It’s lonely only finding truth in philosophy,
when only phenomenology can tell us
that we are just compounds of need
falling into traps of manipulation
set by the veiled hunger others
There can’t be two sides to every story
if we are just navigating altered perceptions of reality
warped by insecurity and ego
using endless disingenuous promise
as a means to an end
that we can’t see
so underhand, we take all that we can get
to sate some innate desire that devours us
never letting us see its teeth.
Memories of you come to mind
followed by spikes of cortisol,
blood rushes to the surface
of the face you once adored
but you were never alone in your adoration
some men stand back to watch me walk by
as though they’re watching the setting sun,
reminding me that you were just a piece of the puzzle
you hid the others so well that eventually, I forgot to look for them,
I forgot how to think in metaphor,
how to act out of pleasure
instead of moving methodically
one foot in front of the other,
picking the weight in my mind up of the pillow,
just to sink back into my apathy on it again
my life became a clockwork theatre
when I’d solely seek out you
there was no light at the end of my tunnel vision
and your perfumed words
that disguised your true desire;
the lust for control,
the need to own a soul that you never intended to fill.
The villain always wants to be the hero,
but that’s always another story
told through rotting vignettes riddled with hidden discretion;
the narrative hacked with derivative prose.
If we never found deception on the timeline of human progress
they’d be as worthless as they make other people feel.
What is done is done
and what’s lost is mine to carry
I’ll embrace this vacuousness with a smile,
you taught me that baring your teeth goes a long way.
I won’t let the world see the hollowness that threatens to devour me
or that I’m already consumed, and there’s nothing left to exhume
but you’ll need to take my corpse and separate it from memory
to make me as weak as you.
You brought a pacifist to a gunfight;
someone that would never think to weaponize affection,
but I’ll stand my ground after 20 paces
with aloofness for armour
an affirmation that the second smack of gunpowder is useless,
a ricocheting echo
Something told me,
never to turn and face you,
to keep on walking
to never see your face again
for a sense of finality that I finally had control over,
you imbittered my autonomy
for the sake of your ego,
what’s one more victory to you?
You’ve already taken my trust as a trophy.
testing which betrayals you’re lonely enough to forgive
sniffing out fresh wounds to salt
checking for cracks in the armour they helped to construct.
You’d stand naked if they had it their way,
each inch of skin just meat for seasoning
you're just fuel for an ego that constantly seeks naivety to plough through.
The darker my dreams get
the less I look for the light.
I can only see the duality
between my perceived reality
and the one you present.
I wake from gravity slipping
from the rot surrounding me
where everything is meaningless
unless there's someone to tell you that it isn't.
where everything is meaningless
once someone tells you that you are
and it turns out to be true
because they’ve shown you the nature of man.
Stretch the deception
that you'll look back upon
only to remember what you were hiding
behind the effort to extend the lie
that life is more than ordinary.
There’s no scarcity of meaning
with stage lights dimmed
and hedonism cancelled,
just absence of distraction.
Chase emotion to find purpose,
scour for desire, feel the caustic scrub
tearing away the guises
you adopted to be adored
push away the inclinations implanted by
the attraction of normative function.
We’re little more than sentience in a skinsuit
pick at the fruit that leaves you more than sated,
chase feeling, on your own trajectory
don’t compete with people you never saw at the starting line,
who you’ll never see at the finish.
You’ll only prove the point
that we’ve disjointed until we’ve forgotten
everything but passion is just decoration.
Zealots will adore you
as they forgo romanticism for coercion
as they offer their insecurity
stemming from insidious roots,
a hardwired smorgasbord
of rejection, remorse and resolve-less apathy
they can barely stomach
so they get high, but never high enough
to make ecstasy drip off their sycophantic tongues.
They aim for the stars
waiting for by-proxy fantasies to be fulfilled
hoping that talent can implant by osmosis
through transposing kisses
you’ll want to scrub away
in the harsh light of day
when you want to forget the regret
but it’s sat right there
along with the denial
that it’s more than just about
holes filled and hours killed
that you were more than
just a body to strip and ****,
with only a façade left for protection.
It’s called ***-positivity, apparently
don’t say what you mean
make them feel special,
spin a tired old narrative
because you’ve got nothing else to give
then take it away in the harsh light of day
pass it onto another
and pray that they’re naïve enough to believe.
As fictionists entwined in fatalism
reality sank under metaphysical desire.
Abstract realism bled through the fever of imaginations coalesced
but we were never the protagonists we presented ourselves as,
just cocreators saving each other from mundanity and insecurity.
Hindsight doesn’t deconstruct the possibility
which still exists in another parallel,
one which wasn’t quite so consequential,
regardless of time, space, silence and regret.
