preech
English
I am young writer based in north Wales, currently I am studying English and creative Writing at Glyndwr University and hope to one day see my books on the shelf, or even better; flying off them. I write a lot of poetry about my life and the world we live in, though I do also enjoy writing pieces that are completely fictional and land somewhere between poetry and prose. I can now inform you all that my first book, With Words for Weapons, is available on amazon if you would like to purchase a copy. If you wish to read more of my work then check out www.preechpoetry.co.uk
Confined to the minds barrels,
trapped inside four white, wooden walls
that wash me with light;
creating eternity. An eternity
where your face is forced forth
with splintered teeth, wood grain whispers.
Air evades my lungs
breathing in, panic, locked
away. To stay and rot. My tongue
may become a meal; I don’t need words in here.
This chambers grand design
is an endless emptiness.
My mind’s faced with this shameless
white graceless space which
aggravates my dark creativity.
This great sin in me is great and willing me
to spill the hate hidden deep.
The rays rebound perpetually. The silence
perplexes me. Perplexes me. The silence
confined to the double barrels.
Your face, perpetually, stretching its imprint
across these walls. Blurring, screaming terror.
Eyes open, burning, comfort in the darkness
learning the eyelids inner charms.
Not the vastness. Eyes open. Terror.
Tear away these fantasies;
isolations imagination identifies with my demons.
The blank space is filled with cacophonies,
agony, smiles in the emptiness stretch beyond capacity. Silence.
Whispers, these wood grain whispers splinter my eardrums.
No matter how I try to pick (axe) them out,
this imaginary pencil doesn’t dig deep enough.
I hear no calligraphy. No beauty
finds me in here, this box of light
holds my plight and creates a world where I know no night.
I hold no right, I cannot wrong,
there’s nothing left, I hold no rite,
there’s no day to escape for sleep,
no knight to bring me dreams, no left to take me to the right place,
I am so bereft of time. Am I dead?
Dying? Lying here in wait, lying to myself,
declining in health. Declining life.
The silence is hexing,
dissecting each piece of what’s left of me.
The canvas screams, it wants to know my nightmares,
to feel their bloodied paint on its flesh.
I’m the worm in the water.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
You need not know what my name is
just that I’ve been searching for infinity on high
in a Saturday super house and all I have found are puzzles.
Only revolutions of the same songs from under the cork tree
So far I have only found the back room
and the darker side of nonsense.
The blood of the scribe is surfacing
and right now, I can see a slug and an ant racing
through the atmosphere of my sleeve to see where smart went crazy.
Breaking a commandment; thou shalt not ****
The magician’s assistant couldn’t see crazy coming
from the thirty six chambers.
Formally the boy in da corner,
I’m travelling through the streets
to find my own summer (shove it).
The way I am, never better, just another P.O.S
trying to be quiet and drive (far away).
Taking the eight mile road in my mind
to bring me straight outta Compton,
finding my California love to tell her
“I don’t need brighter days, I’ll always be coming back home to you.”
I need to liberate change (in the house of flies)
and allow them nine crimes and a rootless tree.
I’m in the mineshaft with no skeleton key
falling helplessly into the spin of 99 problems.
None shall pass me, no kings
no soldier following a hand built by robots.
Nothing smells like teen spirit in here
nor the disassociative stench of tainted love.
I’m sick 2 def of everyday I spend
without a southern fried intro.
If I could shoot the cool from my machine head
then there would be a way to put you on the game.
I’m trying to find no enemy in this life
that’s always comedy tragedy history but
all I can see are yours and my children
right on the edge of a new psychosis;
too many of them finding the bad touch
of a kiss with a fist
that they saw in a violent ***********
thinking it was the discovery channel.
Not a day goes by that I’m not writing yet another
letter to my countrymen saying let me tell you
nothing’s funny; the new danger is that
one of us is the killer in this champion requiem.
I’m by myself crawling to find a place for my head,
somewhere I can eat you alive, maybe in a boiler room
just like your significant other. I’ve got my revolver
and I’m putting a bullet in the head
of a street fighting man. With a pistol grip pump
I’m killing in the name of Maria
and the ghost of Tom Joad.
That’s my last resort - how I could just **** a man.
Results may vary,
but with every new Eyedea I am testing my abilities.
I’m watching spiders shimmy up aerials
to find themselves lost in Hollywood,
finding a blueprint to my culture.
I’m screaming save yourself renegades
keep your radio inactive and focus on your innervision.
So, let me be the last to say
with seven words;
there are few guarantees, so lovelife.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
This is the title of my second self published title; it is a collection of poetry by myself and as you all know getting your work recognized en masse isn't easy, so if any of you could type that into amazon and maybe buy a copy that would be a great help to me :)
Thank You
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
To read is not to write. Liars.
Be the page.
A blank space ready to be defaced,
awaiting the chaos and serenity.
Folded to show two sides
torn, stained.
A story without words.
