When do we change?
Is it now?
Or in ten years time…
Is it in 2999?
Is this a sign or an unseen shrine?

Can we travel lightyears of compassion to finally reach what matters?
And join the orchestras of our hearts to form a cacophony of beauty that grows to other planets, admitting how lost we are…

Or are we hate first, death burp, old church…
Starving billions yet again just to prove a point -
Just so we can light a joint and oink -

Why must we parade, not permeate?…
Escape but stay safe…
We could evolve from the inside now, freeing every structure of our being…
Procuring our loving spout, rather than drowning in doubt…

When will you decide to step into the liquid mirror, joining timelines of past and future -
Upon which - being that every-creature; you see through a lensless camera…
Can you embody the real virtue and meaning of captured existence, and in doing so outshine death by becoming life itself?…

With the blue face of Picasso,
he grabs all the strangely dismembered and distorted deprivations,
pressing them like wild flower stencils onto the canvas before him…

His sausage fingers rolling up his collaged carnage cigar… placing it to his clay mouth -
Looking at the skyscrapers outside his house
“I do this for my paradise country…”

On a dizzy permutation of this ferocious routine; he realises - nothing fits -
“I’m a preacher in my own ****…”
But the apple is sweeter because of me…
The pear trees are weaker…
And at least we lost their weeping wisdom
and childish victimisation…

remember…

“We make the system - ” art is meat, art is mickey…

And we’ve shrivelled their fruit to display in exhibitions, give to our children; and to flavour our unique trappings of meat certification…

A smile that postered peace has cracks…
Cracks that were covered that start to appear in times of great test, revealing its uncertainty, vulnerability, venom towards the thing that makes it fear…

The smile is a signature of submission
A stamp of insecurity
Because to feel one must think, not temporarily fix,
And to truly fix, one must insist on feeling - everything…

A smile full of love, wisdom and youth never fails, but is thrown; blasted by veiled vast-disappointments, so that the face that holds it moistens with incredulity…

But a smile that has no truth -
When it starts to fray; stiffens easily - turns anodyne, bitter, frozen…
Until the corpse behind that smile becomes clearer - and dictates death with no mirror…

But beware… you can turn away all mirrors
Yet in the darkness they will linger, slither, shimmer, hunt you down…
There’s no escaping from the silent screams in your head and eventually this realm of darkness will fully consume you - if you choose to take this path of lies, safety, silk teeth…etiquette… wrong rest.

If we’d carefully addressed our nuances
We wouldn’t be in this mess…
If we’d spoken to the heart rather than the heartless head…
If we hadn’t turned this planet into a closed and open hell…
Like a giant burning cruise ship full of mere shells, piercing into the earth’s former self…

We ignore the trees; the trees that show us magnificence and mystery; destroying their epic lives in a heartbeat…
But the trees whisper through connected fungi, working as a team for longevity, with no concept of antipathy…

And in dark forests on the sunniest days we still glimpse those rays of true beauty…

We still have a responsibility in our vastness to steer this ship of souls in the right direction, in conjunction with nature and all of it’s adaptations…

Why stare into one hole in a cave when there are a million different pools and palaces shining through the crystal cracks, all waiting to join as we chip away at a new haven…
Imagine what aliens would think then when they came to visit our shimmering, all-embracing, reciprocal creation…
I remember ones almost my age who saved this vision early on, looked at me straight in the eye and winked as I was gone…

For every viral gun death - a poem…

For every slither of hope for a beautiful family or person - a surge in funds for them…

For every ****** golden lie by politicians -
The fine fresh summer’s morning that makes their stomach turn…

For every company complicit in this torture, trying to keep us and them numb -

You can’t survive this - and neither can your conscience, whether you know it or not yet…

The whole thing will crumble like dried, ****** bubblegum - and art will be watching, like it always does…

Orchestratedly killing children, what kind of child were you?
Shoot shoot with no feeling, see how you’ll have no future, sucker…

You think that you’ve marred their grave,
But the child’s cloud escapes…

You’re not even a part of the picture -
Only a void for the paintings that will stay to show how great they are and how sick you were…

You’ve got no place, no room, no virtue,
So more fool you…
You’re not a conductor of any orchestra -

You’re just a fraying lace in an old man’s shoe
Yet look how young you are - or could have been…

I know you’re not one for feeling anything but you’ve got to admit; the deafening din of children’s wailing light and death’s scythe keeping you secretly afraid all night is gonna be hard to remove…

We’re sick of your lies
We’re sick of our frame
We’re sick of your blame
We’re sick of your lack of shame…

We’re sick of your hideous, righteous twist
We’re sick of your negligent noose
We’re waiting for it to trip back on you…
We’re waiting for you to tell the truth