"paintwork" poems
Dark clouds,
Pollution fills air with dust,
Melted paintwork,
Cars rust,
The world is cold,
Hearts, brains and souls,
Full of mould.
Innocent animals die,
Innocent children cry,
The peaceful natural world
We once lived in,
Is full of death,
Heart break and sin.
I struggle to find a kind person,
The more I try and help
The more it seems to worsen,
If you're in doubt
About the life you live
Put on a smile,
Ask more and give.
For the world a bitter place,
So pick yourself up
An exception to the human race,
When you wake up grin
Share the laughter,
Eventually you'll wish
You did after.
If you feel times are tough,
Go explore, see the world,
You haven't seen enough,
Meet new people, meet new friends,
And fall in love,
Before your soul is caught
In a star from above.
Small children in poor countries,
Don't have healthy water,
But families go out and buy
A new car for their daughter.
With the world always spinning
Throughout the years,
All you're doing is sat
Shedding tears,
Just sit for a moment
Open your eyes and ears
It's not all bad,
When you've got family,
Friends and beers.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 6:46 AM UTC
A fire raged in the darkness that resembled a postcard sent from hell
It was destroying the once beautiful vision that was the old town Carousel
Large striking white horses that in the past stood like angels in the night
Were all now fiercely burning as they cast an eerie sight
The smell of the charred wood and the plume of ash in the air
Left a tearjerking memory to the workers on the fair
A disturbing insight into mindlessness certain people possess
The flames rose in the air caused by those who couldn’t care less
Blistering heat was getting stronger with every hour that past
The sounds of loud sirens finally filled the air at last
Gone was the wonderful paintwork resembling times gone by
Now there were black patches that made the ancients cry
What now for the old Carousel?
With so many stories yet to tell
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
A certain quiet glinting in the corner of my eye
a prickle-necked foreboding in a sullen winter sky
An ultrasonic wavelength tuned to sorrow and to fear
comes manifest, projected through my wish to bring it near
A pressure change, a slamming door, a thought of things undone
comes seeping through the paintwork for a bit of spectral fun
And I can sit complacently and watch the show unfold
My perfect explanations make me curious and bold
I wonder how my brain will paint this misty-coloured scene
What face will fly from memory where no face should have been
I have no need for magic or for spirits of the dead
But seek the secret passages that twine within my head
And here it comes, as if on cue, parading through the wall
(A weaker man than me would think his wisdom rather small)
The wraith is clothed in folklore, stepping past without a glance
And I would laugh it off but for one ghastly circumstance:
For all my knowledge, nothing helps the second that I see
That solid as I feel, this ghost
does not
believe
in me.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 10:55 AM UTC
After the English fry-up at the Turkish café,
I ask to use the toilet.
It’s through the back of the kitchen where his wife
Is washing pans, out the door and down the stairs
Rusted with years of rain and peeling paintwork.
In the passage down below, between moss-grown brick,
A patch of earth. So many pots line the walls.
A few onions sprout. A maple tree. Some emerald shoots
Beneath a seed packet sign saying “Gladioli”.
It is quiet here. A place where servitude ends,
Where pause is taken
From the sound of coffee machines and clatter,
Chip-fryer sizzling and the perpetual radio’s chatter.
A spot within the city, apart from the chaos upstairs,
Where the proprietor can breathe
More than fumes and demands,
Smoke a single cigarette and contemplate
A pebble carefully placed among the hidden green
And trace the ground of being, a memory of home.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 11:01 AM UTC
I look into my life.
It’s distorted,
Curved at the peripheries
‘Till I’m required to squint,
Just to make out the features
Beneath the glass.
In the snow lies dead thought.
Water stagnant,
Green-blue and faded paintwork.
How I ache for that great hand
To lift, shake and cascade me
With memories.
Rain on me my life’s memoirs.
Drown me in snow.
I sit and I wait for when
These monotone streets will
Fan and flame, burst to colour,
Burst to flavour.
My romanticised past,
I marvel at.
Recall each day as a dream,
And each night an excursion
Of wanderlust, innocence
And fair fortune.
For now, I’ll remain here.
These arching walls,
My old translucent prison.
Life in stasis, I’m stubborn
As I avoid career-paths
In my dome,
And wonder when this world
Will begin to feel like home.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:02 PM UTC
trim and finishing
the paintwork will reveal no matter how spackled
if the planning and footings aren't square.
custom millwork and artsy craft
do not hide the lack of deft blueprints
and engineering
Correctly spacing the 2 by Fours and !/4 Rounds
without plumbing and building on solid ground
leave many a stair to be climbed
Upper floors are where it's at when we are designing our houses.
