How will the vain
who love the noises of their own voices
gather the patience to listen?
Common sense has gone missing
They wield weapons
blunt and loud like a demagogue's growl
that defiles civil notions
Tools to toy with emotions
Glaring, with nostrils flaring,
at a divorce of nib and ink
My words, forming furiously -
Sharpen them more, rethink!
My words, they will cut deep -
They will pierce the thickest of skins
And find their way into dark hearts
to remind them what it is to bleed.
Feeling quite hateful.
Maybe it's me.
Or maybe it's the world.
Or maybe it's the world I see
on the news channel.
Good fortune to you, friends.
Persuasive noises —
But when you offered your ears
Then I was convinced
The great orator
With open ears I listen
For the wind speaks not
Laughing at the Union gates the lads
Are out in suit and tie to see the show -
To shove through to a vantage from to view
The writhed infernal forms of protestation.
Speech is placid now; speech has been tamed,
Rolls to be pet the belly of its meaning
And the few who're scared are weak
To weep to see the soft chimera.
But words have not been dead though they have slept.
They seep in speech, glutting saccharine and seeming truth.
They catch conscience as it sleeps,
Buoyed up by the belief that rationality is pure and possible.
Their ripostes are practiced and prepared,
And their faith is in bluff blue Reasonableness
To puncture fascism in its first flowering.
The upper lip stiffens and stays that way,
As playing with power, they put on the national front.
This poem concerns the visit of Marine Le Pen to the Oxford Union on the 5th February 2015. I attended a protest outside the venue, as convinced then as I am now of the necessity to stand up to far-right ideology and policy.
Pull me down.
Hold me c l o s e.
You're the one,
I want the m o s t.
Breathe in deep.
Pull your h a i r.
You wanna be here,
I wanna be t h e r e.
What's old is dust.
And today is n e w.
You remake me.
I'll remake y o u.
**** and kiss,
and tongue and *******.
This is fate,
with a little l u c k.
Love poems are life.
past simple praise:
he loved me
but he loved his pain more
i pulled him into the bathroom once, it was dark
his warm fingers gently plucked at my heart
for some time
the way we kissed was art
his rhetoric far surpassed mine
he asked me how my day was,
i proceeded to word *****
i talked about the most useless ****
when i asked him about his,
i got a shakespearean ******* sonnet
present perfect pain*:
i have never been good at thinking things all the way through
and that is why i've fallen so deeply for people like you