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Reece Apr 2019
I've got **** holes in my ears
and **** holes on my fingers
So every time I drop a ****
The smell, it really lingers

I've got **** holes on my tongue
So every time I french ya
You will get a taste of ****
All over your dentures
- The logical conclusion to my poetic career.
Reece May 2018
I'll ride the old phantom route 45
that runs right by this broken house
Her ghost roams still, and I get no sleep at night
So I'll pack my bag and grab the howling dog
and hit the old phantom 45

She plays the old 45s, on a record player with no platter
Oh phantom 45, she speaks to me at night
Stains remain on the bathroom floor
and so too, they exist on my heart

So to hit the old phantom 45, they call the 70 now
I'll hit 70 doing 70 and never look back
to the old phantom 45

The road sign still stands on the softly swollen ground
Outside the home we once shared
Now her restless spirit wanes in dusky drizzle
Since I hit the old phantom 45
Reece Apr 2018
Under stone lamp posts he took me by the hand
Walk little boy I'll make you understand
God has chosen you to be the man
God has chosen you to wear his crown

Broken through barriers, the road is quiet
The path that we travel is clear and bright
God has chosen me to be the man
God has chosen me wear the crown

Lectures in the forecourt they gathered round
Come little girl and hold my hand
God has chosen you, it's his command
God has brought you here to understand

The fields turn red in distracting light
The soldiers have arrived to heed the fight
God has chosen them to make a stand
God has chosen me to protect his lambs

Burning battle fields turn to rivers of blood
God speaks to me through the wood
God has chosen me I still believe
God told me that I must leave

God will carry me into the light
God will hold me through the night

Sombre is the morning, dew underfoot
Crying are the mothers, for their fallen sons
God feels distant when I ask for help
God only cares about himself

Ceremony dances in the pale twilight
Cups full of juice for the lambs tonight
God carries me home, I still believe
God had chosen me to take lead

Distant are the screams as I fall to sleep
Distant are the voices that chose me
Reece Apr 2018
Self-indulgent panic of the scarring emotion
Blood across a mirror cracked
Where her body lay for days

Disingenuous apathy of a solemn kind
To meet her gaze in the evening din
Lifeless she lay and he laid to

A wave that breaks, in romantic ocean breadth
A breath that fell silent
and so too does the head

White dress, petticoat, floundered folly
Lovers in the summer rain
That never shall see a sunrise again
Reece Jan 2018
Running from the future until the sole is worn
into Abyssinian empiric solitude
Where the only voice that speaks
is the hollow tone of history's fatalism

Destined for the furrowed smile
of luxury's unknown apathy

Growth hormone empath
who sleeps frozen under cosmic abandonment
A chancers change of chanson song
that sweeps the windy street

A vignette of turgid stories
that predict the rising tide of paperless bedsheets
Reece Dec 2016
Water only runs in the house of a holy man
But the prayers of a parched child are ignored
in favour of the money man's plan
Believe in a God all you want
he won't save you

Nihilism saves valor
Believe in nothing and nothing can hurt you
Those empty symbiotic phrases of the faithless

Listen to the chimes of the ice cream van
and despair at the crimes of a suit and tie man
Crunch of steel in a midnight collision
they collude in hopes of derision

Under desk lamp ambiance, in heated rooms
13th floor apartment blocks
where the doorman knocks
where the doorman knocks

Time and crime again, and lie and try again
Paid protests in the streets
Digest your intellect, removal of a safe space
So that they might turn the power switch

The blackout comes when revenue succumbs

In your ancient catacombs, where matted bandages hang
and drip crimson onto dusty floors
Smeared where they jeered at the death of a democracy

This is the corner of civilisation, torn down and replaced with a bank
Reece Dec 2016
Waif-like drifter on a fading cloud
the saddest sound makes its rounds
The outer limit of this town
She speaks to herself somehow

How her life turned around
after hearing a siren sound
Oh, the wolves abound
As she stumbles from that crowd

And so her rueful mind aloud
split the seam and scheme and shout
for whatever worth she receives in clout
or any mirth that fuels her doubt

By the bracken broken, beaten paths
through trails of time and solemn laughs
she finds herself alone at last
In lonesome graves of her lovers past
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