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Matthew Roe Oct 2018
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
That lies flattened on the next track over.
‘Vikings’=references how it was during the Viking rule of Britain that it became law that the royals own the swans.
‘Burberry is real’=how Chavs or negative depictions of the lower class often show them wearing counterfeit designer gear, usually Burberry.
‘Red eyed pheasant’=how the needs of the upper classes (swans) can be prioritised over the lower classes (pheasants), plus the red curve that is underneath a pheasants eye.

Based on a true incident on a train journey I took.
Matthew Roe Oct 2018
DNA and genetics strummed,
Note by Note,
with memories of how you
Danced them, the chosen ones,
through childhood,
on their own
of grief and joy.
In a cinematic style,
for the soundtrack was intended to heighten the
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,
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?

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.
About how artists and musicians will sue each other over supposedly stealing from each others songs. This is ridiculous, every artist has sounds that are similar to the artist which had inspired them, in the way a child looks like its parent.
Psychedelic/acid/neon/non-prolific refers to various stages and scenes from music history (60s psychedelic rock, 90s Acid House, 2007 New Rave and the commercialised pop of the 2010s).
This also reflects on music and it's impact on people, for instance, how a song can bring back memories.
Matthew Roe Sep 2018
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.
The opening stanza is based on the ending to the film 'the last temptation of Christ' and a call back to one of my other poems.
This is inspired by a video I saw about philosophy in the Tv Series Bojack Horseman (though I haven't seen the show yet).
This is for all the people who have finished College and find the sudden lack of activity worrying, or those who find that having everything feels like having nothing.
Matthew Roe Sep 2018
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.
For all the parents working hard to get their kids through Uni (or college if your American), feeding the knowledge of those trying to get ‘enlightened’
Matthew Roe Sep 2018
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.

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.
Please comment what you think this one can be about cuz I barely know myself, it is quite a collage of ideas. A mix of the Philosophical, the *****, the fascist and the boringly bleak.
Note: the bit about a dog chasing a ball off a cliff is something my Dad actually saw, at beach head.
'White collar' does not refer to class, but a Vicar's collar.
Matthew Roe Sep 2018
A green chair in space,
Is out of its place,
Like the emerald button, haloed on you wall.
Why are you longing for

a Solid seat,
That gravity ‘cannot be beat’,
That you dare to face this heat.

         Could be
Wheeling in space
   Taking in
                         jumbled chaos all over
                                 The place as
                       would a
        Child on
                A bouncy

Your Garden is green,
So why press the button
And kickstart the process before
your eyes,
A process that had already begun.
A fun improv poem, when I was sat in a coffee shop with a green wall and I spotted a green button on the wall.
Something to do with Global Warming or 'ignorance is bliss'.
Matthew Roe Sep 2018
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
Your honour.
Play the evidence”

The sound of a projector whirrs
As wind in a snail shell.

“The defendant knew the man,
Had talked to him on train stations,
But kept it as hidden as a brief encounter.
He knew this man liked that band,
Not liked, loved,
And the defendant had a whole playlist to recommend and a whole compilation of
Critical readings on Post-Britpop to articulate.
the defendant being
Slow and mollusc minded.
He kept his oyster shut.

The whirring whizzes to ticking,
As nagging as potentially productive hours.

“Slowing the footage,
we can see
That his mouth even hesitantly gaped for a second.
Not one of his greatest hits was it?”

I think,
No need to punish me.
I do that deed upon myself.
My pen scribbling, clicking,
In my head at night,
With conversations I never had.
When you overhear a conversation that you could join in or spot someone you could get along with, but nervousness stops you from talking to them or joining in. From when I spotted someone from my college at a train station, I knew that like me he was interested in music, but I never spoke to him.
I wasn't into Radiohead like he was, but I would still enjoy talking about them.
(Anyone reading this like Bowie?)
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