So follow down the twisted paths
that lead us to the aftermath
these fields used to be beautiful places
their beauty's been tainted
they touch like cold faces.
He closed his eyes
he closed his eyes
he keep them closed tight
and he said it was a sign of the times.
We closed our eyes
and we waited for the night
but no one was ever looking
when it came time for Jonny to go down.
I've been thinking of leaving
I've been tied to the ceiling
been awake while I'm dreaming
I've been counting to one
I've been bottling daydreams
I've been thinking up maybes
they sold each other when they ran out.
The metronomic ticking of my watch that follows me
breathes tepid breath down my spine
now I'm ready to leave
these devices used to be thrones
they've crumbled again
I think I'm overgrown.
So follow down the twisted paths
that lead us to the aftermath
these fields used to be beautiful places
their beauty's been tainted
they touch like cold faces.
He closed his eyes
he closed his eyes
he keep them closed tight
and he said it was a sign of the times.
We closed our eyes
and we waited for the night
but no one was ever looking
when it came time for Jonny to go down.
I think I'm overgrown
These devices used to be thrones.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
This poem has no meaning.
It is completely devoid of substance or artist credibility.
It is badly written and uncreative.
It is a complete waist of time.
This poem will leave you unsatisfied and annoyed,
but not because it is powerful enough to conjure any kind of reaction.
This poem is a plagiaristic construction of hypothetical nothing,
only it isn't as good as that.
This poem will steal your handbag and smoke all of your cigarettes.
This poem doesn't even smoke.
The very logic that this poem is based upon is completely flawed.
Any evidence that in any way claims to support this poem is merely circumstantial.
This poem, was containing numerous grammatical errors.
This poem shouldn't exist.
There is no reason for it to be here.
It just is.
here.
Existence isn't temporal.
Meaning transcends over and through it.
Butterflies in a warehouse.
Once this poem has been read, it exists.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
I had a pet mimic squid once.
I lost it in my room somewhere.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC
The cold wheels hit the tarmac as a hiker falls back into his bed,
their screeching din like a wailing baby contaminated all around,
but their anarchic cries fruitlessly fell when they finally came to stand still,
then down the stairs and into the lobby two lovers could finally hold hands.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
behind velvet cloth I saw your quail's eggs,
I saw your gentleman's relish too,
protruding as it was,
an Etonian slap to the face of the marmite jar which
it was reluctantly sat next to.
and although the relish would happily admit that
to sit next to marmite was certainly preferable
to finding oneself positioned next to Bovril or Cup-a-Soup,
it certainly was a far cry from the delicatessen counter
he was once accustomed to.
oh the delicatessen!
how the tear ducts performed with nostalgic aplomb
as memories of stuffed vine leaves and caramelised baby shallots
filtered back to the gentleman.
what he'd have given to be back there now,
to once again share the company of proper food,
of handmade chutneys and pickles,
not this common oafish tar.
this brutish black gunk.
'You may not have been factory made'
retorted Marmite,
'or contain E325,'
'but that isn't to say that your place on this shelf
is any more valid than mine.'
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
through graceless steps and cleavaged twirls,
girls shared repost with other girls,
and the upper lips of the ladies curled,
as the married men all swooned.
they got bored all too readily,
so drunk their liquid steadily,
synthetically coloured blue and green,
she'd seen the latest advert.
and the boys in their polo shirts,
drunk and high on testosterone,
they took pictures on their camera phones,
and called each other gay.
the male claws began to itch,
for the feeling of **** and the feeling of ****
and the dancefloor was badly lit,
so they knew they had a chance.
sweaty hands and fluorescent teeth,
moved through crowds to find their niche,
and the necessity for niceties,
was shortly overruled.
uninvited gropes from behind,
on bellies of those who looked like they might,
be easily persuaded to bed that night,
without heavy rhetoric.
then came the bartering stage,
those awkward five minutes in which to arrange,
the consummating details, the exchanging of names,
the reality of night.
there were many things to factor in,
tales of lost friends still waiting,
I said we'd share a taxi home,
and she can't walk alone.
and after the barter is all complete,
the scorned pick fights in the street,
the end draws near finally,
so the masses all go home.
some walked home solemnly,
whilst others share the company,
of people they'd knew they'd never see,
after the night is through.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
There was a story hanging there
from the edge of my bed
but its teller I didn't want to know
so the story went unsaid
I thought I could ignor you hanging there
leave you to gently be
but after days you're still there
I'll admit you terrorise me
You crawl in through my eyelids
to my otherwise peaceful dreams
you mock me as your silence
seems to amplify my screams
and they keep on getting louder
because I keep them locked inside
and so they rage right through me
until everything I once was has died
They ***** my dignity
disemboweled my calm
tortured vociferously
my very entity
after knawing through the logical side of my brain
so that the only part remaining
is the part that is insane
Now as I swing from side to side
from the rope you've spun for me
I see you joyously scurry by
maybe we're both now finally free
And from my perch in heaven
If I ever look back down
I look at you and reflect that
I'd have done it differently second time round
I'd definetly heard you're story
I'd have given it a chance
maybe we could have been great friends
and we could sing and laugh and dance
There's plenty of your kind in heaven
and they're all great dancers too
I regret I didn't know you before
but now I look forward to meeting you
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
From ivory towers
to the streets of Paris
the hopeful and hopeless
devour what they've gathered
they all want their chance on the parade
but on epsilon streets it only rains
erroneous stale induced calm
of tropical hibiscus and cool lemon grass
in neat little packaging
and the suits milk their crops
and shout
make me king!
yeah one day I'll be king!
and none of this will mean anything!
and the lions will all be tamed!
because they all want their chance
their chance on the parade
the young and the widowed
the lonely the echos
our self induced coma
oh god give him soma!
oh give him some functionality
his cold lips feel no reason to breathe
the reason
the treason
vociferous silence
buy one get one free
or sit there in silence
because everything's on offer
there's nothing to scoff at
the birth of today
for the death of tomorrow
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 8:15 AM UTC
The virtuosity of the words you spun
lead me directly to the *****
and as I looked at its blade
so shiny and big
I thought it rude not to obligingly dig
so I dug and dug
and dug dug
until my hands were blackened and cold
and then I lay down in the pit
and waited
to wither
and old.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 8:05 AM UTC
Soft lips quiver
and deliver to the air
perfect gift
the ring of smoke
whose happiness unbound
knows that she has touched your lips
the circle takes
and reminds us all
of perfect symmetry
as she spins and revolves
piruetes and unfolds
our eyes blink happy.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 8:02 AM UTC