the phone rings
and as always i recoil
my body not set to the ups and downs
of volume,
far more comfortable in the silence
and open space

i think of the x-acto knife at home
how it will shred through the layers of
paper like tissue

tissue like
skin
like tears
like my breasts
like the soft space between my thighs

a collage though, put together and patched-up
perhaps i've forgotten those envied bits
long gone are the nights of lovers lying soundless
the room filled with the scent of lust
my tongue and mouth dry, lips cracked from kissing

a drawer full of clippings all ready and i'll glue
color and light, texture and contrast mean almost everything
maybe, mostly, wantonly
withdrawn and blindly i imagine the outline
the way the picture will move and i will be seen

a microscopic view at best, even from over there
turned away and forgotten, like the art of long ago
she once flew higher and faster
skies ahead shouting for her to catch up
days like raindrops splashing on the darkened blacktop
now it's more swamp below than land
footing uncertain and pain inflicted
hands ingrained, lashings she deserves

how to come so far and yet be stuck so violently to the web
spun around and around
blood dripping and draining
and the flies circle,
they wait aware of the unraveling of the fleshy pieces
wanting only the remains

she is a sinner, she repents
but the crime, what of it an whose crime is it really
does she walk with these painful heels or flutter off
reminded that time will heal what space has not already
years of distance and she becomes less human
less herself
less anyone
less

Poets are bipolar,
Musicians, OCD.
I wonder if we’d have much art
without insanity?
Coleridge smoked opium,
Poe preferred whisky
If not for their addictions
would we have their poetry?
Blake had manic visions;
Hemingway was suicidal.
The heights and depths of their emotions
meant their minds were never idle.
Garcia tripped on acid;
Iommi did cocaine.
Would they have played such blissful notes
if they weren’t a bit insane?
Yes, we must treat the ill,
we want them with us still--
but if we lost all craziness
there’d  be genius that we’d miss.

How hard it is to articulate,
     To make words make sense.
     String them along in a sentence
To craft and manipulate,
   This insanely difficult thing we call
"Language."

How hard it is to emphasize
The right word, right line,
Make it all interjoin and intertwine,
Combine
And rhyme,
     Shape it,
     Weave it
Into this insanely difficult thing we call
"Poetry."

How hard it is to breath
     Life into this verse,
    Make it transverse,
From pen to page to eye to mind to soul.
Where it can nest like a coal
     And burn and flame and thrive.
     And give birth to this insanely difficult thing we call
"Life."

Books are our friends hey!
Don’t throw them away;
Keeping ourselves array
So that we be at assay
With books positively lay
For scrutiny at a ballet.
They – best pals – do say:
Read lavishly and do play,
Or in bright sunshine splay.
All healthy tips; no betray,
No deceiving, no astray.
Hence be ready to little pay
And be free as that jay
And soar up in the airway
Knowledge and wisdom to flay.

If I ever wanted
to win a Pulitzer Prize,
I will have to still be
working night and day
tirelessly to create
such a profound piece of art
worthy of in your eyes
for collecting such a praised price

But until then and afterwards,
I'll just keep scrawling
lines here and there
without lassitude
for public notice
and high end affairs
as long as my poems
don't remain trapped
in the walls of my imaginations,
yet spread their wings
and fly far away
to the end of the universe
where I behold the priceless gold

@jobiranyc (10/1/2017)

To you the writer, the scriber of thoughts
In this very moment
With every second of every ticking heartbeat
With each stroke of your pen or colour-tipped paint brush
You write it, and how beautiful you do

Write your story oh writer- and when you're old, ensure you tell it to the children.

CURRICULUM

Blood seeps
It curtains their eyes
Rendering them
Temporarily blind
Semi-scalped
Skin folded back
Exposing of skull
Ready to crack

Holes drilled
An access to the mind
Pumped with liquid knowledge
Which then solidifies
Conventional learning
Soft subjects barred entry
Too fluid to be controlled
Deep fear of creativity

Kicked into touch
With confined education
Sent into life
Into great expectations
3R certificates
Irrelevant to some
Force fed on dictates
From the seed to the crumb

For some who think outside the box
Of the language of academia
Why have knowledge forced upon
When it’s free on Wikipedia?
Stifling ideas
Kettling free thinking
Those and more values
Lined up for the shrinking

You will think in the ways
That we want you to think
You’ll sink into rules
And you’ll fall into sync
You will follow the norm
You’ll adhere to the rules
Of stagnated teachings
In stagnated schools

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

Beware of the gnomes
who sit in back garden
they pretend to be ornaments
but really they come alive
when the moon is full
and daisies are blooming everywhere.
They tip toe into your house
and raid your fridge until fridge echoes through the air
checking itself out in
big mirror on the wall
hoping to see a pint of milk
and a bowl of ready made jelly
with short cake biscuits
and a tin of half open beans
and some Tesco tomotoes
reduced to half price
but instead all the fridge
sees is a group of pesky
annoying gnomes all dressed
in cargo trousers and lemon jumpers each wearing red
blossom hats marching up
and down , some even on
motorbikes drinking tequila
shots and eating salt beef bagels
from the local bagel shop!!
But hey..they only come alive at night when your fast asleep
in noddy land , so if I was you
be very careful as the only way
to ever see them is set your alarm for 4pm every night when the stars are twinkling and the trees are moody and the sun is beginning
to stir and maybe just maybe
your see one enter kitchen fridge.
If so take care as u may even
turn into a gnome youself