Mos Def addict practicing my mathematics
multiplying gross deaths stacking high in my attic
banishing, your batting eyelashes in my hatchet
brandishing a reflection of death nothing can match it,
a packet of matches, three cans of gas am I mad *****?
I’m a man mastering cracks of dark arts from a sad witch,
tears of evil, blasting apart marked hearts, sew they can’t stitch,
so I can cross your eyes and harvest every last inch
of your body I’ve got hauled high with my crass winch.
Dangling like abattoirs meat hanging upside down by your feet,
never is the time that I will retreat,
secreting discreetly in your petite physique,
desecrated secretly I never cease with the heat.
I’m a clever beast with the sweet smile of a pre-school teacher
I’m a leach, I’m an evil preacher,
I’m worse than a priest with someone not quite senior in reach.
I beseech you to keep my smile in mind when I breach
the regular limits of sin, an when the victim begins
spinning within the rhythm of my limb precision
positions a physician would think weren't natural
constructions. Causing concussions with my bone crack percussion
discussing the disgusting repercussions of being obstructive
with a kind as destructive as mine its reductive to imply
that I’m stuck with a mind superior to thine, let the subtleties shine,
you’re an inferior design, obsolete, so the premise is supremacist
there’s no preventing this, the evidence is left in every crevice of the premises.

The swallow kept my eye,
for a sixth of an hour,
before observing a cat
with almighty presence and power.

This feline affected me also,
making me an eternal predator.
Showered in blood, that of its victim’s,
Proud, purring, devouring torso.

It was proud of this blood,
as far as I understood anyway.
Like war paint.
A declaration.

I enjoy the ****.

Everywhere around me I see it dig it’s filthy teeth
deep. Taking a hold of so many souls, direct or not.
Walking hand in hand with Life, tainting purity
with its dark essence. Life’s incandescence under
hand, hidden in the palm of Death’s minion.
But Death cannot see the path of Life. Stop.
The path does not stop, not for this
soldier; he marches on. Strong. One
step at a time, forward.
Forward he marches, grip
loosening. Hand
rid of evil.
It’s gone,
live on.

He hits the **** switch and lets automated ****** begin,

an autocratic order of sin activated.

Multiple acts of hatred; trapped and baited out

to break our faith in humanity.

He holds a chalice of malice

and a sceptre set to insanity.

Can it be that he keeps an absent mind

hidden in his rage? Caged.

His vanity leaves him blind to atrocity,

a kingdom of states united by authority.

Live by the button,

**** by the gun of another man,

who die for the oil pumped through his black heart.

Call his wars; the dark art of offence,

the dark heart of profit.

What is a life worth to a man with nothing

but people skills. The skills to play the people,

who **** to pay the bills. Power unchecked.

Retrospect allows the backbenchers nothing

but regret. Power unchecked.

First past the post never holds the most votes

but they hold the host and create the ghosts,

the martyrs, the heroes of war, the dearly departed,

who they never thought of as too dear.

Quite the opposite; a small price to pay.

Moves into third, fourth, fifth,
indicates left, down the sliplane-onto the bypass.
Flash!
A crash course replays.
The tyre bursts, spins out
off the crash barrier and into the 4x4 behind.
Then nothing but a burning wreck,
consumed by hatred filled flames.
Then down the tunnel back to reality…
Up the sliplane. Safe now.
Just a collision thought.

I need to get this clock fixed,
take the time to make two locked fists.
I'm not ******, just an angry man
wondering if you can block this tirade
as I walk the Devil's terrain trying to stay away from the watch list.
Now, what's this? Someone insane, deranged
circling all of the boxes, fitting
no spaces. Closed faces faced with the most basic,
basest notions of what it is to be abrasive.  
I'm laced with hatred, pacing the naked floorboards.
Repeat; not wasted. A tar tongue tarnished
by the distaste harnessed, placed with
vile eyes to see through veiled lies, blatant.
I surmise you're demise will bless me with
the chance to push you from the precipice,
leaving you with no sentiment
just another piece of sediment.