The mattress gathers dust in the sanctity
we could only find in the 5th dimension.
Let it breathe.
Logic to the dissonant, confetti into flames
watch it turn to ash.
The disquieted don’t want comfort,
they want to protect their definition of purity
and simply, for the complexities of the universe
to serve them solely.
Dissatisfaction becomes identity,
a vice to sate,
just one more redemptive hit
and they’ll sleep
dreaming of their idyllic reconstruction of reality.
Everyone’s a visionary
blind to the piteous state
of their mass-conformist unity fantasy,
forgetting that autonomy isn’t only in the mind of the beholder.
The palindrome falls on shadowed riots,
and fever of falsified truths-
hyper-normalised until we’re writhing
in animatronic snake oil.
What’s worse, the hysteria or the disease?
Over-indulge the fascists
kiss their fists as they flail in cognitive dissonance-
white knuckles dragging to the rhythm of another media blag.
Patriotism cradles their fear and wraps it in red, white, and blue;
a stifled tricolour vision,
bathed in sanctified blood-clotted volition.
They’ll never let them come clean
they need their repugnance,
and inability to see that hope is an option
but the disparity is always just a news broadcast away.
A nice cheery Brexit poem <3
It's just another day,
but what if it wasn’t?
What if our hypothetical half-lives
crawled from the empty parallels,
would they be one more thing to wish away?
Time isn’t linear,
It binds, stagnates, restricts, and corrodes,
the past entwines with the present;
teasing futures better left undreamt.
So, I hold onto you
as the rest of the world slips and fades
transfixed by the reflection in your eyes
as history shatters behind them.
My reality has become the taste of the adrenalised adoration
poured by my own hand as I hold you.
I found you reading between the lines of my own rapture
then we were left to make sense of the impulses
always so ubiquitous with pain.
We found synergy in contempt,
I wanted the masses to see
but they’d never understand our parade of incomprehensible pretence and apprehension
or the way we paint universes
and only allow the other to step inside.
They’d never understand
how paths threatened to cross
but we always chose abstraction,
the catharsis in subjugation
where each bruise is a tale of fantasy.
Obedience never leaves room for question.
Even in your absence I never found resent,
just an eagerness which swelled beneath my ribs
as though I’d found the key to the lock on the iron cage
which constricted me.
I write poetry for only flames to see
misanthropic prose which paints you a deity
on a pedestal above the flames
but still, I’m too afraid
to show how the last strings of my sanity are arranged.
This is kinda what my soul looks like
I have a carnivorous mind
never satiated on reality,
so I make my own.
I find the actors,
and forget to give them the script,
or let them know where they sit on the casting call
they cascade as they fall
like dominoes accepting the futility
of what it is to mean anything to me.
And then there’s you.
And now, I know how it feels for fruit to rot
to shrink from its skin,
collapse into itself,
and lose all grandiosity
in just one fleeting moment.
Just one moment in which an ego so fastidiously groomed frays
wrapping around the core of my being
under the effervescent ardour
of someone, I won’t love in an hour.
Scratch the itch from the poison of modernity
in the tapestry of culture as it contrasts and conflicts
in gentrified decay; where UV is cast into stone
as it crumbles to the sound of archaic rhythm.
Only some of the clock hands refuse to turn
to allow different splinters of time to converge.
as others idle by propelled by contemporary euphoria;
grinding on ages already passed.
Mechanisms of time fragment in the sound of simplicity,
relics are no longer held in memory
but carved in hieroglyphs,
worn into cobblestones of interchangeable streets
all leading to a history which repeats.
written after a mini adventure on the streets of a perplexingly quaint town.
Each lacerating scar is a new engravement
which becomes more than we’ll ever be.
A definition of the synergy between fate and cruelty.
Shallow graves tease us
beckoning us to crawl inside
to be comforted by the silence
imagining our bones as dust
allowing our minds to fade out of focus
the static drowning out every
twist of the knife-
by our own hand that told us we were worthless.
But there’s beauty in misery
not in our reflection
but in the eyes who hold the keys to all the doors
you’re too scared to open
until someone pushes you through
bringing you to life, in ways you always dreamt to live
until you forget all of the reasons you want to die.
Chase the chaos
wrap both thighs around it
until it screams a name you recognise
with rhythmic fury
coursing through the contortions
spinning on carousels of shame and regret.
Flesh over fiction
validation over volition
find the angle
to carve desire,
find the curve,
to contort the insatiable itch
seared by the rapacity
We transcended commodity,
not in sense of liberty
the shackles still remain
but our worth diminished.
The shadows creep across you
trailing tendrils of torment
the snarling teeth of the jackals
who won't sit down beside you
and fall under our incantations of carnality.
