swallow the stars
whole.
glow from the inside out
as the pain of what you've done
spreads seeping through your body
filling your veins
with excruciating light.
close your eyes against it and
find it's to no avail
the bright follows, the light suspends
behind your eyes, pinpricks
finding their way out
working their way in.
sell yourself for borrowed silver
scatter it on the ground as later
you cry out for a redemption
that never came.
finally
submit to the silence
you've swallowed the stars now
and there is no one else
there is just becoming
numb.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 2:32 AM UTC
the sky dims dismal
over a washed-out landscape
harrowed, its holes fill furrows in the earth
and in the distance something cackles
a sound that splits the dawn
as the sun breaks over the horizon
its giant eye watchful but bleak.
a flamboyance of flamingoes and a ****** of crows
rise to the cries of battle on the moor
and nature's drums of war
beat a tattoo doomed
to eternally repeat.
and in the distance something crackles
the sun has turned to fire;
a spark
lies empty on the hollow ground
depleted of breath, it fades to ember
but then
but then
something startles it awake
the smallest of stirrings
for that is all it needs
and out of the crumbling darkness
the spark hurls itself
setting alight the expanse around it
and in the distance something burns.
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC
grey
the sky is
the fields are sometimes, too;
it is England, after all
view upon view, an expanse of
dusty hues -
the sorts of colours you might find
locked up in an attic, unused
for years
the grey is a stillness, an unrestful quiet
that stretches out across the country
like a tapestry of disdain
we feel nothing here, because
the grey has taken it - well
has dimmed it; perhaps
it still exists somewhere
beneath the sombre sea
of colour, or a lack of it;
and i can make no sense of it, nor it
of me
because, you see
the grey pervades
it turns everything the same shade,
and impossible to pick out hues
it blends in one
leaving but an impression
of a world no longer clear
yet artists, poets, lovers and children still hope
and they stare expecting to suddenly see a sunburst of colour
across the grey.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC
the world is hard today
but there is still
there is still a person smiling at a stranger in the street
still the trees of summer wafting in the breeze
still the light of a warm golden evening slanting through the park
still dust motes dancing in its wake
there is still
there is still the look on a child's face when it sees its first bubble pop
still the warmth of a fire, smell smoke and sound of crackling wood
still the feeling when cold, you get in a hot bath and your legs rejoice in the numb
there is still
there is still the joy of reading a passage and thinking "yes! this is me!"
still the tight hug of a friend you haven't seen in a while
still the first glimpse of an unexplored landscape from a plane window
there is still
there is still the pure lineny smell of the first ****** snow in winter
still the satisfying crunch of an autumn leaf under your shoe
still the gritty scratching of sand between toes on the beach
still the haunting melancholy howl of a wolf in the distance
there is still
there is still the way your favourite person looks at you when you walk into a room
still the beautiful moment of pregnant silence that hangs at the end of a sonata
still the feeling of diving dry into a lake and coming up wet and free
there is still
there is still, and yet
that's it really, isn't it?
there is stillness when the world creeps off
and you are left alone with stark reality in the lamplight
and then in the silent dark
there is still
there is still, and you sit motionless in it
and the world continues around you but you have retreated
and as it all falls away a voice within you screams a silent plea
and there is still.
Jul 26, 2016
Jul 26, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
It's like I know I don't fit in
I shouldn't be here, I don't belong here
With the suits and the boots and the people who have roots
My history's lawsuits and bootprints and long hard routes
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 7:09 PM UTC
as the plane came in to land
i believed i was descending into the very gates of hell
the mountains circling the area jutting like a devil's jaw
waiting to swallow us whole
ripping holes in the sky
clouds bleeding an unnatural red as the sun set.
in the hotel i turn off the light
and lie in the humid darkness
listening to the storm raging outside
the devils are hungry now
their stomachs yelling angrily
their eyes flashing bright across the blackness
as they hunt for their prey
and the sky cries heavy rains of grief
for its wounded victims.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
You wear a symbol of your religion
And I wear one of mine
But what is yours?
A representation of the torture of your Saviour
Some saviour he was
He couldn’t even save himself.
And what is mine?
Mine is variform
The woman, the moon in all her phases:
Maiden, mother, crone;
Waxing, full, waning;
Gentle and innocent, beautiful and wise,
Severe and ancient, a luminescent She.
Or is it a five-pointed star
Whose meaning is so great, runs so deep
That each point represents something
Many things:
Earth, water, fire, air, spirit
The dark of night, the glint of a blade
The roar of a fire, or perhaps an ocean
The life that rises inside me as I sit
Patiently, for I need not wait
For some saviour to revisit the world
In the guise of a man.
My salvation, my life, my soul is all around me
All I need do is not kneel
Is not pray, is not confess through a grid
To a faceless, nameless monk
Not spell out empty sayings with beads
Or contemplate the haloed face of a woman
Whose head must always be covered
To show her modesty
Her purity
Her virginity.
My god can be a temptress, or a man in the midst
Of a waterfall of pleasure
A cascade of love
For in that there is no shame.
Or she can be a ****** giddy and naive,
Or the young boy who watches her closely,
Blushing when she passes
On the road
For in that there is no shame.
She can be a mother juggling children,
Or one of those children,
Or the light of a single candle flame
For in that there is no shame.
But what she cannot be
She cannot be repressed, or tamed, or halted
(though she can be gentle)
She cannot senselessly abandon those who need her
(though she can harm if she must)
She cannot stand by and do nothing
As innocents are pillaged
Nor can she throw a grubby blanket
Over the heartless slaughter of black and white lambs.
She cannot rip at the seams of despair
Tearing them further still
Proclaiming all the time that despair
Is the only way to the great virtues.
She cannot do that
She cannot be that.
She will not be the one who extinguishes the flame
For in that there is shame.
In that there is shame.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC
Watching through an empty window,
He broke his pain on the tears that fell
From his face
Like glass, they hit the ground and shattered
And his groans went unheard by the people
Who passed outside
It was not normal, this obsession, he thought,
Pulling another cigarette from his case, and
Setting it alight.
He watched it burn: burn long and strong,
The ash gathered grey on the end of the smouldering stick
Then fell to join the water
On the floor.
Who am I, he thought again, what do I do?
There were no answers to these questions.
He was in this empty house, overlooking the lawns,
Breaking the dawn with a glass of whisky
And a bottle of wine.
There was nothing left for him here.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
i haven't washed myself
in days
there's no point
because
it can't be washed away
anyway.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
Two runners meet;
The lonesome path
On which they both do tread
Is shadowed by the maple trees
Which guide them in their stead.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC