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Aug 2018 · 684
Turd Machine
In the tomb of my memories
I lie stretched out like some limpering anusmachine
staring into itself for eternity, transfixed by machine eye

I wish there was a nicer way to say this
but there isn't -

memory defines our actions in life
we are prisoners to our past
and nailed to our fates
such as whimpering
such as being pathetic in public
such as drawing from the circuits the
treachery of turds descending

Morning ****,
Oh the release.
This made me laugh hahaah
One is an ape clothed in illusionary gold,
the other, apes with the pretensions of angels-
floating in the citadel of muses.

Both burn in the end,
both smother each other in the finality
of themselves.
You **** ***** apes!
Aug 2018 · 115
F 0 0 l / C R U T C H
Descending upon a barren desolate wasteland
a true zone of infinity
and depth one sees the crutch one
carries into the ocean of plenitude
and gluttons bearing torches
snigger under death breath
breath death
smoking cigarettes
in the carousal of fools.

The carnival of errors,
Life itself.
A mountain of flesh corroded wires burning
in an infinite black hole
a languid putrid stench amputation of self-
limbs digesting themselves
in a landscape of nothing,
nihilism the creed of kings
the death knell of the zero sum point;

praying to nothing
in the void of meaning
abstract nothing
noise on the television set
sick nurse
sick nun

putrid ***** on the mattress, wipe down
despair
blood running through the network stretched
the howl of the living machine child
crucified to the platitude of its own vision
sexless

borne of man, none, abortion
aborted fetus, burning bright with eyes of circuit green
dying, death, the finality of reason

It was never real,
Accept it.
What I would call an industrial poem
Jul 2018 · 231
(I)
(I)
I love you, they're the hardest words to say
but the easiest to engage in mind, sometimes.

Deeply flawed man I am,
drowning in my images
my escape from reality
well, sometimes, sometimes
face it head on;

I love the ways your hair soothes the storm,
within, blasting the wolf from it lair, your
hand softens my tense frame, this
pen shakes.

I love your flaws, they seal my wounds and I too
can help seal and heal yours.

There is no but here,
it's from the heart, so take it
eat, and let's dance amongst the stars
as sprits of the animal night,
eternally;

I know it's sentimental
I can't help the way the woods made me,
carved out of clay, stay a little longer
make me happy, this is the way, lay
down and hold my hand as I slip,
I will grip yours when you trip -

Back into the mire, into the murk, we shall be together, forever
in these woods, two wolves amongst the sheep, howling at the moon,
is it ever too soon?

I don't think so, no.
Show me your heart -
I can take away the pain.

As I wane, I wane away in my ivory
tower - craned neck to the stars
I love you, don't explain -
I love you Yulia
no if's or buts,
no refrain.
a love poem
Jul 2018 · 287
He liked the quiet life
and I do too, my uncle
he gave me wings to dream on,
fed me when I needed feeding
not with food, no with dreams,
and for that I owe him everything.

That is why when he finally laid at his owl's rest
this owl wept, and saying goodbye, left
the final dream to rest.

Goodbye Uncle Bob, weaver of dreams,
and may a chorus of hooting owls
sing you to your last detail,
up there with the wise ones,
forever looking down -
with love.
My Uncle died recently, this is in his memory.
Jul 2018 · 260
Nuclear Star lament
When I'm happy a tornado of o's and 1's cascade
from my heart, a why-
an endless carousel of binary;

But to be happy should be enough,
in those moments when I freeze and smile
I should ask for no more than that,

that last little star in the background
before the lights go dim,
and extinguish everything.
A poem about me and a poem about the universe and stars.
May 2018 · 1.0k
Notes from a Northern soul
This is my soul;
Please treat it well,
The hells it has endured,
many

But none is equal to not
Having you here, with me - free
To swallow the snake,
Ride the snake,
that ancient lake baby.

Nods to the doors not withstanding,
I miss you love,
I miss you three.
I miss you
Free.