A shredded piece of paper
can say more than a meaningless sentence.
Allow the creases
the tears where the pen ran dry.
Live in your world, no escapism.
That’s what it is to write; life.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
All tongues with no language, singing into the mist
ears leant, in the midst of a storm, no-one listens.
A thousand footprints, or more, just like my own
but not. Honing different paths. Eyes closed
the chaos drowns out all connection.
To this physical place.
Lost in the bubbles and chandeliers
melodic motion
meeting each recycled drop of the ocean.
the flames kiss the stars
as I raise my eyes and open.
A strain to focus on anyone’s face
any one place, misplaced identities.
Like a swarm of locusts we devour the night
lay waste to the ground. I stand in the centre
with an empty one foot diameter surrounding me.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
I’m still not comfortable
in the man o’ war.
I haven’t quite found that infamous label that is
apparently
attached to me, somewhere.
I’m enjoying dancing between the tentacles
trying not to get stung. So far
so good. But
as the man o’ war keeps growing
I go along with the tide;
ebbing further away
from the shore that’s flagged with my title.
Too far for telescope,
no hope of reading it, reaching further.
Mirage? Who’s to know.
The bruises show the wrong type of blueprint.
Soon I will be carried into the man o’ war
forevermore.
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Should you follow footsteps
walked in blackouts?
Age bring wisdom
to some.
To some it brings concrete
to set them in their ways
and it weighs them down to younger days.
Rage forms little more than a fist,
a tight grip that holds. It unfolds
under the eyelids; that's where he hides it.
In control of a beast
that should've been tamed or destroyed.
I saw prints in the debris of adolescence
and followed in an immature suit.
Eventually this led me into the night
docile, hostile and not always an honest smile.
An enemy that's almost like a brother to me
preys on my frailties, daily. But
if words form *****
then I am the four walls.
Why does it sometimes feel
like I'm the role model?
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
Tapping relentlessly on the warm metal table-top
I wait. I watch my watch to time the waitress.
I hate this. No more to do
than to classify humans; ''advanced'' mammal zoo.
Specimen one: Green-Eyed Duckling.
Looking up at her mother goose you can see
she doesn't seem to be finding a mirror.
If you were to ask me; no difference. Imperfect reflection.
Best not tell her though.
Specimen two: Naive Kitten.
Instantly smitten, with just a little heavy petting
never second guessing a seemingly simple relationship.
Take. Fake. Take some more.
Once it gets real, its too close to home.
Specimens three and four: Sympathy for the Mantis.
There's simply no way he can escape. It's not in his nature
raised to obey. She, can't see herself in the mother-in-law
it would shatter her control complex. Her whole context.
Destined to be consumed, he bows his head.
Specimen five: The Lioness.
She lays like an aggressive doormat
don't get too close, she might bite. Or worse
she might claw the ''not'' off the welcome mat
let you in and then play victim.
Specimen six: The Dreaming Sloth.
Floating on a magic carpet; going with the breeze
distinct aroma. Extinct diplomas.
Wasted. Talents wasted in two relaxed limbs
halfway through life, waiting for it to begin.
"Your coffee sir" she smiles.
A new profile; specimen seven
classified unknown.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
He hears voices; but do you hear his?
Spitting crystals from his teeth,
he says he drank the magic of time
and now every second passing of mine is nervous
knowing every passing second of his mind.
His internal monologue eternally seeping into external,
leaking into the verbal.
He wears many faces; many places know his steps.
How do you react when you see him?
Do you retract and take action to extract yourself
from his immediate surroundings? I do.
His impact is astounding, found in my hometown
are two types of intimidation;
the vexed son and the wrecked **** of Wrexham.
Giant in the crowd, bald with a dead stare.
Constantly looking down, clothes so thin with many a tear.
Academic with his head in the clouds, to look at,
epidemic with his eyes to the ground in reality.
Local myth whose pith is to be barefoot,
you daren’t look. Innocent elder, non compos mentis,
tells you she carries bombs.
It carries on, in plain sight
there are so many vacant minds walking these streets.
They incite fear, recite dreams and live near
the edge. Of the kerb. Of the absurd.
I have had the chance to meet some frail lives,
one gave me their last drop of wisdom and the tale of his bullet wound.
He told me to remember where I was from.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
I need to get this clock fixed,
take the time to make two locked fists.
I'm not ****** just an angry man
wondering if you can block this tirade
as I walk the Devil's terrain trying to stay away from the watch list.
Now, what's this? Someone insane, deranged
circling all of the boxes, fitting
no spaces. Closed faces faced with the most basic,
basest notions of what it is to be abrasive.
I'm laced with hatred, pacing the naked floorboards.
Repeat; not wasted. A tar tongue tarnished
by the distaste harnessed, placed with
vile eyes to see through veiled lies, blatant.
I surmise you're demise will bless me with
the chance to push you from the precipice,
leaving you with no sentiment
just another piece of sediment.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 4:00 PM UTC