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lloyd britton Feb 2017
There are no images to which to view,
Except those that are in the mind,
My clothes are plain they do not matter,
No jewellery decorates my fingers nor face,
And although my hair is dyed I await the time,
When I shall chop it off and start again,
Being someone who loves the soul.
lloyd britton Feb 2017
Quaquaversal confusions setting,
Pondering completion and regretting,
Mistakes and deep hard decisions,
Lines against flesh bleeding excisions.
Putting the past within the past,
And not looking back, making happiness last,
Lasting emotion and renew a sense of meaning,
Learning devotion, wanting the strength from my leaning,
Leaning on God as inspiration,
Paying my penance as co-operation.
Still uncertainty lingers around,
But unrelenting hope is what I have found.
lloyd britton Feb 2017
Had t5here been a bet5t5er greet5ing,
Dist5ance t5ravelled bet5t5er seat5ing
T5rain t5raverse on lines t5hat5 cut5,
Cut5t5ing t5hrough t5he land const5ruct5.
A measure of a cert5ain t5y6pe.
A measure of a purple st5ripe.
Baggy6 t5[-shirt5 loosened t5ie t5at5t5y6 t5orn.
Drag a comb t5hrough t5hat5 hair,
Dist5ant5 vacant5 wishingly6 purposeful st5are.
Say6 no t5o t5hat5 correct5 my6self.
Place t5hat5 cheap cologne on t5he shelf.

Once t5here was a t5all high hill,
T5hat5 once t5he knight5s carouse t5heir fill.
Will climb t5hat5 hill and climbing higher.
Like t5o t5he st5eeple of t5he church t5he spire.
Point5ed on high t5o a st5ar t5hat5 shine.
And shed It5’s light5 on t5he aspect5 of t5hine.
T%o t5umble down once climbed t5o t5he t5op,
And once t5he falling fell t5hen st5op.

Cont5inue deeper, cont5inue t5o smart5,
And deeply6 seat5ed creat5ed dist5ance depart5
And place t5he horse before t5he cart5,
T5hen know t5he meaning of word in art5.

T5he meadows light5 fills on t5he glade
And t5ravel ablout5 t5he dancing shade,
And as t5hese t5wo places glean,
T5here will be more and more t5o be seen.

T5hrough gradient5s of a penumbra,
And wit5h a cert5ain t5icking number,
When t5hings in shadow cower
And t5hings in light5 begin t5o flower
T5hen smiles on faces, dance and graces
Of t5his and t5hat5 and quicker popper flat5.
Chug chug chug of engine st5eam,
T5he rain of t5hese t5hings are bet5t5er off
T%han a conduct5or wit5h a splut5t5ery6 cough.
t5his is writ5t5en wit5h a broken key6board t5o add t5o t5he visual aspect5 of t5he poem.
lloyd britton Nov 2015
The sparkling resplendence of tarnished rumination, the thoughts of her cutting like blades bloodied and boiling with ether,
Like glittering gallows where we hang up the trills of lost trauma, banging on gongs and on pots and on pans, crashing through the headspace with decadent and sumptuous thrilling complication,
His hands a scribbling scribe that wallows and wails in the pale of the night, while following the foe of non-sleep fain all fright and find the delight,
His description and usage remaining elusive of how lovely her feature, how delicate her sentience a well-crafted creature, his prose turned to poem and poem to epic and epic to clinging epiphytes of language, not lulling and forever becoming more than that which he saw there upon the gravel and crunching sounding floor,
For the floor of his mind is like trudging over hot coals allowing the pain of the flame to devour the pain of not knowing what comes next, trying for timeless metaphors that appear naked and **** without garment or raiment and such is the payment of prose,
Quivering quills of peacocks long forgot now scrawled on the parchment, the ink of jet black is spilt and flows over the page and lost all the words like the shore on the sand erasing returning the gift of creation back to its rightful owner,
Now pondering the omen and hating himself for his tragic mistake his story lost forever for he will never remake or rebuild that amazing love letter, whipped to the gutter,
Before his tongue stutter his chest starts to flutter, now pick up that instrument of poetry and grow without wilting and disseminate what you create,
For to get so far and fail and try again then you are an artist, rewriting what was heard, even though it is blurred with the fading memory, and that is the identity of art.
lloyd britton Sep 2015
Incomprehensible murmur,
With the paragraph of rhythm,
This is spoken with precision,
This is tokens of decision.

