Shelves upon shelves
The walk to my dorm is
a supermarket aisle. It’s
all the same product. A
Cactus on a window sill.
But mine always feels
diseased compared to
their terrariums and

Boxed in comfort, measured
to cost. 4 home bought pin
Ups, Indie purple, indie gold,
Indie black and white, on a
35cm by 35cm photo board.
You aren’t allowed blue tac
on the walls.

It’s been a year since I typed some lines,
probably cuz it’s stuff like this,
I want to get laid
and i want to get ******
but instead all I feel is sick
Kedgeree thats tumbled dried
from 38 minutes of bad Elvis hips,
while legs pop like rockets
my eyes sink in my sockets
saliva swells in my cheeks
as I drift in disappointment
swimming in icy air to catch my confidence lost at sea
but its too far gone, so i just stare
at a laptops glare
thinking about my spots
my unstyled bramble of hair
my polo, too garish?
MY SPACK BRAIN!
too confident in thinking I looked smart?
as i wish for another heart
one thing sticks in my mind
a girl, or was it a boy,
looking like Johnny Rotten,
in Westwood striped dungarees and flames of hair
flashes of the Public Image, King Krule and all that in my headphones.
Words that are all in my head
as my stomach is sick
oh yeah, they played the killers
I like them
now my head is bleak like Mike Skinner
I wish I’d chosen earlier to have my dinner
another music reference lost on you
but stuck in my mind in bed
as I picture a red head
oh my.

There’s a swan on the line,
Taking your time,
So bow to the seagull in Jewels.

The Burberry is real this time,
But the face still spits and scathes
At those below his mental might,
It is Golden muscles this time,
Not concrete knuckles,
That deliver this slap in the face.

We all sigh,
And roll our eyes,
Cocking our heads like the red-eyed
Pheasant
That lies flattened on the next track over.

DNA and genetics strummed,
Note by Note,
with memories of how you
Danced them, the chosen ones,
through childhood,
on their own
stages
of grief and joy.
In a cinematic style,
for the soundtrack was intended to heighten the
emotion,
but ended up framing it as well as any photograph.

They are now stuck on the stage
of so-called postmodernism,
despite the dreams being the same as yesteryears.
A free festival of colours:
Psychedelic, Acidic, Neon and
Corporate non-prolific,
NEVERLAND, TAKE US!
they beg.

The courts' reading of this DNA,
will grind chords to cash.
Are you the parent that hits their child
For dancing the steps they themselves had laid out?

I' AM INNOCENT
The thief proclaims.
For notes belong to no one,
or the birds would be plucked feather by feather
and the whales carved in an Eastern market.
A child will copy it's parent.
As do the pub stage hopefuls reach for your hands.

The Messiah in Miss Hart’s class,
Has torn his hands from the pins that stuck into him with
Doubt at success,
Doubt in the light.
Now, he wonders the desert, to live out his life.
You’re a small percent
But you’re not different

So many ideas, such a creative spark.
But you don’t write a word.
though your brain screams a speech.
You could be in a far off land.
Just lift the pen in your hand.
But your body is a tide pulled by the moon,Hidden
in the sky that’s
Grey enough to ignore.
Grey enough to anger,
Grey enough to cloud a view.
Why am I sat here?,
I have a million things to do?

Chop mushrooms in the kitchen,
Mix in the soup
Eat that mushroom in the dark,
To make your eyes droop.
Cut weeds in the garden,
To clear the flower bed,
Spread weeds at the party,
To stop feeling dead.

You want to escape, so you clasp a headphone to your ear,
But your fantasy should be here,
As you have no work for a year,
You have no purpose for a year.

Feed the pure,
As they come to your door.
You feel the need,
To sow the seeds,
To see golden corn sprout from bald heads.
They turn to you, with silent open hands,
Offering you nothing in return but the purity you have longed for forever,
You will wash their robes and days old socks.
Homemade meals in a lunch box,
Pasta to microwave for you still don’t trust them, not to live off junk under cosy rags.
On trains, back to the houses of wisdom.
That use your gold to uphold their roofs.
For Marx and ideals that exist just as dreams, they burn with sin when such tongues leave the gate.
You look on, because you think it’s too late.

The void
Or the scowl.

Are you sure you know which you’d pick.
When the right hand that feeds you,
Succulent wisdom,
While the left hand kills the next breed.

You see the void on sundays,
in time that is only passing seconds.
in moments where you scream silently.
When precious life is the cold bone you hold.
Down the path you walk, you long to be led.

Submission
Is the game for so long,
Catch a ball, avoid a fall
Until you chase it when rolls
Off the edge
And you follow it in faith
Rather than in fear
Keeping your white collar near.