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Rupert Pip Apr 7
www.instagram.com/rupertpippoetry

Bit of a shameful plug, but I’ve created an Instagram account for my poems. If anyone is interested in reading more of my work, or seeing them being performed every so often, then I will be posting them there too. Thanks in advance! :)

www.instagram.com/rupertpippoetry
Rupert Pip Mar 10
Perhaps that's the point of it all,
the mate of the soul,
they cannot be two feet down
and smothered in endless
concrete, but instead they
must be made of words untrue,
a lapse of perfect fiction,
for when they come to flesh
and blood, your eyes can't
seem to breathe and your
heart leaps and leaps.
Rupert Pip Feb 19
Dread is a disease
most unkind, and
my guts riddled with it
whilst walking down those
narrow corridors for the
very first time.

In fact, those feelings
didn't drop until I was
stood out amongst the
spitting rain under
grey spring skies,
half enjoying a
cigarette that my
nervous body had
searched for.

A lad came to me
with cuts and bruises
decorating an otherwise
friendly face, with
an escort to keep
him stood up straight.

Before we
even shook hands
you made sure I wasn't
going to be alone upon
my first evening there.

There is only so much
handshaking you can
do until you realise that
no one actually cares
how you're doing or
what your name is
until your reports
have landed on their
desk once or twice.

But you, you cared
for a stranger before
you even know their
name. I knew from
then that you were
the real deal, but
I suppose the blood
splatter of chemicals
rotting away your liver
had dampened a
clean sheet.  

I was sad to hear
you took your own
life.

Maybe one day we
can go for that
drink

and I'll tell
you that I
learned from
you and all
this sadness.
Rupert Pip Feb 17
I am the cascade rain
of chivalrous knights
and bubbling veins.

The gap you mind
and overstep,
The mind that’s gapped
without repent.

Yet the lake reflects a smile
and bellows out broadly
in the broken streams of Nile
in the thoughts of this, a while.
Rupert Pip Feb 16
They say she couldn't read between
the lines, like the page was scrawled
with shapes of black ink, without
the formation of words.

Perhaps this was true.

I once saw her
put paint on wet skin and wonder
why it all rolled away, and asked
me why she looked so pale.

Maybe some
of us creatures just can't see
what lies beneath the tree,
or deep beneath the ocean
top where you dive in and
found yourself bitten.

This is just how it is,
but sometimes, the lines
are only there for show,
and life just writes free hand
anyway so you're forced
to find the order
amongst the
mess.
Rupert Pip Feb 13
London's eyes have
shut for the night.

The train tracks
cannot be danced
upon,

just as pillows are
only made of
feathers.

I will write
however,
as I have no doubt
that you shall sing

but just not in
London.

The city
that has never
slept has finally
gotten a good
night's rest

and I suppose,
we'd better
tiptoe around
the house,

to not disturb
her slumber.

Even if it
means we
must be
silent

also.
Rupert Pip Jan 19
There is no one out there
for you, for me, for anyone.
There are just people taking
life one tincture at a time. I know
this just as I know that cigarettes
will just make you cough, and just
as surely, you will smoke them
until your voice sings out of
tune anyway.

There are no great cameras,
no screenplay writers, to lap
you up and kiss you until dawn.
Instead, you bitterly spit through
half-smiles and half mean them too,
and only half the time are they lovely.

But you've been told otherwise,
huh? Red lips, red wine and red meat
is dream that's sold to the dreaming,
in life it leads only to red stains.
Sometimes they don't come out and
you'll cry, sometimes they're a piece of
the evening you'll welcome to your
messy wardrobe of messy clothes.

Let's just call it what it is and know
that without those words
we are just bags of
skin and bone that watch the stars as
chemicals fight in our heads.

And that isn't always perfect,
because it's not written that way,
this way, your way, my way or
really, anyway
at all
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