Clearer comes the thinking,
All this clarity is linking,
In the choice that’s somewhat pivotal,
We are heading to the principle.

The principle is singular,
The third eye slowly opens,
Causing massive bursts of intuition,
Slowly, deeply comes fruition.

Dissolving all digression,
Of the subject which is changing,
Of the ego growing weaker,
And the capturing of spirit.

Nonsensical arrangements,
And the quality of concepts,
As they spring forth from the chasms,
And the truth is born from spasms.

Decoration of the poems,
That are bounding in the ether,
Revelation of the notions,
Now disguise them as prediction.

Listen to this, listen to this,
Ask this question, ask this question,
What picturesque is slowly shaping,
With the inhale exhalation?

Here is the gift of presentation,
Of allegorical equation,
It is fabled, it is legend,
It is myth in mead fermented.

In a drunken state of passion,
Drunk on prolix word-elixir,
Here we are now, here we are now,
In this fine-tuned endless moment.

Now keeping with this concept,
Shall we look a little deeper?
Looking at the present moment,
Philosophical emotion.

With everything in motion,
It’s a constant transformation,
Now here’s the complication,
When everything’s vibration.

The solid dense hard matter,
Is creating an illusion,
Make your mind like flowing water,
And you’ll see pass the confusion.

I feel it in my chest now,
And I feel it in my heart,
Pure as light this information,
Coming from all creation.

Now if this seems a little muddled,
And the data’s far from clear,
I have just one suggestion,
Which is halt your calculations.

Let us take the scenic route now,
It takes a little longer,
Due to dancing in the stanzas,
More suggestive, less corrupted.

It is less about the concept,
And more about feeling,
Like a lost one timid grieving,
And the purposeful believing.

I hope you get my meaning,
And the meaning full of lessons,
If you’re looking with your logic,
They will all remain elusive.
lloyd britton Jun 2015
Here is the object, the object of my heart,
With a description, let us start,
A subtle depiction, let the vague depart.
Travelling through my mind I am a seer.
I’m in love with an idea,
This idea is an untouchable spectre,
And with my intuitive detector,
I detect its origin, it’s in my soul,
But now with the desire coming in,
Coming in in bounds and flicks and one mighty roll,
I remember what the silence stole,
The silence of this concept,
And I reflect, on the reason why no answer is coming,
I must stave off this crumbling,
Crumbling of my heart, must keep it beating and drumming.
Oh why is it so unforthcoming?
Because I can’t imagine the words of another,
It would only be another word from my mind.
And I find, and I discover,
This idea is love with intricacy,
Such a delectable delicacy.
I feel it in its immediacy,
Concretely. But initially, lacking intimacy.
Where do I turn to find such a thing?
A connection beyond the cogitations,
With passionate love to bring,
A reflection of my desideration’s.
Consecrations of the heartbeats,
Longing is strong and hope never retreats.
You can do no wrong with love in your being,
That is what the world needs
For us to sow seeds,
But that’s not what I’m seeing,
I gander but do not witness,
The sprouts of love and peace,
Let’s plant them in the stillness,
And feel the release,
The seed that will grow,
Soon they will show,
And grow in emotive ways,
It never decays,
Come on now let’s increase,
All of our compassion and empathy,
We are not each other enemy.
A sudden caprice,
I feel it now and it is correct,
It’s helping me to connect.
And we need that so much more than you think,
For when we’re all gone and others remain,
The world will drink,
Our blood and our sweat and our pain.
It’s time to regain,
Our courage, let us stand tall,
And let forgiveness enthrall.
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