Erroneousness poems on Hello Poetry

Dutch Jul 2015

The spoken language of my indigenous tongue is unfamiliar with composing a complex signature of words. I am a justly man who only possess a singular thought at a time and my current thought comes unto me gravely. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
     My evangelizing does not bound a union between a man and amen. Those fabricating words I once preached are as false as fish on grass. A paradox forms within myself. I am structured alike the absolute truth but I surely lie a fact. But I can no longer carry a deceit intention. Fool’s gold was at the end of the rainbow. And like a loyal dog, I followed with a wagged tail.
      I believe hindsight is merely useless, now. I attest to seek truth as it appears but my eyes are blind with fury. I mistakenly remembered that vision is of faith rather than sight. I become a precise and selective balloter. I either speak its erroneousness existence upon them or become a subject of harsh matters.
     The genesis Armageddon is occurring. Man falls to a higher sky because the mind of the body cannot outthink its own thought; therefore, it is the last transcendence. I kneel in solidarity amid the row of pews. Peace, be steel. For it will all cease, follow by a great calm.

I wrote this poem to bring life about the man who played the preacher in 7th Heaven who was allegedly sexually abusing younger women off set. This is particularly interesting seeing he played a preacher and righteous husband who can do no wrong. But in fact he didn’t live up to the word of God. Therefore the spirits forced him to face his wrongs and he kneels down in the first row, killing himself in his church.

Connor Reid Dec 2014

Langton Crescent

LANGTON CRESCENT

Shameless,
a ******.

Jeopardy has no place in the closest of motion,
signalling to eachother,
that you might be related,
or friends.
Childhoods, more than one - in a single life,
spent without knowledge of such,
such an event, in times of jovial adolescence
I was there.

But I don't remember,
brash epithets of discoloured repression,
I remove my ensconcing cap.
Opening up a can of cold worms,
static from the cold draught
which is brought in by an open door,
as everyone leaves the room.

There I am...
I was there!

Someone died here,
I'd never been in this house.
Clutching onto my mothers hand,
through forced habit & love
wandering through life
with a keen interest in 'Why?'
A stark contrast to the average
'How?' That fills up the long, tall order
of the cancerous accolade of dynamic erroneousness
that any self disrespecting lifeform would call -
'A day'.

Whom did I concern?
I was a spectator without a ticket,
being let in for free
gross mistruths passing from one ear and out the other,
intimidating externalisations taken shape in cathode ray tubes
happy to give away nothing for free
purging on selfishness as the 'adults' talk and I induce

A boyfriend.
Too much to drink.
A secret sapphic affair,
that made them happy, it made sense.
Too much to drink.
A ring at the door.
Too. Much. To. Drink.
Panic.
It's fine...Invite him in for a drink,
act like it's all ok.
I still love you both (I don't.)
He knows. (what is going on.)
People aren't stupid,
but they knew he knew - they'd planned for this.
Upset. Anger. A fight. Resolution.
Kitchen. Knife up sleeve. Make up.
She drew him close in her embrace

...

38 times the instrument was coerced to and from its target
like a nodding head.
acknowledging the destruction of the viscera
untangling the truth
the complications of the human condition
spilling onto the floor like hot milk,
tainted by the penance of basic sin
an overzealous lesson in the fleeting nature of causation.
the sand of divine comedy,
fluttering through the hands of the undeserving
emptying itself onto the floor,
every grain more anxious than the last.

Dead. Still as the motionless climb of winter across a silvered pond.

Staring at the almost ***** tangling of carpet hair,
lifted from the hardwood floor like a jigsaw on fire.
'fake' Oozings spattered sloppily across skirting boards,
not all unlike an ill **** on the cling of a public toilet bowl.
blues, reds, purples, blacks
clashing with the absence of concern
this two bedroom tenement was unwell,
discharging its secrets to the seed,
too much for the eyes of a child.
There is a reek, a stench of metal (copper?)
- enticing my nostrils towards curiosity
and a juxtaposition of absolute revulsion.

The story;

A boyfriend.
Two friends drinking.
A ring at the door.
Oh joy! (lies)
He enters.
An argument.
He hits her. (lies)
Upset. Anger. A fight.
He doesn't stop hitting her. (lies)
She runs to the Kitchen.
Knife. She defends herself. (lies)
He dies.

