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Phil B Jun 4
Fear gripped primal synapse,
a quiver of spider’s silk bunching,
rippling outwards in a cranial pond.

Anticipation surrenders shape
to the dense jungle rhythms,
but reveals little of their depths.

Breathing stifles in cautious
and irregular release -
amidst the midnight black box.



The bone sharp tension uncoils,
as vine and fibre come undone.
The cycle remains unbroken.
Composed amidst the trees
Phil B May 31
Its disastrous out there ~ the world burns and starves itself while I’m here taking a drag.
Ignorant to change, we’d rather be stuck in our ways and continue hating on “the ****”,
As if the love that two people share for each other could somehow impeach on your parade.
What difference does it make at the end, of the day, because its getting awfully hot under the shade.

For everyone.

No matter the banner or the flag you fly, the country or your nationality all filled up with pride.
No longer can it be the land of the free when time finally runs out, whether you have belief or simply doubt
The rising sun which should feed bellies and help crops grow but instead fills me with dread.
When I think about some starving children who won’t get their daily needs met because of rampant drought.

So to everyone still listening to the signs that the end times are really here,
I can only comfort you in your time of need through the insecurity and fear.

We’ll distract ourselves and drink and make merry before being shipped off on the ferry,
But I’ll try not to think about it as I fall asleep tonight, because it all quite frankly scares me.

Exhale.
Composed out of breath
Phil B May 29
Maybe I am a robot, no really, hear me out.
Perhaps all this time I’ve always known
that in existence there was room to doubt
this fleshy simulation, I call my own.

What if, to fulfil my dreadful curiosity,
I tear away my soft and pudgy outer shell
to find a mesh of moving parts and circuitry
instead of living, breathing cells.

Maybe I’d shed a tear at the realisation,
With a hint of shock, horror and/or dismay.
One moment calm, then launched into frustration .
All quite possible, but I couldn’t really say.

I just hope that you’d
still love me -

anyways...
Composed thinking about You
Phil B May 27
Consider the experiential planar
state of mind,
as cosmic typhoon butterflies
and deities alike unwind.

What horrors await the assault
on our state of conscious,
does the ephemeral abyss really
reflect the monstrous?

Collisions smaller than scale continue
to move destiny,
sparked by nothing more than infinitely
finite energies.

Move against or for the unseen
current affair,
in an effort to surmount and watch the fabric
Of space-time as it tears.

Only then crippled by what really may
be out there,
Something we could never truly hope
to bear.

And that is;

Space.
Composed, in part, thanks to the night.
Phil B May 23
Like many a thing I’ve come to learn,
Being in love can often burn.

Burn with passion and desire,
Fingers dance on skin like fire.
Burn and spit in furious licks,
at the thought of you on another’s lips.
Burn to keep lone nights away,
Until we wake to better days.
Burn away the bridges made,
Trust and love the price I paid.

Like many a thing I’ve come to learn,
Being in love is something earned.

You can keep my heart even
if I don’t have yours,
Because no one knows what
Tomorrow holds for sure.

Like smouldering heat
My breath you’d ******,
When you were my petite ~

lit match.
Composed in reflection.
Phil B Apr 2018
I peeked down the corridor
and there within I saw
Nothing. Utter dark and null
devoid of bright or dull.
Recoil'd not I from the drear'
in holding back childish fear.
      Of the Dark

      My ear it crept closer still
towards the sound of zilch and nil,
nothing. Vacuous silence,
drumming steady absence.
Tempted by the resting rhythm -
absent metre and system.
      .
      Deepest cold pierces the nose
out of shadow its scent arose,
Nothing. Faint eau de toilette,
an odourless silhouette.
Made curious to explore
beyond what was heard or saw.

      Impatience tipped my tongue
caution begging to be flung,
No More - ravenous nether
thirsting night tide aether.
Mouth salivates and perspires,
drowning in the lightless mire.

--

      At last - I am one and none,
for I the darkness has come,
Senses suspended: sound, sight,
scent, taste, now touch the night.
No I nor we - no more ...
Solemn stately corridor,
      Of the dark.
Phil B Jul 2017
Talk - it's cheap and full of sheep.
Air moving, mouthing, making
words to distract and bamboozle,
meaning is used to confuse you.

Colour - superfluous and intangent.
It divides just as much / as it unifies,
the masses and controls our thoughts,
trick of the light, a tailored emotion.

Taste - individuality in isolation.
Eating. Engulfing, endlessly entropic.
Consumers call connoisseurs canon,
Sordid selfish sense, seldom shared.
I read an interesting thought piece written by an author, and it really did get me thinking about how, special moments, experiences and sensations are commercialised by Hollywood and the marketing industry, and how we respond to it over time as we are increasingly exposed to it.
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