Your freedom, the freedom you offer me.
Feb 2018 · 417
The Kidult Poetry Society
All this filth, all this murk
it's all coming from me - no one else to blame,
I believed in the woods once, could see the light
through the trees, but now it is all murk in the mottled forest;

The act is an act, the mask to hide
from the world, my hollow shell, a cocoon;
this convenient hideaway, measured tone, repressed
thought, whirlwinds of desire.

So you just run onward through the bones in the yard,
saying hi to the pristine porceline girls of *****
on the way, spinning and grinning
with jawed grimace, their faces sown
in poetic indifference,
and you want to remember

That, once you were something
pure.

till you were about ten years old -
sighing, carry on, knowing that your scars
are your best friends, mutter with them,
freeze the pain, don't drown it out, Believe,
because the greatest lie is that  man is pure,
and life is not that long that you can ignore those smiles
that are ok with that, and laugh about it along with you, in words , stories, and poetry.
Jan 2018 · 199
Red
Red
He skulks around late at night, all hollow
innocence to swallow, beast within burns
his fire - demonic Dorian Gray, an infinity
of void, reflecting  through mirrors of lead

The blood is the lifeforce of the words, it flows
it's the rhythm that keeps on flowing, crimson --

Lifeforce within, flowing, like rivers in some
******* babylon, baby, pregnancy of the earth boom boom
vampire bite, what a fright, burned eyes boo boo --
trapped in this zoo, man - caged beast, man.

Every man is a caged beast, controlled and
*******, flawed creature, bashing head against the bars
and poets? They are the most flawed of all, dreaming of
escape, no hope, scraping the claws against the wall.

Red crimson lifeforce flows, big bang bachelors
drinking in noir nights, feeling the fright of the
big girls against the ceilings, their dreaming lips
which siren **** and ***, screaming in the night
siren. Bountiful ****, *******.

Sirens of ***, burning in the night, **** smoking in
the corner, drink more, smoke more, **** more, feel more -
red - red -  red - red
blood / blood / blood

Give it in, keep it burning in your veins, through the heart
that brain, it needs something to keep on ticking
like the grandfather clock, tick tock tick tock
feed your ****, red crimson moon, find a girl
treat her right, be tight with the devine
that feline moma won't wait around forever

so don't expect her too, just treat her right
be tight, and hold her in the night, out of sight
nebula dreams with your love, sozzled right.
Wasted and burnt by your eyes.

Seal her red within with your tears of divinity
and bleed for her too when you need to.

Red, like the colour of a rose,
or at least the bleeding of a moon.
Bada bing, bada boosh.
Jan 2018 · 280
Waste
My flesh lies on the table
disconnected eyes linger and
detach as I stare in distance.

I am not here, wasted.
Hexed, broken mired in
blackness, darkness,
Gothic daydreams.

I like to stare at ceilings
and invent something between
minutes of gaze, sheltered haze.

Not living nor dead, wasted
depressed, condensed distance,
broken dreams, self loathing -
the yawns from the corner are bothersome.

I lie on the table, I am gluttonous
and well lived, dead alive zombie tree;
Beer and coffee have been my companions
in this forest of blowing leaves, with
the carcass of the sheep blistering the road.

I slumber, I wake, burning blizzard eye
sigh sigh sigh, cracking lies and digested
metaphor, perception of bore, moaning mire.

What a waste, writing in haste one's one
memorium, wake up and do something
poet. Live, or die, just do it well.
My heart is red, the meadow is green;
you are standing there in your silk dress
and looking at me longingly, with your eyes
your eyes of feline longing, Mon amour.

I wish to soothe that longing, wishing
to souls above, let me take you on my dreamboat,
my dreamboat of love,

Soothe the ache, from the punch I did not deliver.  

Protect and shelter you in my arms, so that I may be one
with you, in bed, forever and ever
until I'm dead, severed from you.
But I will find my way back to you,
even if it comes to that.

Soon... We will meet in the flesh.
and this ache will subside.

Soon I will hold you, and soothe your sadness at mankind's ways.
Soon I will be the man you deserve too
A poem I have written for my girlfriend Yulia
You are encased in your world of flower;
Whilst I suffer in the pit below
that wolf at the door is me.

He is the leader of my pack
and when he howls others follow in tick tack
tight formation, his howl has rendered cowards
to fits of madness, coward!