Septic.
"****, we need to fix this, I need your help!"

"We need to make this look right, ****...Self defense, for the police coming."

"Quickly, hit me! We need to make it look like he abuses me."

"When we're done, phone the police pronto and get our stories straight."

"I'm a victim ok?"

"Ok."

In and out.
Easy.

She's the first in Scotland, nevermind Glasgow to get away with her situation
- Lightly that is, 5 years in Cornton Vale, an all female prison somewhere in Stirling.
The other gets away with it - 'Art and part section 293 of the CPA act 1995'.
No charge. As far as they were concerned it was justified (reasonable force).
She gets what she wants. She gets her other half whenever she beckons.
Driven there. No thanks. Selfish.
But she's in love
and maybe she has a debt to pay. maybe she was more involved than she lets on.
doesn't want her life ruined. errands? favours? you name it.

Someone you grow up with, someone who you consider family.
Are they capable of mad passion? A glitch in character?
Can a good person do bad things and feel nothing?

I wince at the retelling of a story.
Buried deep in the waxy imbalances of memory
as if it never happened
jittered from clarity
like a snowglobe that never settles
laughing at the absurd
sourced from fermented sparkles
and igniting omission.
I was there.
Not long after and not long before.
Sitting on the couch and kicking my feet,
getting lost in the cushions
and brooming in the damp, familiar sniff of the 1990s.
Blinds drawn, cups of hot chocolate and endless laughter
- remembrance and reflection entwined
dividing action from thought.

I was there!
...But the memory escapes me.

emma Oct 2013

hanged

what was left of me
is now a melancholic ornament
suspended by my erroneousness
swaying in gusts of my breaths
what you ended has
begun again
tristfully i know
why.
-e.d

John Bartholomew Jan 2018

False Front

We all want to live the high life, but few can ill afford it
The glamour the glitz to dining at the Ritz, a means to which we could all be easily adjusted
But the nine till five pays pittance for those shots in Hello and Vogue
The dreamer can dream their dreams while living off that hefty loan

The Range Rover, the Levante, the Lexus RX, who wouldn’t be jealous of a little luxury
The clothes to the house with security and lights, boy you must be worth a few pennies
Erroneousness and the falsehood of a life well concealed
Paying back that percentage rate from which you may now reel

The reality is your just keeping up with the Jones's
Penny pinching is a way of life but best not show the neighbours
Walk on with your head held high in the knowing that all’s not good
Struggling to pay the bills and sometimes even your food

So here comes the bail out from someone close by
Indebted to your eyeballs without the decency to even cry
The banks would laugh at your misgivings knowing the debt was in their hands
But you carry on, it’s a way of life hanging onto that final strand

You’re in the clear, all debt is gone, time to make a fresh new start
A second hand Fiesta, *** burns in the seat, what happened to my big shiny car
The mums at the gate all talking in sneers, now that I’m out of the pack
Fill out that online form, more credit to burn, time to get back on track,
and revitalize that false front.

JJB

The recession won’t be over till we raise a generation that knows how to live on what they’ve got. – Unknown

#money #living #false #lexus

Dutch Jul 2015

7th Heaven

The spoken language of my indigenous tongue is unfamiliar with composing a complex signature of words. I am a justly man who only possess a singular thought at a time and my current thought comes unto me gravely. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
     My evangelizing does not bound a union between a man and amen. Those fabricating words I once preached are as false as fish on grass. A paradox forms within myself. I am structured alike the absolute truth but I surely lie a fact. But I can no longer carry a deceit intention. Fool’s gold was at the end of the rainbow. And like a loyal dog, I followed with a wagged tail.
      I believe hindsight is merely useless, now. I attest to seek truth as it appears but my eyes are blind with fury. I mistakenly remembered that vision is of faith rather than sight. I've become a precise and selective balloter. I either speak its erroneousness existence upon them or become a subject of harsh matters.
     The genesis Armageddon is occurring. Man falls to a higher sky because the mind of the body cannot outthink its own thought; therefore, it is the last transcendence. I kneel in solidarity amid the row of pews. Peace, be still. For it will all cease, follow by a great calm.

— The End —