"megalomania" poems - Hello Poetry

I **** the mood in a sour June, opulent misery, scorched Earth, exchanging platitudes with old faces, full of ******** full of hot air. Both sides of the fence at war with themselves, feigning inner peace and profit across the beer garden table. I talk of hangmen and floods, child brides and dressing gowns, my hometown under the mythic spell of collective memory loss. We have forgotten our place in the comfort of our urban sprawl; sirens caterwaul past the high-rise, past the vacant church with locked doors and the homeless on the street. A commonplace emergency, young male suicides, women ***** in the safety of their homes, taught a kindness through physical force, the way the gun drops to civilians in countries saved through the filter of television screens; of dust and distance. I sit and write and think of **** of old loves, anxieties- they call me crazy all the while for not committing to the scene. Now Afghanistan is a blueprint, extended diagram of steady-state destruction, a conspiracy of white man dreams, farmlands bruised by machines of war, by the Big Black Boot, the feeling we have been here before. All the while, the illusion persists, car parks filled with smoke, professional escapists with their 9% lager, bags of tobacco, and the megalomania of art. I **** the mood of a whitewashed June, advertised freedom, a mortgaged Earth, exchanging currency for a chance of peace, the zen garden smoker, the looted mind. Both sides of the fence are collecting bones, at war with themselves, whilst my eyes are red and my philosophies, ****** They call me crazy for dreaming of escape, whilst never leaving the confines of home.

0

Apr 8, 2015

Apr 8, 2015 at 9:09 AM UTC

Edward-Coles

Stoner.

I **** the mood in a sour June, opulent misery, scorched Earth, exchanging platitudes with old faces, full of ******** full of hot air. Both sides of the fence at war with themselves, feigning inner peace and profit across the beer garden table. I talk of hangmen and floods, child brides and dressing gowns, my hometown under the mythic spell of collective memory loss. We have forgotten our place in the comfort of our urban sprawl; sirens caterwaul past the high-rise, past the vacant church with locked doors and the homeless on the street. A commonplace emergency, young male suicides, women ***** in the safety of their homes, taught a kindness through physical force, the way the gun drops to civilians in countries saved through the filter of television screens; of dust and distance. I sit and write and think of **** of old loves, anxieties- they call me crazy all the while for not committing to the scene. Now Afghanistan is a blueprint, extended diagram of steady-state destruction, a conspiracy of white man dreams, farmlands bruised by machines of war, by the Big Black Boot, the feeling we have been here before. All the while, the illusion persists, car parks filled with smoke, professional escapists with their 9% lager, bags of tobacco, and the megalomania of art. I **** the mood of a whitewashed June, advertised freedom, a mortgaged Earth, exchanging currency for a chance of peace, the zen garden smoker, the looted mind. Both sides of the fence are collecting bones, at war with themselves, whilst my eyes are red and my philosophies, ****** They call me crazy for dreaming of escape, whilst never leaving the confines of home.