I am that too he says? hahaha!
A fit of vortex light burning brightly over there, you fool!
Screams the wolf,
'you do not know the box you have opened!'

'I do!'
I have opened the post it says sickness and fit,
a spice awakening in Sheffield, and not just the drugs
not working in Manchester,
as Ashcroft once sang banging his shoulders
into every passer by, why? For the **** of it,
take no prisoners, proper Manc wolf style.

And I will burn your souls with words, O burn those bridges burn;
I will crush you with every click of the typewriter
you seek to burn me, call me drunk and ****** and fool,
I forget you! ha! Neit papa! Neit Mama!

Da Christopher! I have made such art and wonders
so see I am not to be taken lightly.
I have danced with death, not once but twice
and lived to tell the tale, captured foes forever
their grimaces frozen in time.

In the dead of night when I have no desire
for both shallow words and drunken wounds and late night calling-
your 'fatal fallacies'
I will burn these images and all the old
word scribbled in spider handwriting
by me that eldest poet, and soul.
That fire shall bring solace.

I hate you, as much as I hate myself;
forever smoking in the corner
and laughing at deaths wings,
as it winks at me underneath
cloaked eyes of shallow indifference -

Off with you and your 'perfect' life too.
Bitter wolf blinks, and cannot sleep,
Oh look how I am red and rendered, insomnia
red eyed and twitching, shocks all over sighs the poet,
Never call me again, drunken witches. Vampires
and bloodsuckers.

Alive still and struggling against the call
of it. Defiantly myself, whilst others crawl
to the windowpane of the widows to cradle the light.
I am encased in darkness, and search for my window-
fools allay me from my path, winding, twisting to
love.

I am burning. This fire it will not cease, this is
the end. My first friend, thrown to the fire,
her fate is sealed, she is undoubtedly married.

My pack is pleased, and giggle in the night,
drunk on the strength of passion! and *****!
ACC WOO AGH
Nein Nein Nein
Neit! Da! Da!

I grin through bared teeth,
Always gnashing and grinding.
A poem about an angry and bitter wolf howling and burning  to find a light under the moon. Moody hahahahaha
Sep 2017 · 339
Resigned smile
I'm a man in a boat, I am sailing a new sea
I have found myself here, with the new born
staring at me like I was some tree
the trees that grow in the forest my dear
see how they blow in the wind for you,
and they will always blow for you, my dear.

She looks at me with hopeful eyes
as the storm passes and smiles, then -
that cry rings out one final time
the final time I hear it,
as I pass onto somewhere new
with a silent grin etched upon my
face, she is the hopes of all our sons
the daughter of reality reborn
to sail in the ocean with her own oars.

A free Europe, a free world.
Sep 2017 · 251
Reasons I am a good man
I am kind to others
I am good to my friends
I am open hearted and loyal
I like to make everyone feel comfortable
I am smart but I don’t make others feel small with it
Or I don’t like to anyway, and I’m sorry if I ever did.

I am not good at knowing what I want all the time and
I am sorry for that, I am a very selfless person, and I hate
Using the word ‘I’ too much, so I have contradicted my own  
Philosophy.
poetry,man, poems, depression, sad, self help, good man, a good man
Considering some scribbling to figure everything out, I expect to either be entirely burnt by this fire,
or to be defined by it. Whatever it is.

It burns. Love, anger, passion-
what is in this heart, old and black?
as I lay in this, my heath of images-
all warping and swirling above my bed,

and death haunts and linger in the corner of my eye,
and I realise large parts of my lie,
and I am cold to the bone,
fattening like a pig by the day,

I shall be as poe, dying slowly day by day -
amongst the red red roses, lank hair and morbid tone.
Synthetic whisper in the woodland greet,
I ran, I could not stop, meek to the core.

Entombed in happiness, quiet and forever unspoken
she lets me down, she will never cease.

I am Vampyre, and so is she.
soon to be-
******,
Eternally.
writing, love, poem, I love, I lover her, love poems, dark, gothic, goth, dark love poetry, romantic, romanticism
I am but air
in this hall of-
unreason

And I am square with myself;
I am alive, I do not breath
yet, I do and I must,

see-
the light
because I am the light and so are you,
you are there in all black dressed,
to the nines in the curtain rail twirling in the background.