Come out from the shallows of your signalled virtue
remember the facade, forget what's true.
You have no more power than we do.
But still, the guise stands you tall enough for us to fall on our knees,
gratified by your willingness to pull us from the disparity,
of a constructed paradigm
you pray never shifts.
We cling to connection like ghosts that don't know they've died
that tired old storyline,
where we don't know who is really alive.
Perhaps it's a matter of perspective
perhaps it's relative
whether it's better to be dead inside
or create art with the emotion,
prose incanted with echoes of devotion we chase
to prove to the world
we're lifted from the mediocrity
as we pass the time
there's never enough of.
Time for money
Sanity for country
pay your taxes
pay your dues
you only have your humility left to lose.
We've only just started ascending
we'll learn what depths we will reach
when the news starts trending.
Plugged into a jaded reality
curl up to benefit ****
grab some food
it's not your austerity
it's the ones you deem not fit to breathe
the ones you'll never see
because they're on floor 5000
their problems are there to count, never to solve.
Fixed on repeat with stagnation as aural salvation
they dance to the archaic discord
entombed in relics from 1973
rooted in pensivity behind the repetition of each melody
they've heard this one before
used it to pick themselves up from the floor
an effigy to lost lovers
who used to sit beside them
smoking on the balcony
paying duty to a capitalist society
taxing themselves with each breath.
They never hear the strings breaking in silence
dancing through progressions
which paint plaintive signs of the times
disparity haunts the rhymes
but nostalgia stole the show
apathy drives ignorance
to the songs, they don't know.
Artists gorge on the decline
too many pills to swallow
so instead, they'll do another line.
Inspired by a conversation about Napster.
Don’t look down
where emaciated bodies lie beyond salvation
they’re beneath you
when you preach for profit.
Don’t look down
to idle bones on the edge of prison walls
they’ve already fallen
their hands too bloodied to shake
their eyes too blind to see the mistakes they are yet to make.
Save the souls with the pound sign goals
avert your eyes from the misery of the fallen
they’re not even there
if you don’t look down.
So, I was walking through the centre of Manchester as preachers had grins fixed on their faces, handing out flyers to the well-dressed passers-by, ignoring the homeless people that were surrounding them. Doesn't make sense does it?
I’ll light another cigarette
As the Roman candles burn,
Lace the atmosphere with lamented regret
And tear it away before it slips into the chain of deterioration.
I’ll cut out my tongue
While there’s something left to say
I’ll retain the mystery
Whilst the rest is lost to history.
With adoration as a breaking point
I’ll feel each part of me disjoint
Under the pressure.
I’m just another guilted plague-
Haunting the crypts of nature
When the morality bomb drops
I’ll collect the shards
Use poetry as a Perspex,
Desire as a casket
I’ll build wordless pyres
Under motionless fires
And choke the concordance
With a suffocating breath of ecstasy
Until my lungs are transplanted with ivy
Disrupts the chemistry
As hydrogen tears through me
And we burn under element number one.
I glossed over the cracks
that kept the illusion intact
sweet vapid intention
which was never intended for annihilation
just a purpose
that may have been beyond our comprehension.
I waited for the neural itch to decode
I waited for the dream state to dissipate
after I found the roadmap in the scars you could never hide.
We never had a direction
yet we embraced the fluidity that allowed us to exist in a vacuum
where we forget the name of every ghost that lingers on the periphery.
Paint in acid
scream into static
through perceptions pallid
with desires archaic and elastic.
It doesn’t really matter
who lies at the other end of the ampersand
smoke and mirror shatter
grinding from glass into sand
yet here we stand
malleable and plastic
hallowed by introspection.
Our shadows long lost in the tide
with the whispers of deviation
I guess, I shouldn’t have lied
but you were my only means of abstraction.
we’re just timelessly out of fashion
we’re recoiling from the passion
that was once instilled
so sweetly sacramental.
My mind turns in perpetuity
with no destination
as the phantasms are competing
for the grand prize;
my last stray of sanity.
They fracture the darkness
with their taunting iridescence
never failing to catch my eye
when they’re throwing their very own pageant
held in honour of me.
They dance with one another
clashing from time to time
spitting their chastised replies
the only reprieve is found when I open my eyes
after listening to the echoes
of all those beneath me
and at 5’ 3”
there shouldn’t be many.
I write a lot of insomnia poetry.
The clock drips by
why you’re waiting
as the hands
to the shivers
and the sighs
they would last
and stretch across eternity
to exist in perpetuity.
it’s always worse
when you’re high
where each touch
is just all too much
there’s no time
when you’re holding a grenade
between shaking thighs.
I need sensitivity
of our complexity.
— The End —