oxygen
molecules
h20
o2
co2
its overwhelming sometimes
how things can combine
to make new things

chemistry
biology
aquatic biology
its overwhelming sometimes
how when you think about new things, you have questions
and those questions turn into answers
that only leave you with more questions

books
magazines
newspapers
peoms
its overwhelming sometimes
that the written word, a beautiful method of self-expression
has been corrupted
by Them

The ones that manipulate
that scorch
that ravage the land

we must stand up
we must fight
and only then
can we be free
can we be underwhelmed
we will be strong
with everyone fighting
forming a human wall

we will be stronk.

I once heard that art is most beautiful when imitateing life . I never understood this; imitation infers a falsehood, a lack of authenticity. Art can only be what it is, unapologetically,It can’t build a facade.
I ,the one who is deemed alive, lie habitually to those around me and worse my self.
I am a performer playing the part of least resistance and greatness propitiation. Solitarily contemplating a collective I want to both develop beyond the horizon or envelop in the flames of a star.
conundrums are the base of these self destructive edifice. Best escape is outside of self, either on the wall in the air or on a shelf.  

Now who imitates who,
When One feels most real imitating art?

Transient summers,
Forbidden Bluebell fields,
Tough times symbolise the pouring of ales.


Manicured lawns,
Cider drinking Saturdays,
Routine discussions about the sun and rain.


Hijinx down the watering hole,
The great unwashed congregating on Market Day,
Smog penetrating the lungs,
Forlorn eyes, social decay.


Leaders of austerity,
Riddled with oppressive policies,
The tedious endurement of the morning commute.


Sirens cut across Westminster,
A quintessential rave anthem,
Boxing Day sales,
Sheer pandemonium.


Revelling in satire,
And curtain twitching,
Reading racists newspapers,
Disenfranchised youth.


Icky dance floors with raging hormones,
Breath heavy with hops and acrid tobacco.


**** drops and winding waists,
Ladies bathroom, evil eyes exchanged.


Sundays spent hanging,
And Mondays depressed,
Holy communions,
Cladded in your best dress.


Suppressed thoughts,
And baited breath
An Albion filled with oppression and dread.

Take a branch,
Snap it and hear it crack.
Take a lie,
Roll it over a hard stone and,
In the sun, let it crisp,
Then crumble it
Into a cold stream of reassurance...
Let it drift.

Cut the wire
Sever the thing that tethers

Take all the truths
That you know to be true
Place them in a box.
Replace each ending
With the ending that follows.
Re-evaluate, redesign
Recreate, realign.

Take all the things that you loved
To be the things that you now hate

Take pleasure when you can,
Take despair as it comes.
Take a miniscule moment in time and
Expand it until the weight becomes unbearable,
Then drop it from the cliff top.
Watch it crash towards the ocean,
Watch your dreams fly north
And become lost in the mist.

Take the things you once loathed
To be the things you now hold dear

Don’t let it wear you out
(It’s nothing personal).
Take it sitting down,
Roll with the punches,
Absorb the force.
Pull away from cold surfaces.
Run your own race in your own time,
Failure seldom comes enforced

Take the pendant
Gently pull at the chord

Simply turn out the light.
Be aware of your breathing -
A two minute meditation
Of ins and outs.
Down into foam and memories.
Down into dead cold then
Into searing heat...
Into blue, then green, then black.
Into familiar confusions
And self doubts.

Take a short cut
Dare to get lost

One foot, then the other,
Then the first then the second.
Arms outstretched -
Radar fingers.
Avoid cold surfaces and blazing furnaces...
Places sure to become places
Where my impression lingers.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2016

The eagle can't soar.

Left wing and right wing
Working together in harmony,
And the eagle can be seen
Soaring beautifully, gloriously.

When the left and the right
Have between them a wall,
And continuously fight
Then the eagle will fall.

Alas, the wings are both broken
And the eagle is grounded.
Big dreams that will never be spoken
Amidst the din that has sounded.

They say to keep your eyes open, but your mind closed,
leave your thoughts unspoken
and your body exposed.
We hold such value to anyone who holds a heart,
and when all is said and done we rip ourselves apart.

I've never been one to wake up in the morning,
I love living my life to look at the stars.
You experience complete peace without any kind of warning,
and if you look hard enough you can sometimes see Mars.

If you go back to the year 1944,
sixteen year olds were coming back from war,
and now in today in 2017,
an adolescent is a child and an adult a teen.

We're so far from our natural state,
our entire species is cursed with cancer.
When we were hunter-gatherers we were doing great,
But we thought preserved food was the better answer.

Most live their lives now in a camera,
forever looking for one more person's approval.
Trying to reach a standard of Marilyn or Pamela,
but a step forward would be technological removal.

Let's look back to around 1970,
when people were still struggling with equality,
And most likely by the year 2020,
we'll be oppressed and depressed by the plenty.

Invisible water is filling up a lung,
constantly drowning in an everyday world.
No words to every song that has ever been sung,
we are born and we die the same; body curled.
Trees grow but leafs fall, a barren way left to display,
Seas and breeze call, it's said that night is the one true love to day.

We try to be our best, but our best is rarely enough.
With the beat that's in our chest, we're fooled to think that we are tough.
Language was made to communicate, but we quarrel in pettiness.
Still we can all relate to an elegy of emptiness.

There's a dark room in every home,
and each closet holds atleast a single skeleton.
Our feet recognize the path we roam,
and you're not surprised that you fell again.
Puddles gather for us to splash, separating each drop from kin,
I know I'd rather just ask for the water to let me come in.

We try to be our best, but our best is rarely enough.
We all need to take a rest, our strength is now merely a bluff.
Distance is here for us to jump, but not many know readiness,
everyone has some sort of slump with an elegy of emptiness.

Lives travel on, and many paths become split,
and we all prattle on, only our feelings do we acquit.
Life doesn't stop for any one person, no matter the benefit.
But you listen to a different version, that much you have to admit.

We try to be our best, but our best is rarely enough.
Each day now is just a test, truth mixed in with the fluff.
Souls were made to connect, but most care only for prettiness,
not realizing the effect and then the elegy of emptiness.

Maybe Tomorrow

False hopes of a generation, tell-tale signs of a broken nation.
Tower blocks decayed and grey, different types of vermin hide away
In the shadows, in the cracks
No one around in case of attacks
Monoliths of misery reach for the sky, where poverty lives and the forgotten they die
Hooded teenagers like outlaws of old count out the money from the powdered death that they sold
Scarred burnt out vehicles, faded police tape a constant reminder of ****** and ****
Violence is hidden behind every door, bruised ***** faces the badge of the poor
No food on the table, no shoes on their feet, for love and affection they have to compete
Girls on street corners sell love at a price and for one fleeting moment life feels so nice
Time rages on and bodies grow old, nothing to show for the dreams that were sold
Men with no prospects sit and decay, on broken sofas they watch the TV.
Where people and programmes have nothing to say
Old soldiers sit and dream of before
Storming French beaches and fighting a war
Remembering old friends who forfeited their lives, for this now septic country where misery thrives
No police presence in this modern Gomorrah, things will surely get better I’m not sure just when but maybe tomorrow.

Inside out
Collar frayed
Ragged at the hem
Stitches showing through the thin spots
The cloak of civiliztion needs a laundering.

Buttons missing
Flapping in the wind
Dragging in the rainy mud
Sliding off stooped shoulders
The coat of civility needs a skillful tailor.

Hands disappearing
Sleeves way too long
Holes in all the pockets
Faded plaid in last years colors
The jacket of humanity is now on sale at Goodwill.

when
your
black
freeze
means
run