I don't know what it means,
that's why they call it poetry.
a poem about the weather in Manchester
He's a self indulgent pig, a *******
you should of seen from the start,
I stared at him but did not judge,
though I did silently;
choosing to believe
the lie you sold yourself -
but he still did it anyway, didn't he?

'Thwack'
The Pig squeals

"A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down"

In that moment you should of ran,
faster than any muscle of man,
but you didn't did you? You made excuses, covered his tracks,
"He's sorry"
tell me where are you now?
hmm, Where are you now?
I ponder with pen at this late hour.

Irrelevant,
Is he Man?
Or an Obscene NurglePig-
"Worse than that, so End it" I said.

"He's sorry"

My eyes rolled deepset and ****** into the back of my head
for a lifeless eternity;
when those words left your lips,
I saw how weak you could truly be-
It horrified me.

The weakness of women, just another broken dame;
If I still yet had a heart that pulsed
I'd chuckle, Grimly, then maybe
- cry alone to forgot,
Thanks for that.

If you want a blunt that doesn't bruise - Truth.
Formless of agenda,
swallow this pill and listen;

Let's see-
you didn't run did you?
You stayed clawed to floor,
I had to soothe your sores, and talk;
Listen to your woes, another year.
of tolerating presence, burning eyes,
burnt.

I'm not sorry for what he did, if it wasn't me why would I be?
Maybe not so much now. I buried it, It's forgotten, sadly buried,
another woman's secret I'll add to my portfolio;
something that somehow become my responsibility to bear.
Guess what- stopped caring, Keep your own, Adults.

There will come a day I won't be at the bottom
of the stairs he threw you down,
commonly scarred and mottled, broken in my garden,
Weeping, the reasons plainly evident -
a piglet's insecurity.

And I'll just be standing there in a dark room beating his filthy
******* face into a puddle of pulp,
then the pulp into a puddle,
then the puddle to chunks for the endless void,
grab that final chunk of flesh and throw the empty
carcass to the ******* dogs.

The dead pig revealed, screaming in agony
pathetic red stain on the floor,
more gore than the heaviest flow.
How's that for a show?
Best show ever, Period.

Bye for now, and don't take me for a fool;
Your compassionate tool-
Because I am not that,
and neither are you.
Poem about domestic abuse and being in the middle of that ****.
and feeling powerless, regret and that. Trigger warning I guess
Jul 2017 · 295
The Black Dog keeps guard
I can feel my heart dying
it's pulse weakens
as I lay in this,
filth;

My life -
I understand
to be man,
I must **** my heart
raise it like a Mayan god
and give into the grey
it can end no other way -
I am a dog, not a man.
Jun 2017 · 248
The men with Rolling eyes
Men at bars cuddle their Mothers,
though the membrane of the woods smothered,
Soul drowning to find ache, curt
and half cut, been there - hurts
lost soul, he stares into nothing.

Who is he? Choking
silent clock descends, lowers
his spirit, that noir beast dreams,
he begins to lurch,
compelled move on, yet frozen
ice to the pool, cement in steel.
Jun 2017 · 457
E = BP (1 + 2)
One has a degree in Physics,
the other in Computer Science
Both have Bipolar 1
struck now from Societies grasp
Valued less than paupers
so self fulfilling be.

"We are your future" they
whisper angrily under bated breath
as finance Cabal wonder kids in
******* mausoleums sneer and jeer
in their prisms of skill and bone.
One million pound bonus just for doing their job
whilst we remain alone, penniless poets.

There is no justice, change
or before you know it we'll
change it whilst you
sleep, recombine the singularity
tuned into our frequency,
change. Or you'll feel the snap
of your Reptile necks.
White noise on the monitor
brittle and bitter loathing
excited by nothing but
the something under bed.

#speakless
#feelmore?
#twittering
all such useless noise.

Action is essential -
"pessimism of the intellect
optimism of the will"
wrote Gramsci, rotting in his cell.

