What can be bigger a crime,
Than abusing someone;
Who has a heart as you have,
Who is as much alive as you;
Their inability to express,
Through words doesn’t give
You the rights to harass them;
Let alone taking undue advantage.
True utilization of your voice
Would be to speak for those who can’t,
And do not forget that you are
Nothing but a social animal yourself.
orange smoke fills the air, like mist
goons and traitors occupy all tables
a small bar, downtown, silent quarter
whole ones and racks, bagged, airtight
the zippers of the bottega shine golden
24 k, 24/7, creatures of the night who
are made of struggle, gore and greed
deception and loyalty: the brotherhood
hour of the thieves, year of white marble
350 million a year, a neeeedy enterprise
sick profit, blank sheets floating loosely
shark collar and tattoos, loaded *******
sounds of the past in an air breeze, secretly
old butch is swallowing a paper message
leave no traces, mind dem ears and eyes
wild roses and escalades, the night glows
No more hugs for thugs
big bad wolves
thick prison bricks
huffing and puffing?
I spoke out of bed
To clear my head
Something is ill advised to anyone
From the night mares
As i walk i hear
Crying loud moans
I look into my
Torture her children
To death because they
Choose peace instead of jihad
From then on I saw them
Playing in the street
In the middle of the night
White as the ghosts
As if pleading to me
To help their story
Well here it is
With tweezers I relieve her of the pearls within her eyes / The experiment is finished: Experience and I have ****** her dry / Iris-less she cries, but her tears arise like incense to the skies / How sweet the fragrant plumes of her demise! / I ignore her cries; I have gained my prize / And soon her voice will wane / An infinity of ever-fading sighs | An affinity for exculpatory lies...
a thief takes that it believes it lacks
a thieved lacks that it believes can be taken
Ransom note in the post this morning.
Simile for me but reality to the savages.
Their class is ******* mixed in cannabis.
Knives loaded and explosives carried.
Mouths foaming at the thought of action.
A thousand threats spoke with conviction.
Horizontal weapons on the table dresser.
Since when did we mention the press here?
Poem #3 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. I wrote this poem after a local newspaper described an attack as "savage" and it reflects my disdain for sensationalised journalism, which first emerged whilst studying at university.
At love's spell
Love is devil's peril
In common weal
In underhand deals
Love is creative
Devil is destructive
Love is divine
Devil is crime
All the time
The path divine
What's the harm
I shall practice
If I find time
May be some
By the spirituality
Warmth drools like a baby
On the grime grey rooftops
Liberalism spawned dystopian blocks
The windows are never washed there
It's the rain that reveals their guts
On your bus stop murders and attacks
Rife on the Piccadilly line, the hum
Of melted Smirnoff bottle angels lays
A drunken lesbian kiss of delight
Party people live for the moment
When you step outside in the morning
To work for callus marks and gas, the trees
That line your route bob thick punk manes
In time to the beat of the rocking trains
They know what The Clash is about
And when you come back from a getaway
Seaside trip with sand in all your cracks
A little salt on your lips, an assault in the paper
You wallow in the polluted city allure
Like you're breathing in god's ****** incense
There it lies, the roll-up skyline
That would make any two-shoed god give in
To railway bridge peer pressure on his chest
At 4 am with deodorant blowtorches spinning
Leaving entrails of delight in the filthy half-blackness
It's a privilege to live in for sure.
every city looks the same
but ours, my love, is better