this modern nation is a quick read,
a stolen glance at a cue card -
a political pitch to the preoccupied
and a script for the social-scene-complacent -
cues are confused for cures
but you can't fix what's damaging itself
with every mindless media post;
sound the laugh track
and drown the issues.
criticize the bare human face,
watch, revere the irreverent -
celebrities paint a new mask,
become a vaudevillian magazine ad
and we can't stand ourselves as we are;
copy plastic faces, calm the nerves.
maybe it's vanity
or maybe it's a way to ignore
the person wearing the mask
because the blank face underneath
the oil-paint faux beauty
reminds us too much of what we've become;
only the faceless need to paint one on.
spin the truth so it tastes sweet
and acquiesce, swallow it down,
take it with a dose of the relatable
and some self-medicated doubt
while the paper we crave digs our graves.
it's all fake but it's safe
so we accept our reality,
overjoyed that we hide so well together.
but the youth thrives on boundaries
like they're fences that need jumping
and they get caught up in this world
that doesn't hesitate
to spit hatred at the innocent
and dismantle plans for peace.
too young, they're painting new faces,
facing the famed like they're gods,
shaping themselves in the image they see.
classic literature is laid to rot
in the corner of a room
lit only by a computer screen
and all we do is watch,
watch the flies collect,
follow the moths and maggots,
drawn to light and the smell of decay.

Your temper breaks the silence of the air
Ear shattering sounds emit violently toward me
One step, two steps closer ..not another step, please
I become deaf to the time

Rolled up fists, cocked and ready
Eyes bulging red with disdain
I hear the hissing sound of the steam kettle
I become crossed by the pressure inside

Lives are threatened by the pain you toss
Nothing to resort to but angry seams
I am being pushed to the brink by you
I become numb to the edge

I have counted the half seconds to fear itself
They mean nothing to me anymore
I am scared to face the reality of it all
I became the target of your aggression

Easy to dress and hard to address.

All that's left is lonely markers
silent words hardly ever read
where no one talks to their neighbours
centuries old stones at crazy angles
mourners heads bowed and hushed
wraiths moving in the mist
treading carefully amongst dead flowers
where even the poets rest their bones
- to sleep the longest sleep,,,,,

Burial? all the gasses will bloat your purpled body and you will **** and burp and moan and groan even when underground
while all the chemical changes slowly devour your innards
and you spill out the wooden coffin,( even with its ten year guarantee),
going back to a time you could never imagine
a mineralised gloup soaking back into the Earth
and slowly, ever so slowly, you will be washed back to the sea.

old poets
never die
nor do they
fade away
they live
on and on
every time
you turn
the page