Machine gun fire from my fingertips;
I feel the words flow like some
maelstrom of masculine violence
on some long lost mental battlefield
some monolith of shame,
Monkeys.

You don't speak, you don't listen
you're encased in your own cage.
So am I. Alive half-dead,
brittle to the core with the
threat of indifference.
Dead with the action of knowing that one is at peace
with it, the fear of the self, divided
  -in two
blue? Oh yes, blue blue blue, blue blue blue.

Red pill, blue pill, truth.
Yawn, boring internet culture.
Yawn the squalid indifference.
Yawn the 21st century
Yawn the 22nd century etc etc
Yawn the suffocating critic,
Yawn your inaction,
Yawn my pretension,
Yawn my failed attempts at caring -
Not natural.

"Yes very clever, post it on the wall and
gain applause from the decaying crowd" she says,
"as they self implode out the echoes of
emptiness, measured monolith"

I scrawl -
"no more of this".
Burning brain can crush and does frequently so don't tempt
it to go Godzilla, I can do it with ease.
Crush cities in my mind. Bombastic ******* when push
and shove meet in urban jungles.

Painful Pan Pen Ease, woodland industrial spirit crush
Boom.

The title is a clue,
Go away.
Jun 2017 · 331
Melting Mask
It's late but still I am awake
slithering soul, tears in a city of angels
hidden and alone, mourning day.

A sheltered concave anonymous cackle mires behind,
I look for something in this finality
and find nothing, I always could before.

My mask falls late at night and early morning,
in a moment with my back turned to the world,
I let my mask slip, and all I find is raw -
the visions seep, all that I saw and see.

A final moment I can never undo, even though I want to
I wish I could save you, I know I can't now, time
machine come, a chance to say a proper goodbye, why
has this happened to you, in your hour of need
I was not there, I remember the way you laughed despite it all,
and smiled.

I can't look at machines anymore, it's a reminder of that.
That final tragic moment that I can't wash now from memory
as much as I wish to, weeping willow tree, alive
with the memory of a man I once knew, living and free.
Your face frozen in my minds eye, why?

I think my mask must fall, and let you in,
a way to grant you access to this world again
for fleeting moments, from the beyond.
Goodbye my blood. Double eyes, seen.
Poem written in response to a recent death in the family
Jun 2017 · 349
An Island sits in ruin
This Island sits in ruin
split down the middle, ruined
tune of the howling dog
lost in the fog, black
and brazen beast, hair.

I walk down sunlit streets,
immersed in the solemnity
that is my want. I reverse, rewind
and play it all back, the screams,
the endless chasm of the undertow
lying on the other side of the street.

All God and no religion, all zest without
meaning, It's enough to drive one mad -
it has.

Tracing back memory to find the skin
all I find is a wolf staring back
with hollow hungry eyes, the beast that feasts
at **** of dawn, day by day, inside.

The Island is split down the middle.

The Dog lays leaden over a hung court,
we want a world that makes more sense
but we can't really see it, albeit in
distance, no it's not here.

Yet, the Island is split down the middle.

What's here is the sound of dizzying cries,
the flesh of the innocent burnt for Mamon
the burnt umber of the spirit, it provides no comfort,
none.

I dream of someone or something to pull me out of this
perfect calamity, peace is a world I can scarcely remember -
such pain, such leaden cliches.

Nothing is ever perfect, the Tertiary turning of the *****
the wolf howls and paddles in his boat towards a fresh death.
Whimpering soul of me, drowning in a cup of coffee, lost, afraid
and lacking faith. I swim. Drown sometimes, then resurrect, unfortunate and unwilling Lazerus. Blinking into mortal light.

Each day is another trial, the end seems far away, and close at the same time.
I don't think this one has a happy ending.

Divide by 2, create 1.
Apr 2017 · 666
Burning
Burning

Burn burn burn
turning around and around in a world
gone mad on illusion,
be glad to scrawl some truth
on the walls of self,
this prison we create for ourselves
endless as the space between things
atomic glances in the glaciers
of arctic reality, alone.

Alone and with you, just you
alone, alone with you, just you.