This is the title of my second self published title; it is a collection of poetry by myself and as you all know getting your work recognized en masse isn't easy, so if any of you could type that into amazon and maybe buy a copy that would be a great help to me :)

Thank You

Confined to the minds barrels,
trapped inside four white, wooden walls
that wash me with light;
creating eternity. An eternity
where your face is forced forth
with splintered teeth, wood grain whispers.
Air evades my lungs
breathing in, panic, locked
away. To stay and rot. My tongue
may become a meal; I don’t need words in here.
This chambers grand design
is an endless emptiness.
My mind’s faced with this shameless
white graceless space which
aggravates my dark creativity.
This great sin in me is great and willing me
to spill the hate hidden deep.
The rays rebound perpetually. The silence
perplexes me. Perplexes me. The silence
confined to the double barrels.
Your face, perpetually, stretching its imprint
across these walls. Blurring, screaming terror.
Eyes open, burning, comfort in the darkness
learning the eyelids inner charms.
Not the vastness. Eyes open. Terror.
Tear away these fantasies;
isolations imagination identifies with my demons.


The blank space is filled with cacophonies,
agony, smiles in the emptiness stretch beyond capacity. Silence.
Whispers, these wood grain whispers splinter my eardrums.
No matter how I try to pick (axe) them out,
this imaginary pencil doesn’t dig deep enough.
I hear no calligraphy. No beauty
finds me in here, this box of light
holds my plight and creates a world where I know no night.
I hold no right, I cannot wrong,
there’s nothing left, I hold no rite,
there’s no day to escape for sleep,
no knight to bring me dreams, no left to take me to the right place,
I am so bereft of time. Am I dead?
Dying? Lying here in wait, lying  to myself,
declining in health. Declining life.
The silence is hexing,
dissecting each piece of what’s left of me.
The canvas screams, it wants to know my nightmares,
to feel their bloodied paint on its flesh.
I’m the worm in the water.

As an adult I have a sub-conscious mind,
which entertains my irregular dreams.
So are the dreams of a baby dreams of no kind?
Colours and shapes lacking their titles,
dark space and sounds, no word from the bible.

Ignorant bliss?
I think not as I rewind my dormant thoughts.
Remember my adventure in a land without time.
whether pleasant or not I wake up alive.
Though as I run through the trees, lost in the wild,
there’s excitement in mind, yet life can be mild.
Life is so structured.
The structure within dreams is rather more fragile.
No gravity and teleports.


Entire lives within seconds.

Which would you chose?
Dreams of no kind?
A land without time?

Dylis stands on corners,
rose lights above her head.


Cars drive slow at turnings,
seeing special offers.
The ones of great disgrace,
but she is there to proffer.


They would skulk away,
into a quiet place,
driver moves her downards.
‘Til he can’t see her face.


He slips a fifty into her palm
She takes it and smiles,
knowing she’ll need not do that,
for a lengthy while.


Her objective is but living,
hence she must keep giving.
Men and women… any creed.
All the seedy pleasures that they think they need.

Dylis on a table,
tag around her toe.
She tried to make it somewhere.


Dylis on a table,
disease around herself.
She tried to make it somehwere.


Dylis on a table,
She tried to make it somewhere.
AIDS the on to travel,
she has found herself nowhere.


Dylis on a table,
tag around her toe.
She tried to make it somehwere.
Had to let life go.

I think we should all semi-colon close brackets or capital D,
we need to make time to just be semi-colon capital P.
Just be happy, maybe even throw in a colon close brackets.
Refrain from creating stress with semi-colon capital S,
on hearing an opposing opinion don't be offended, semi-colon capital O.
Just accept it, let go, there is no need to be so semi-colon forward slash.
Turn that open brackets around, there's no need to frown,
drop that greater-than arrow and take things less seriously.
Seriously there are many things to less-than arrow three in this world,
don't overlook the little things. Appreciate them.
Give them an open brackets capital Y close brackets,
maybe even an asterisk applause asterisk.

Send out the message, keep up that semi-colon capital D.

(Before you read this, this is only applicable to my experience, I'm not judging you if this is still your life; it's written more because it was my life and I wasn't living.)


