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H W Erellson Aug 2018
Is it still love or am I just used to it?
The everyday grotesque is just fine.
Content may mean good...
But the crying, why is it,
that I find it so easy
to walk away
H W Erellson May 2016
Some leaves
never give in to autumn
but blush red with anger
for too long.
H W Erellson May 2016
I think I left a domesday device
in big yellow storage-
no the grimoire, Doktor Dee
had that, think he lost it while absolutely ******
on K cider. Losing all his teeth.
The pages are scrunched up, trodden, sodden
on some minor wasteland path, probably in Coldean.
You know, those treacherous corners of *******,
resolutely and hopelessly parked upon by a dog ****.
Papa Lebron's been making it rain down
most of Lewes Road,
but it never floods.
Leads to the sea, you see.
Old warlords sit on monobloc chairs
outside the garages they rent out
with their war chests & loans,
gesturing slowly across the way to each other.

My shoes, my jeans, my jacket,
all falling apart.
What I need is to raise a
good old army o' the dead
and take those rusty garagesm
store them for ransom in Big yellow Storage and
for the bounty to roll right in.
check out more stuff at
H W Erellson Oct 2015
We shouldn't be remembering war
we should be remembering the aftermath
the smoking shells of homes,
the lasting hunger,
no Johnny or Jimmy or Dave or Sandra or Sarah or Marie
at the dinner table tonight
flowers gathering on graves.

Learn a God ****** lesson, don't retake the class
H W Erellson Sep 2015
salt stings wounds
salt stings eyes, entering, leaving...
healing, healing. The sea will take you away.
I tire of hearing abot these migrants
well they tire of the rick-shaw of an untested boat
of their homes becoming rubble & dust clouds,
of seeing blood in the dirt.
As long as there is war,
as long as there is famine
as long as there exists somewhere
called 'refuge'
then there will be refugees.
Oh child, rocked to sleep by the tide...
you should never have to answer for adult violence,
innocent & sleepy, sinless.
You have been written in blood in the old books
you have been decided for.
Your dice have been rolled by strange hands;
born amid angry eyes,
and so shall die,
washed ashore upon sand,
carried quietly away
to your final crib
to your refuge.
for alan kurdi
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H W Erellson Jul 2015
My boy...
You were going to grow up strong
in the dust of the village;
you'd nurture the weak wherever they'd lie forlorn;
you'd make life, in your love's belly,
in the soil,
in the lined smiles and creasing eyes
of young through old.
You'd ***** the land, modest, humble;
seeing the light of life for what it is,
taking & giving.
Sometimes you have to take- but you always give.
Life is unfair, but you would've broken your back
heaving the scales into balance...
Except you never will, my boy,
my blood, my name,
pale and silent,
uncoiling from your mother.
I held you in my arms, feeling in them the exhaustion, the gift of fathers, mothers, uncles, brothers, sisters, sons, daughters...
In your death I realised your not-life,
my boy. My love. My son.
H W Erellson Jun 2015
really really warm. she glances at me
Forget how ******* amazing
I forgot how much
bring an audience
yeah but lie on her bed

psychiatry is the wall...
you cannot belittle me. for i had a lovely day

a girl in the picture
wow i can't see With ice cold hands
the prettiest dresses are worn out
alone in a moment
I might've posted this before; I made it using one of those websites that makes random sentences from your accumulative facebook statuses. A bit of rearranging and here it is.
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