You don't exist, I am here, alone.
Loneliness the barricaded cliche;
a comfort from the complexity of Pandora cities,
lived network, passing moments, waste,
waste bucket lies and lives -

Cries in the sombre darkness of the city streets
heathens and homeless burning, dying
spice addicted fiend crying in empty
alleyways, and me alone, crying, dying
slowly, in this cage of my own creation,
the only thing that keeps me sane -
creation of hope, "delusion you dope" says
voice inside, burning bright demon.

Burn and fry, mottle and cascade downwards,
find yourself in the dirt of experience
and avert your gaze to the heavens.

What choice do we have?
The alternative burns and haunts my soul.
Endlessly, needlessly
Burn baby burn.
Mar 2016 · 1.3k
Philosophy of Cloud Watching
When floating on down avenues of deep subconscious
remember to stare upwards for at least 10 minutes a day
and contemplate the life of a cloud;

To that transitory vapour,
project with your iris the world you wish to manifest
in passing minutes
towards that passing station-

internal vision dominates
the human mind speculates
and accommodates,
what it wants to see -

with each passing minute
with each wasted day

Life flashes before eyes
concrete and grass
lying down and getting lost
in a deep death that breeds
everything and nothing,
Dissipating contradictions in the sky.
Mar 2016 · 580
Love and silence.
Just you and me and the silence in between things
hello cruel world, once more Venus in pearls
hollow echo:
the only way to conquer your fears is to face them,

to splinter a beady eye with glowing heart
first explode out your heart and intellect
combined in a style not
unlike Omega man.

to
ritualise the intent
to
combine the helix
to
hypothesise the meaningful
to
to forge cast irons in the realms of
the imagination

Fky high Omega, manufactured man
manufacture ideals
create new deals
and fielding questions from
professors draped in death black cloth;

Try and just lie back and relax
lie back and relax
relax,
relax.

It's worth not thinking too hard,
being silent in your  backyard
it's worth keeping that silence
as it's golden, yes
sometimes it is golden,
always it is golden.

sometimes the silence is all we have
and all we should have,
it's the unsaid things that hit you most
on dark nights, unsettled in a house that
shall not breed indifference
this poet writes in the third person.

In a forth wave of inspiration
something emerges which
seemed previously impossible;

Happiness, contentment
a form of therapy, a method
that does not breed indifference

These words are my fire
these words are my soul
please take my words
and burn them
into yourselves

cage your skin, and enjoy the silence because it's
where we all will one day return to globe of
warmth, death, a deep slumber, an afternoon spent napping
by a fire.

An ambience of merry mourning. Sunlight drapes in through window
reminding me of her. Ethereal glow, sheltered presence.
Who is she? And who am I,  
really?

the silence ringing
Ringing, ringing
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing

language is a power
unlock yours
and smile.
Smile wider than the sun
knowing all will be well
and all is.

the silence ringing ringing, ringing,
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing
worlds collapsing
Mar 2016 · 1.1k
Pyramids processing
Way past 12
yet still I am awake
the world sin,
in a pen
conforming lights,
this is the world now?
digitized in bytes
digitized in bites and bytes.
we are ever distant, we don't
gaze at each other on these nights
we just digitize , digitize bytes
process instead of feel
and distract ourselves
forever encased in the mud of the machine.
Lets jump on the lifeboat
and find ourselves homes
to root in, not another boot that breaks the skin
Emote, and feel
don't process
with a zeal that begs
Inspired by listening to Radiohead Pyramid song late at night,
or is it morning? :)
Mar 2016 · 480
Daydream on the DLR
I so often get lost on the train
my mind wonders – to strange and thoughtful places,
I seep through the carriages and people like a gliding ghost
half existent in transient memory,

a translucent thin veil membrane separating me
from this reality,
and the shifting worlds of imagination.

My imagination overwhelms me often, it is powerful and I feel lost
in my internal worlds and can't connect to anything external from my own process,

my own neurosis – I want to get beyond my neurosis,
my fears, my ****** little set backs.

Fear itself becomes a huge beast in my mind,
a multi-limbed Kali staring at me with half crazed eyes,
meeting me with the intention of true chaos – a challenge.