At the time I thought it helped me socialise,
now it’s no surprise I look through anti-social eyes;
supplied with a look over the shoulder guise.
Bored of chasing a broken prize, smoke n lies
I chose to thrive, pry open these permanently closing eyes.
It was the bane of my existence,
now my resistance is high instead of me.
I better be the best pedigree of I.
Instead of the guy flying with eyes far from wide
spying those that despise trying to get inside my mind,
to find they aren't real. Addicted no longer,
uplifted, higher than leaves can carry,
now you’re green with envy while I parry
back your attacks and crack on.
I blow-back your slow trap and reflect upon your affliction
I’m best without your friction on my lungs,
now I’m cutting you with the diction from my tongue,
no grinder.  Now my mind’s up to speed,
no amphetamine, no dependency,
it certainly seems that I’m living better than I could ever dream.
I’m an evergreen standing steady for centuries.
At the time I thought it helped me socialise,
now it’s no surprise I look through anti-social eyes;
supplied with a look over the shoulder guise.

You need not know what my name is
just that I’ve been searching for infinity on high
in a Saturday super house and all I have found are puzzles.
Only revolutions of the same songs from under the cork tree
So far I have only found the back room
and the darker side of nonsense.
The blood of the scribe is surfacing
and right now, I can see a slug and an ant racing
through the atmosphere of my sleeve to see where smart went crazy.
Breaking a commandment; thou shalt not ****.
The magician’s assistant couldn’t see crazy coming
from the thirty six chambers.
Formally the boy in da corner,
I’m travelling through the streets
to find my own summer (shove it).
The way I am, never better, just another P.O.S
trying to be quiet and drive (far away).
Taking the eight mile road in my mind
to bring me straight outta Compton,
finding my California love to tell her
“I don’t need brighter days, I’ll always be coming back home to you.”
I need to liberate change (in the house of flies)
and allow them nine crimes and a rootless tree.
I’m in the mineshaft with no skeleton key
falling helplessly into the spin of 99 problems.
None shall pass me, no kings
no soldier following a hand built by robots.
Nothing smells like teen spirit in here
nor the disassociative stench of *******.
I’m sick 2 def of everyday I spend
without a southern fried intro.
If I could shoot the cool from my machine head
then there would be a way to put you on the game.
I’m trying to find no enemy in this life
that’s always comedy tragedy history but
all I can see are yours and my children
right on the edge of a new psychosis;
too many of them finding the bad touch
of a kiss with a fist
that they saw in a violent *******,
thinking it was the discovery channel.
Not a day goes by that I’m not writing yet another
letter to my countrymen saying let me tell you
nothing’s funny; the new danger is that
one of us is the killer in this champion requiem.
I’m by myself crawling to find a place for my head,
somewhere I can eat you alive, maybe in a boiler room
just like your significant other. I’ve got my revolver
and I’m putting a bullet in the head
of a street fighting man. With a pistol grip pump
I’m killing in the name of Maria
and the ghost of Tom Joad.
That’s my last resort - how I could just **** a man.
Results may vary,
but with every new Eyedea I am testing my abilities.
I’m watching spiders shimmy up aerials
to find themselves lost in Hollywood,
finding a blueprint to my culture.
I’m screaming save yourself renegades
keep your radio inactive and focus on your innervision.
So, let me be the last to say
with seven words;
there are few guarantees, so lovelife.

Lacerate

Laceration, Laceration, Laceration.
A pessimistic look back on a Tony Blair speech.
It could be said that that’s what he has done.
Our former ‘Great’ Britain’
brought down to it’s knees.

NO freedom of speech.
NO freedom at all.
It’s all so P.C.

Zoom in to the human  few who view the world in rose-tinted shades,
graze upon their perspective and be at ease with the world.
We all look up at the same sky, we all walk the same planet,
but we do not drink the same water, we do not think of death
before we name our sons or daughters.
Smaller scale; we do not live in the same estate,
the same country or state, we do not care for the same debates.

ASBO's or petrol prices?
Knife crime or mortgages?
Employment crisis,
divisions divided,
some benefit in this state,
some need state benefits.

Standing separate...
we are not the same and when we are
we are still different to the desperate, the desolate.
We are not the same, we all look up at the same sky,
but not for the same reasons, we may seek lost relatives,
we do not pray for rain.
We all look up at the same sky but does it hurt you to know helpless people need not die?

The media are the management,
the fear factory controlling British minds,
people afraid to fight, not willing to stand tall,
state their place, hold their ground.


They are happy to fall back,
retract their opinions, never react.