If a temple or an apartment, a plan,
is our solid foundation.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
I remember the shadows of empty mystery
That cloaked the door as rot cloaks a stagnant pool
I remember the dingy corner it crouched in
Just out of reach of the old and wavering lightbulb
I remember how I never seemed to see it
How it would seemingly meld with the dark as I passed
I remember the call of curiosity’s mouse-hole
Drawing me in like a noose around my drumming heart
I remember the tired paintwork as I stroked it
It crumbled into my hands and coated my palms like ****** ******
I remember the corpse-like wood that lay beneath
Gnarled by time like the hands of a long dead Messiah
I remember the moan of a seldom turned handle
Mirroring the sudden cry of a crow outside in the grey cold
I remember the hurricane of dust that migrated out
That clogged my nostrils and choked my throat
I remember the Flesh Eating Monsters housed within
I remember the yelp, and then scream of a child
It was me
I remember the clunk of a barrier restored
I prayed that a door would be enough to protect me
I remember the rush of musty air down my throat
As I trembled up stairs to the open arms of safety
I remember the tears that rattled my eyes
How they ruined the shoulder of the jumper you were wearing
I remember the love that I felt for you then
I was a bundle of innocence sobbing a funeral march
I remember awaking to the chill of my sweat
And solemnly promising to try to forget
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
I’m crouched in the same dark cold corner.
The empty damp corner of my cell.
The corner I’ve sat in for so long.
The corner I know so well.
Every chip in the paintwork.
Every damp patch on the floor.
I know this corner.
It’s the same as it was when I came before.
But it now seems I’m here forever.
There’s no getting out this time.
I’m going to sit in this same lonely corner,
till my spirit goes and I die.
The cold, the damp, the hunger pains.
The feeling of being alone.
The loneliness of waking up,
and seeing the walls you’ve seen for so long.
No one around, nothing to call your own.
The feeling and warmth of the sun shining through.
I jump up and down to try get a view.
But the hole is too high, I can’t even smell,
and nobody hears me if I yell.
But what’s the point of sitting here each day?
Time goes by - Boredom...Decay.
No one now thinks of me, nobody cares.
I might as well be dead or not even born.
The day I die, leave this hole,
will be my liberation away from it all.
Copyright: Gordon Warren (1986)
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
The car whose paintwork
claims that the end is near, trundles
past my window as I look across
the ebbing amber of civilisation
before me, which I have become
perversely accustomed to.
The Arabian accordion has
ceased to play, in the streets
where the masses move as one,
buttoned up to their necks in
a futile attempt to escape the
inevitable wrath of circumstance.
The dusty silhouettes across
the bar have all finished their
drinks, clasping onto glass hollow
like the minds of which the
harsh winter rendered strongly,
to be alone is to feel nothing.
The air hangs thick amongst
the stone walls of the houses
of the slowly suffocating people,
the ones with the stained ribbons
in the hair from almost six years
ago, clutching on to particular thoughts.
And the oriental lady plays
with tins outside my door,
while I peel back my nails in
search of ink, all the time thinking
the sleeve made wet by nostalgia
is nearly rolled up, all the way back home
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
I was all alone, just me, just one
You see alone, alone has the word one and there is only one of me and only one of you
But what word means us and has the word two because I don’t want one alone, I want us the two
I have tried so hard to find the word because I want you, and I want us, and I want true, and I want two
How about the word Artwork? That has the word two
Does it work, because you are a work of art and I work hard to find our word with two
Trustworthy! That’s it, right? It has the word two, and I trust you, but do you trust me…? I don’t know
Paintwork… It has the word two, but it also has the word pain and then there is the word outwork
And I feel outworked, trying to find the word that has two, to prove to you, my love is true, and that’s all I want to do
But why isn’t there a word for two?
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 9:47 PM UTC
A man’s bike is very much like a loyal dog,
Obedient, fast and often times clumsy
For us men, our bike’s can mean the world to us,
For they take us from A to B, and from Y to Z
Our bike’s can’t survive on their own you know, the past has proven this so
Maintenance is a must, not a maybe,
Just like you wouldn’t leave home without feeding the hound, would you?
We’ve travelled across cities ten-fold, my bike and I,
Beyond mountainous regions and across lakes and rivers
You see, my bike has this energy,
Not like anything I have witnessed before
It surpasses all expectations, and has held together strong through the ages of time
I never gave my bike a name,
And nor will I ever plan to do so
For the bike, you see is part of our physical being,
And has one solid purpose in life
See, It’s just a piece of mechanical assembly
Built for our pleasure in mind
It takes us places where the foot dare not enter,
And where the car wheel would struggle to go
Two wheels, rotating simultaneously at dizzying speeds!
Ah! What a sight to behold
As I take my dear boy by the handle bars, its glistening paintwork shines bright
I make sure it’s sturdy for the ride ahead, my mechanical warhorse
I say to myself under uncertain breath..