I wish to climb the ladder that suddenly appears and become myself;
Infinite in direction and potential

I want to love myself and be loved.
I want to love,
I want to love.

I stare out of the window again, streets, signs and derelict buildings
zoom and melt into one huge encompassing space,
one straight up urban landscape.

And as I am enveloped in this concrete world
via the mechanistic medium of train

I wonder:
/
Will I ever feel better?
will I ever feel peace?
Will I ever know love?
will I ever understand?
and do I really want to?

Truth is such a hard pill to swallow in the end.
I imagine anyway, I imagine.

Do you ?
I wrote this ages ago when I was living and working in London, capturing the feeling of feeling a bit lost on the DLR train.
Mar 2016 · 837
He Said, She Said
My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;

'We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee'
poet.

So to you I said 'I'm ill'
'Care to spill?' she hisses.
'Yes' I said

My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
'Prince and King Godber'
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded  dwarf on a throne.

She responds;
simple, ******, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain't slept...
Small ****? Na ****, but let's not go into it tonight,
*****.

In her dreams he's laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn't know till it was too late.

The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire

Pain. Passion, Nighttime.

'Do what thou Wilt' says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.

I did, I do, I do - boom boom. no one laughs.

She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don't you just come dance outside
****** away those cobwebs in your hair

so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to **** myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.

Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.

Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming **** this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half ******,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that's saying something.

Come and bathe yourself in my immortal ****, she bleats
'look it up in your encyclopedia of shames'
you'll just find a picture of a woman.

It's intoned meaning
It's poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.

screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum *****.
Puke. Puke, ***** on the doormat.

Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna **** us.

Already has.

**** it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don't go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.
This poem is primarily about the distance that often occurs between men and women when they don't talk to each other directly enough from their own lived experience. A schizoid howl in the dark.

In one sense a poem about intense conflict, in another a poem about moving forward and learning to accept my own weaknesses.  

The use of graphic strong words and language is just there to emphasise the game that is at play within the words, namely the games men and woman play with each other through life to destroy each other, metaphorically., I hope if needs moderating that this is understood.
Feb 2016 · 460
The Voice of New Jerusalem
Breathless whispers linger in newly formed spring air,
grace descends upon this green and pleasant land
we root from, spirit is commonplace and pure,
her thighs, the warm shores and inviting cliffs of Dover.

Her heart;

She loves her sons and daughters on
Sunday mornings, ripples on canals,
lovers skimming stones and crows in flight fight
near old and lonesome friends, these trees to some
are yet proud pillars to others who we perceive,
in brief hourly timeless glimpses

her natural beauty.

On these old and bustling streets:
rain patterns form eclipse of life and death
reflections, light refracting in puddles, melting
into moments with the bravery of lions, roaring.

Does the lion now roar?

Whisper strange island, whisper,
but roar when it is necessary and right,
roar when it is right.
roar when it is right.

Her voice;
roars
A poem about England
Feb 2016 · 441
Cosmic Haikus
Cosmic Haiku
Suns explode spit out
the building blocks of mankind -    
solar sacrifice

Gravity acts on
all solar objects in space -
balance of the earth

Man looks at the stars
admires their sublime beauty -
memory of birth

Black hole swallows whole -
stars meet the oblivion
greet death as all do
Feb 2016 · 514
Pale Blue Eyes (Renewal)
Traces of a diluted former joy, form a pattern across her face.
I can see it, I recognise it in my own face after-all.

Her pale blue eyes glance at me and then skirt away, silently
with a look that says 'bite'.
'Powerful Crystalline orbs of light',
- from lady of the lighthouse.  

Yet;
Curled up in spiral spaces, away from the movement of bustling outside.
She sits, attentive, alert, upon her spiral staircase.

Lighthouse stacked with books, her sensitivity marked within surface of page and pen.
She sends out beacons. She reads, She writes, She saves. She cares,
Actually.

Her soul comes rooted from the rings of trees and can be glimpsed
on silent nights to those who have the eyes to see;
Noble, wise, Scholarly, Strong, kind.
Absence-  'Melancholy Tree'
currently lacking roots?