The media cast stereotypes,
negative images and cynical thoughts.
Destroying the trust in men and women alike.


Brainwashed, is what you think yours?
Or are your thoughts manufactured?

All tongues with no language, singing into the mist
ears leant, in the midst of a storm, no-one listens.
A thousand footprints, or more, just like my own
but not. Honing different paths. Eyes closed
the chaos drowns out all connection.
To this physical place.
Lost in the bubbles and chandeliers
melodic motion
meeting each recycled drop of the ocean.
the flames kiss the stars
as I raise my eyes and open.
A strain to focus on anyone’s face
any one place, misplaced identities.
Like a swarm of locusts we devour the night
lay waste to the ground. I stand in the centre
with an empty one foot diameter surrounding me.

I am a ceiling fan.

She wore a backless, black lace dress with such finesse. Impressed,
I stood and addressed her hands sweet caress delicately.
Showing interest, pressed close 'til the night called for rest.
Dressed to undress: the loose embrace of her lace falls.
Tracing her figure with my fingertips; a definite
ten. Morning arrives to frame her,
a golden silhouette asleep.
It's a shame sunlight fades,
a.m's never looked better.
Fragile features'
soft suggestion:
beauty.
Beauty.

Red dirt footprints tell this story,
follow them in to battle.
Follow them to their graves
for being brave little soldiers.

It's hard to hear these silent knights cry.
Invisible pawns,
serving a king in a game they are too young to understand.
The only shooting stars they wish upon
are warlords, whose bullets light up the night sky.

How are these boys supposed to become men?
All snakes, no ladders.
Thrown in at the deep end with lions and wolves,
these cubs don't stand a chance.

This is a whole new jungle book,
one with so many birds with clipped wings,
too many saplings cut down before their time,
an army of children letting clips ring.
Deprived of the bare necessities.

I’m still not comfortable
in the man o’ war.
I haven’t quite found that infamous label that is
apparently
attached to me, somewhere.
I’m enjoying dancing between the tentacles
trying not to get stung. So far
so good. But
as the man o’ war keeps growing
I go along with the tide;
ebbing further away
from the shore that’s flagged with my title.
Too far for telescope,
no hope of reading it, reaching further.
Mirage? Who’s to know.
The bruises show the wrong type of blueprint.
Soon I will be carried into the man o’ war
forevermore.

Tapping relentlessly on the warm metal table-top
I wait. I watch my watch to time the waitress.
I hate this. No more to do
than to classify humans; ''advanced'' mammal zoo.

Specimen one: Green-Eyed Duckling.
Looking up at her mother goose you can see
she doesn't seem to be finding a mirror.
If you were to ask me; no difference. Imperfect reflection.
Best not tell her though.

Specimen two: Naive Kitten.
Instantly smitten, with just a little heavy petting
never second guessing a seemingly simple relationship.
Take. Fake. Take some more.
Once it gets real, its too close to home.

Specimens three and four: Sympathy for the Mantis.
There's simply no way he can escape. It's not in his nature
raised to obey. She, can't see herself in the mother-in-law
it would shatter her control complex. Her whole context.
Destined to be consumed, he bows his head.

Specimen five: The Lioness.
She lays like an aggressive doormat
don't get too close, she might bite. Or worse
she might claw the ''not'' off the welcome mat
let you in and then play victim.

Specimen six: The Dreaming Sloth.
Floating on a magic carpet; going with the breeze
distinct aroma. Extinct diplomas.
Wasted. Talents wasted in two relaxed limbs
halfway through life, waiting for it to begin.

"Your coffee sir" she smiles.
A new profile; specimen seven
classified unknown.

Should you follow footsteps
walked in blackouts?

Age bring wisdom
to some.
To some it brings concrete
to set them in their ways
and it weighs them down to younger days.

Rage forms little more than a fist,
a tight grip that holds. It unfolds
under the eyelids; that's where he hides it.
In control of a beast
that should've been tamed or destroyed.

I saw prints in the debris of adolescence
and followed in an immature suit.
Eventually this led me into the night
docile, hostile and not always an honest smile.

An enemy that's almost like a brother to me
preys on my frailties, daily. But
if words form *****
then I am the four walls.

Why does it sometimes feel
like I'm the role model?

A scar remains,
a reminder of the past.
A scar is what you make of it.


