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Sam Lawrence May 2020
Sifting our old photos
has left me feeling
uneasy - robbed,
perhaps.
Why are these fragile
moments scattered so
carelessly across our
lives? Like a necklace
whose thread has snapped.
Beads rolling,
some slow,
some fast,
until eventually -
all the beads stop.
And in that breathless
pause,
left stood,
******* helplessly,
the neck left bare.
Sam Lawrence May 2020
If you keep spreading butter
On hot toast,
Then at some point,
You can see the butter.
And at some point later,
You can't see the toast.
Sam Lawrence May 2020
After all the spin is done
And news is fully crumpled
A simmering will linger on
On lonely stoves
Where kinship brews
In kitchens often humble

Those who engineered our fate
Half blind to all but power
A swelling symphony of hate
What deafness fears
The masses hear
Once sweet now sounding sour

And in their places standing
Stones or setting suns, old Gods
Not silent to those listening
When shadows long
Our rights, their wrongs
Should never be at odds
Sam Lawrence May 2020
"On this site!" -
didn't you know?
Nothing to see here now.
The dust of past civilisations
blows along the pavement
crowd surfing
empty crisp packets.
Should we marvel at how
latitude and longitude
can briefly connect us?
Or are we being dared to peer
deeper, beneath
those ancient feet?
Hobnailed soles.
Decorative embroidery.
Fashionable, in their day.
The rhythms of routine,
echoes around us with
each unsteady step.
Is it history or the sign writers
that makes us feel so futile?
Sam Lawrence May 2020
PSSSST!
Yeah, man, I mean you!!
Are you looking to score some ... poetry?
I got some of the good **** here.
Uncut.
Just in.
Here, smell this ... what you think?
Lover's tears?
Wistful reminisces?
Distant zephyrs, tinged with cardamon?
Man, I told you this **** was good.
You sure?
Okay, but take it easy, start with a little.
I might be a dealer of poems,
but there are some things
I don't want on my conscience.
Smoke it, snort it.
Hell, some people even like to read it!
Yeah, it's been a pleasure.
You know where to find me next time.

YOU BOUGHT WHAT?
Did you even THINK about
HOW this stuff gets made?
Yes, tears are shed.
Yes, hearts are broken.
I think of it like this;
it's probably someone poor,
in some far off land,
scraping through any number of
Emotionally
Challenging
Real Life
Experiences.
Of course, that's how it works -
- the more raw the emotion
- the more raw the poem.
Well. You've got it now.
The damage has already been done.
So.
What does it say?
Sam Lawrence May 2020
tell me about love!
the contour of skin
shallow breaths
and midriff curves
rising, falling
pure caressing
backs of fingers
touching games
around the parts
that have no name
but tell me about love!
i wish i could, why
is it here? clasped
behind a naked thigh
a fragrant sweet
a slow unmasking
slightly clammy
hot beneath
the white seams of
a single sheet
but what of love?
we came without promises
connected without lies
held secrets in our arms
and lay there undisguised
there isn't shame
to love and leave
perhaps the rest
is make believe
Sam Lawrence May 2020
We've surely trodden
all the directions
around our house -
methodically, at times,
drunkenly, at others.

We're Minotaurs,
trapped inside.
Hooves poised,
compass needle
wavering under our
magnetic indecision.

Our walks along
the railway cutting -
a city's scar, threaded
under bridges, over bridges -
an old straight track or
urban ley line, perhaps -
is the only place
we briefly, freely,
realise how trapped
we are in this labyrinth.

I remember, as a child,
stepping off the tube
in a new station and realising,
with utter indignation,
that left and right had
cheated me.

Every city, its corners
pinned down by maps,
keeps turning if you
stand still - there is
no easier way to be lost.
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