I blame it on the clock,
and its vendetta on our youth.
I stumble through another door,
yet it closes in your face.
We waste lost 'I love you's
through distorting glass -
futilely making the struggle last.
Til you turn your back and return
to your room which I've known
for so long before.
So I step forth into this new
expanding hallway, hoping the
rooms I try aren't barren.
Maybe one day your face will
appear behind one -
will my hoping help or should
I just move on?
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:10 PM UTC
You led me into the abyss of hell's deepest, coldest cave -
toasting a chalice of my molten heart and splashing it in my face.
Smiling as you graze on my impudence as a worthy cow on God's pasture.
For now, Miss Europa, the smiles are shared - but we both know soon they will be spared.
Our atavistic convulsions of rhythmic *********** and intellect,
linked us in a dark underground forest of bodies.
Yet how do I say your surname? How do I dream your face?
My perception of you is jagged, yours of me is bitter to taste.
Your arbitrary decision is one of fear and mistrust -
but you fail to realise the fear is of a harmless object,
and your mistrust is misjudged; swayed by a foreign force.
I look deeper still through watering eyes and realise
as per usual - the same old story,
the restraint is in your (th)eyes.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:08 PM UTC
Humanity's plight began
with the dawn of reflection.
The first flipped image returned
to the ape man's retina
conjoured a romantic enchantment:
The birth of a sin.
Glorified and horrified by our
Mother's indiscriminate hand,
we elevated and relegated ourselves
above and below the land.
Our conceited self-perception
forges the belief that we can know All.
But if the Great Wall were to know
of its magnitude it would fall;
if the pig heard the slaughterhouse
call it would fly -
The day we live to live will be
the day we learn to die.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:06 PM UTC
**** you and your dear old trains,
hard seats and beat staff selling
rip-off chaff on chariots of mass
profits. The **** merchant gazes
through dead eyes and scratched
plastic as he charges up my **** with
an astronomical figure. A smile
on his bosses face as he races
into his office with more bloated
profits is all he can think of as he
sinks my high hopes into an oblivion
of rage. **** off" I tell him as he
flashes his price, 'that's twice what
I've already paid', but "mind your
language" is all he says as if that's
worse than ****** a man half your age.
He can't use his brain independently
from the movement of his masters
strings, he must watch the news
as if he's staring at his personal
kings - what a ***** All I can do now
is accept my fate of a few boring dates
with the telephone and my mates
at East Mids Trains, but that's in the
future and the **** merchant's in the
past, now I speed towards memories
I hope will far outlast that **** behind
the plastic and the ***** to whom his
thoughts are cast. Bring on
The Big Smoke.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:05 PM UTC
Time to distinguish the linguist from the clown,
the smile from the frown, the man from the town.
There's no way upward and no way downward,
just a longshortnarrowwidestraightwindinglightdark
path ahead. Dreams of tomorrow's epochal moments
spin me with dread. The lead of a bullet elsewhere
punishes bone as a kid somewhere else does a runner
from home, yet I sit here alone saying little doing less.
My memories are fragments, my best answer's a guess.
Is the world really more of a mess than it was yesterday?
I guess that depends on what you like to see.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
There's no such thing as normal,
no such thing as fate,
no such thing as day and night,
no such thing as straight.
Real is breath, food, water, soul.
Real is death, crude, slaughter, tolls.
Real is out there, open, ready to drink,
Real is inside the mind, all that you think
Forgetting what's real we stare straight at a box,
as birds fly north to south the pattern never unlocks.
False importance blocks thought,
as imposed ideas force retorts
at an allied enemy whose similarity we forgot.
The cycle of hate leeches the
unguarded brain. Over. And Over.
And over again
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC