"interrior" poems
We are a mere mortal
Two fates in a maze
Our love was hallowed by Eros
The blind, yet aimed his bow
Right through my essence
Right through your essence
Our passion was bound by Aphrodites
Two doves nesting
Two swans in Narcissus pond
Channeling the energy in our rite
Tragedy,
Mortal forbade the sacrament
We seek to endure the fall
Becoming stars,
As we cross one another
In an boundless interrior
Of our abode.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 8:05 PM UTC
My god, I'm sick of belonging
I'm sick of being owned
I'm sick of being limited to what ever the **** it is that some ***** decides is fitting to define me as
you don't know me
I don't even know me
what the **** makes you think that you,
with your cookie-cutter shape, stereotype inducing, boxed-into-labels mentality of thinking is going to understand me?
I am a planet in my own right;
as a result of my own entity,
my own ******* thoughts and claims and efforts and achievements,
rather than as an assosciate of another or a product of someone else
I am a ******* constellation of thoughts that your mind
could not even begin to fathom
once glance of my mind would send yours sideways
a one minute preview of what wraps itself around the deep,
bottomless, abyssal interrior of my skull
would entise you to smash your own
inside of me there are a thousand words, stirring
arranging the perfect sequence within their placement of my being
in order to concoct a storm worth being read;
not skimmed and mistaken as a light drizzle
but instead,
thoroughly scanned and recognised
as the tornados, the blizzards that they are,
kicking up a fuss and wiping out everything in their way
I possess an entire novels worth
including a sequel and trilogy
I am a story in my own right;
a book that you believe to have conquered and completed
a vaguely transparent, generic tale in which you believe to have mastered and defeated
but little do you know
that you have ventured barely as far as the first page
what lies within me is far beyond the reach
of the dainty intermediate level
in which you consistently surround yourself in
as though it is your safety blanket or comforter
as though you are a child with anxiety and mediocrity is your prozac
I am more than a brick in the wall of the kingdom
that you box your entire tiny, narrow universe into
and confine yourself within
in seek of refuge from a great perhaps
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
The interrior was dark and dusty,
a second-hand treasury for searchers.
Deeply breathing the particulate air,
I squeezed through to my secret back room.
Care of J.M. Dent and Everyman,
there for sixpence, at pocket money price,
an unexplored world could be had.
Dickens, Dumas and Stevenson.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 2:20 PM UTC
Documentary on fast forward,
lacking commentary, towns flash by
Coronation Street domestic dramas,
ordered rank and file urban pedantries.
Perhaps like one of those old westerns,
where they wound the scenery past
a mock-up stagecoach interrior,
so that's where all the porters went.
Rolling landscapes, seascapes, mile on mile,
stiles and paths and telegraph poles,
rain fraying skies and foaming sea,
criss-cross links and creaking carriages.
Slowing down, a shuddering stop,
stiffened limbs begin to flop,
stiffened brains still travel dizzy,
busy station, platform tizzy.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC