attached to a sort of vague concept of death,
An idea of what it is to no longer exist;
My memory will serve to give them a sense of their own mortality;
An occasionally present reminder that they too, one day, will die.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 5:07 PM UTC
I sit scouring the internet
looking for some easy stimulation;
distraction more than anything
I sit alone,
a special kind of silence looming over me;
it would be petrifying if it wasn't so common
a pulsating energy bubbles inside me,
trapped, with no escape;
it just vibrates there, relentlessly
there is an itch in a cavern of my mind;
buried deep down and hidden away,
under piles of forgotten memories and unfulfilled dreams
sleep feels like a myth;
some old story told to cold scared children
to distract them from the horrors of our world
all four walls appear to be closing in;
the faces of the ones I love slowly disappearing from memory;
I am becoming someone else,
something else
it'll pass
it always does
until then I scour
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:03 PM UTC