“Let’s follow the sunset, or where the rainbow ends its journey”
For our uncertainty leads to great adventure and discovery
And in the end, isn’t life meant to be one big beautiful adventure, anyway?
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 7:34 AM UTC
Lightning strikes in the distance. The winds
Howl, moons echo in faraway orbits, the wolves
Throw up their heads and scream into the night.
A gust of moonlight rushes through your focus,
Cursing your vision with faint outlines, phantoms
Of your window-sill. You think you hear the sea
But you have no blue. None but your curtains,
Flapping in the gale, raising like a crescendo
Up to the coldest stars, spread out across the sky,
Brush-stroke on canvas. Violins, the taste of coffee.
The wolves howl. Moons echo with your paintwork.
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 6:00 PM UTC
Listen, if I love you, I love you.
Blonde streaks of sun constantly beaming will one day erase the paintwork we did on the iron fence,
but not this.
If I love you, I love you.
The toad greets the morning dew with a croak from his throat, and we fill our cups to the brim listening to our nerves, is that your heart or mine? I felt flannel slip on my fingers and I saw the daybreak.
If I love you, I love you.
Someday I will not have the guts to look at you. Someday you will not speak to me. I loved you inevitably and you will go as the universe wish. Cinema stubs will replace your scent. Your laughter is a eulogy. I will not pass by the same road twice, and you will never retrace your steps.
If I love you, I love you.
The world called and told you how to find me. My fingers answered by shutting the door. I am sorry for loving you with a heavy hand. I love you and I love you. But it is not enough.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC
He was stood at the door as if he didn't know what door it was and it was him
as clear as the nose on my face it was him looking thinner now, eyes a bit dimmer now,
stood at the same door,
the paintwork scuffed by years and mistrust of exorbitant prices charged by local traders the paint your own raiders, but fading all the same.
I didn't know him now,
change is a funny cow when
life gives you the milk and
then it turns sour.
He stood there for an hour
the shadows moved up his raincoat and
dropped into his pockets,
hands aimlessly wandering at the ends of his wrists.
I missed something about him
not sure what it was and it was him
I'm sure of it.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
Saturday evening, it's early, so early,
before all the bright young things come out to play;
5.30 down in the pub by the bus station,
paintwork is peeling, it's seen better days.
Up by the juke box a man in a faded
old jacket stands baffled, a coin in his hand.
Names flash before him in gaudy confusion,
he can't find The Searchers, his favourite band.
Three women gossip and shriek by the window
where pale light illuminates glasses of gin;
Elsie's a pensioner, Maureen's a widow,
and Dot buys a round from her last bandit win.
Up at the bar big fat Ronnie's demanding
they switch on the TV t o see if he's won;
Got a hot tip and he stuck on a tenner,
he'd better not tell her indoors what he's done!
Smell of stale ***** permeates from old Billy,
he's been drinking Guinness since quarter to three;
last night he was nicked by the cops on his way home
for taking a leak underneath a park tree.
All human life is arrayed in the bar room,
it's where people come when they've nowhere to go;
seeking companionship, happy the hour,
when somebody talks to them that they don't know.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 4:33 PM UTC
According to the Oxford English Dictionary,
Depression is: A mental condition characterized by feelings of severe despondency and dejection,
But for me,
Depression is the sleepless nights,
And the reason I don't get out of bed
Depression is the still unwashed plates
Left by the sink,
The missed calls and the
Voicemails that I never open
Depression is the chipped paintwork,
The shatter glass windows that
I have not got round to fixing
Depression is the skipped meals,
The self-portrait it carves on my wrist,
It controls me like a puppeteer
Depression is the voice telling me
That I am not good enough
Not smart enough,
Not funny enough
The voice telling me this world would be better without me
Telling me I am not wanted,
I am not loved
Depression is the reason I can't treat my friends and family
Like friends and family
Depression is standing on top of the world
And still wanting to jump
Depression is not wanting to die and
Yet still wanting to die
Depression is the hardest battle I've ever fought
And I think I'm losing
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
I'm a cheap hotel room
With a story to tell
I look pretty shabby
And I'm not very well
I'm used and abused
My paintwork is old
The owner keeps the heating low
And I'm constantly cold!...
My tap in my ensuite
Monotonously drips
I'm fed up with the couples
Who use me for naughty day trips!
They scuff up my skirting boards
And trample on my bed
They lounge in my armchair
But it's the children I dread!
I'd love to be modern
All streamlined shiny- new
Please tell my owners
As they haven't got a clue?
My windows are grimy
And my carpet too
Oh!.. don't go into my toilet
As there's a crack in my loo!
I want to be boutique
Urban and cool
With french windows, verandah
Leading down to a pool
But , alas, l am a sad little room
Like a rose that has blossomed
But now.. lost its bloom....
Aug 24, 2017
Aug 24, 2017 at 6:57 AM UTC