A reminder of misery?
A certificate of achievement.
A scar is what you make of it.


A constant sign of what’s been done.
A battlescar of battles won.
A scar is what you make of it.

I’m the excommunicated extra extraditing
your excess excrement, extricating specimens
of your essence getting especially excited
call me the exorcist enlightened,
a devil exercising a frightening
double existence.
Conscious constant resistance
from a heavy conscience that lives in
the conscientious angel hidden
deep within a very contentious prison of flesh
fresh from living a half-life, given a dark light,
splitting apart like I’m shining through a prism.
Divine intuition combined with true sinning.
Pinning down angelic powers devoured in hellish prowess,
Tyler’s now a super-villain.
I’m my own double, troubled my other
call me Jorge Dostoevsky a symbiotic brother.

I dreamt of a girl, a girl who was dead.
She had lived in a house, a house where I conversed…
“what is your name?” A ghostly response,
my hearing refrained, unable to decipher.


Still she would tell me, what she attempted to announce,
her mouth now ******.
My courage became fear, I began screaming,
she whispered “don’t turn away”.
In fear I could hear, what she attempted to say.


I dreamt of a girl, a girl who was dead.
Her mouth was bleeding, but her lips were not red.
She lived in a house, a house where she said
“here’s where I died, one shot to the head”.


She continued to tell me of how she had died.
The way he had shot her, his absent guilt.
He was her opposite and told her “I tried”.
She wanted too much-too much as he thought.


I turned and I saw him, his expressionless face.
He said he felt nothing, neither did this former home.
“Not a place for feelings, if that’s what you do”
He would know,
he was her father after all…

To read is not to write. Liars.
Be the page.
A blank space ready to be defaced,
awaiting the chaos and serenity.
Folded to show two sides
torn, stained.
A story without words.
A shredded piece of paper
can say more than a meaningless sentence.
Allow the creases
the tears where the pen ran dry.
Live in your world, no escapism.
That’s what it is to write; life.

See me.  Hear me. Converse.
Generally I hate people.
Maybe if I got to know you,
I could hate you too?
I despise various types of self,
15, 16 through 19.
If life is a high court I judge all
for their discrepancies.
Procrastinators need now,
believers need reality,
liars need honesty but honestly
we’re too sensitive for honesty;
speak or hear.  So I speak clear right here.
Hear right. Arrogance needs insults,
the self-righteous need to take a look in the mirror and find their own.
False reflection, false affection.
Attention needs to be looked after,
Naïve views need blindsighting.  
You can’t love hate; if you hate love.
White lies make me get dark,
why bark if you’re not a dog?
Quit *******, deceit carries a receipt.
I’m just a flea itching to bite.
Eternal fuse, refuse to explode,
re-fuse, implode. Exposed.
Corrode societies iron clad prose of civility.
Severe sincerity.

A boat,
a world.
Sailing unseen
seas. Gathering
legendary creatures.
Mythical society
contained within a sailboat. One
world hidden within another, blind;
no normal man can see beneath. Inspect,
titans fire cannons, Charon runs sick bay.
Lady Lorely has all webbed hands on deck, the blue
men of the Minch guard the mighty Orpheus. Quiz
you they will on will power and skill, all mortal men undone.
Every battle is won by The Orpheus, without war.

Overlooked, underfoot, brushed aside
the bottom line is this: I’m sick of looking up.
My eyes are tired, facing the sky
trying to fill my cup, droplets from above,
sipping this rainwater aint the same
I’m drained. Loose change, who’s changed?
Seems deranged that I’m deemed useless
yet people walk all over me.
The view’s strange, my lids need books,
tips need silver, copper and such.
Quite often I’m just disregarded as being there,
slightly rough to the touch, a sight stolen so sleight.
Not even a part of the wall, not a brick,
just another slab in the floor, holding up ****.

We youths are half-built people,
you need to understand-we make errors.
They are not lies to see through,
It is not impossible to forget.


There are the harsh tapestries,
that you adults have seen, challenged, conquered.
We are testing boundaries,
‘cause we are merely…under construction.

A barely coherent deity entered frowning,
giving his incisive javelin kinetic life,
malicious, negative omnipresence.
Perforating quickly, random, stealth targets,
unified viciously with xenogenic youth, zoic.