Now: To pale blue eyes, I say this is where it hurts, and I'm sorry, truly.

Absence is: Room reverberating with loss, memories of a time gone past,
an excavated minute. A man who meant the Earth to her, 'More than that' she whispers quietly from the dream, the spiral staircase, the lighthouse where she still sits shuddering, cold, lonely, still, still.
Sending out beacons, never letting others in.

Her eyes are strong, focused, attentive, she sees each detail yet still she
misses moments of magic, when our two worlds collapse inwards,
glimpsing a zenlike nothing and everything at once.

Getting lost in that mystery, the cloak of trees, reverberating.

The deep breeze, the ground beneath our feet.

The air, the sea, the wind, the trees.
Freedom, maybe.

Through winds that blow here, now,
Love of the world which chose to bring her in whispers quietly -

Your Future Now:
Peace for pale blue eyes,
No more skirting in concrete corridors of mind.

These are my desires for you -
Resolution - Breathe, Live.

A tactile unfolding.
New Year. New You.
We are Nature -
and Nature is us.

We come from stars, one day we'll be dust
but don't despair, don't pull out your hair,
one day we'll become more than sum of parts.
(everything under the sun).
We'll be free.

For now, scouring scenic stars in mind
ascending, spiral cars -
launch ourselves beyond our limits, in mind;
to dream a dream that millions would not dare,
and only you can.

Dare.

Black and tar like sky-masks swamp in a sea of dense black nothing.
but lights blast through -
Love in 4 dimensions.

Time,
Space,
Width,
Breadth.

This ending is an eclipse.
Stream of conciousness with some editing afterwards
Who's the boy that hides in corners?
Sat cross-legged and grinning at passing clouds,
his form evades detection, to the average eye.
Invisible and alone (at times).

He looks out of windows, observes raindrops drip-drop
as arcs from on high, like bitter tears, slow and deliberate.

He's dreaming of places he can root and grow, imagination.
Learning to embrace the poetry of letting go.

Letting go to love and root, a flash of endless scenic hills,
building patch-worked palaces in towering skies, crystalline vistas
in his mind, the mechanisms of his method, compulsion
of creation. 'His Imagination'.

'I am a dictate of randomness, structured into cohesion by heart
and mind beating in unison.' He thinks quietly to himself, in his corner.

'He lives in his own head for sure' they claim,
with narrowed eyes in corridors,
but few have a heart as quietly encompassing or as full,
as the boy that hides in corners.
Dec 2015 · 1.2k
SAMO
Basquiat - radiant child
made daring visions wild with
frenetic energy, frantic rhythm
with paint on his Armani clothes
with paint on his Armani clothes
with paint on his Armani clothes

If only you’d worn that AARON helmet,
and donned a suit of armour the
day the needle pricked too far,
spiked the skin with ******.
Artist and millionaire.
A walking contradiction
which could not hold.

You began by scrawling truth on walls
your graffiti battle cry,
‘did fame consume you?’
‘just another tragic star?’
I dunno,
I just know
RIP SAMO
Poem for the artist J M Basquiat
Dec 2015 · 482
Dreaming of Black Rainbows
Infinite flake of destiny fall
upon outstretched broken hand,
cursed by ages dying
in some distant abstract land
in some abstract distant land,
in some land abstract distant
in some ritual, literal heaven.

An old eye watches all
flickers ////
blinks ----
in a crowded empty room
that fills my gut with a fear larger
than I dare Imagine - blank cells
crawl away, consume lining.

A gilded sense of depths of desire
riddles the head of my Medusa mind
with tales of half borne inquiry and
half formed sensual prodding
to daze me in the dead of night or morning
(can’t remember which or cannot tell)

Lift self up on the crucifix - feed the totality
tone of self sacrifice until that day the sheep
finally fold and swallow their own tails

till the end of time - to the end of the matter
borne from it, until universe is crushed under
the weight of it’s own promise
retuned again to zero point.

Rain down a halo upon this ancient marble
witness a black Rainbow
forget the ***** that chew at skin
and fly
into
the
sky
and
dreaming of black rainbows beat the tune
of aching hearts set to 11.

— The End —