"sellotaped" poems
The onion doesn't have layers
it has panels
nailed to its skin.
On occasions
he goes back to the warehouse
where he stores broken typewriters,
unfinished narratives of the campaign,
unexploded bombs.
sellotaped wires.
He audits his feelings
keeps them neatly arranged
on shelves and spreadsheets and
he examines them against the light
and is pleased with his investigations.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:25 AM UTC
ME ALRIGHT!
She watches as
I write.
The soft wheeze of lead
leaving words in its wake
like seagulls following
the trail of a ship
clamouring after
the refuse of the mind.
Soon the page is
littered with words.
They crawl across the page
in their best 4B.
It pleases her to see
the graphite leave these
tracings of me
upon...beyond...the white.
She looks at the journey of my hand
as if writing were a magic rite.
She asks if she can
draw.
"Sure..." I say
and the words cease.
I just put the tittle
on an small i and j.
The words splashed across the page
like puddles of thought drying in the sun.
I hand her the pencil.
She shakes it and shakes it.
And shakes it.
"What's that for?"
I dare to ask.
"The pencil is too full of words.
I want a pencil full of lines."
"I see..." I say
even though I don't really.
Well, it seems to work for
nothing comes out but line after line.
She lost in the little planet of
her intense concentration.
She throws in the odd curve
and a wonky circle every now and then.
The lines look confused
not too sure just what
they are doing
on this scrap of paper.
I ask her what
the lines mean.
"The lines are you of course.
See...?"
"I see..." I say
although I don't really.
But indeed in this
drawing I am
very much
as she sees me.
The page never lies.
These are scribbles that were my eyes.
I have as it happens
eyes five
stuck on the side of
what appears to be a head.
And yes only one leg.
One leg with seven toes.
An abstract alien
bird father.
It takes pride of place
sellotaped to the fridge.
"Yep...that's me
alright!"
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
I sat with a blue emblem of bruised hollows
Voice....fractionless in the gap between words
Fresh out of rhymes caught up in a grey scenario
Sellotaped up for the time being. Until 'They' create the story
Board. Temporary measures, I called in its truth
Asked it to surface. It could not; remaining submerged
Seeping into human unknowns. I sprinkled an ounce of
Salt on the wound. It stung like hell, in healing hibernation
The billboards flapped their curiosity, taking on the sellers
Argument. Advertising its limits, search parties calling
Out to investigate. We sat down with disbelief, about what,
We were unsure. Clusters of acidic thoughts back dropped
Our vantage point and poured sour silence into our sentences
The near on tragedy catered for by reapers in hooded outcomes
Sell me another box of tricks I asked, one I can enter into without
Criminalising your purchase, slinking off on a day trip of borrowed time
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
i don't want to sit on teraces or chill at the park
i don't want to drink alone at 1:30am with patti smith playing
i don't want to go to sicily like a sellotaped body
i don't want any dried out tulips in *** on the table today
i just want some confirmation
to know if it's still possible
to know if it's still real
to know if i'm it
and if you miss me
like i do right now
and forever
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Pages of my mind once torn, sellotaped together,
A mind now mended, frayed within thoughts.
Ink is my plaster, my stresses now released
Upon empty white spaces they now sleep.
Mended with each word that's released, I'm
A man of my word, always a friend when in need.
Family is everything, manners mean just as much,
3, 2, 1 little smiles opening hearts of all they touch.
My life is many tales of darkened moments, but in
Their is more moments that shined peace in light.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Dictated by society and obligations, a steered life we lead; we are an adulterated people.
We don’t know what is in our heart, we don’t want to peer inwards, we are fearful.
Strip everything down.
Can you see yourself raw?
Can you face what you see?
Bitter we are past the looking glass.
Peel off the layers and you will find a quivering truth rejected too often, born and bred in denial.
Can you accept what you have let go?
Confrontation was never our forte.
We escape, emotional Houdinis.
Routine takes over.
We work mechanically, if we do the same thing long enough, everything else will lose meaning.
We bury, not burn.
Ashes scatter to never come back but bones stay forever.
Regret lingers on us.
You'll catch faint sniffs of it even now when we’re alone.
Prose, poetry, music and I am foolish enough to be Pandora.
I am not deep. Loss is deep.
People. Things. Our attachment to them.
Cut the ropes and the bridge will fall.
You will fall with it.
Yes.
But you will return scarred, disfigured.
Will you ever be able to make peace with that?
Because I still struggle.
A hollowness which is detected only when knocked upon the seemingly solid exterior.
The strongest are the emptiest.
We are not who we are. We are a mixture of what we want to be, what we should be and what we shouldn’t be.
Our love as materialistic as the dead things that surround us.
Broken. It’s all broken.
The moment we were born, we started dying.
Fragments hold us together, glued together by memories and dreams, fueled by hope.
Falling apart and being pieced together again and again and again till we are claimed by what created us and we shall be purely whole again.
We are an adulterated people.
We are sellotaped souls.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Stripped
Back
Broken
Down
Curled
Up
Wrapped
Up
Placed
On a
Shelf
To be
Located
By
A sticky
Note
Tattooed
With
Smelly ink
Injected
By
Felt tip
Sellotaped
Securely
To the side
Stayed
For
A while
Rooted
Through
Spare parts
Repaired
Uncurled
Located
By a
Sticky
Note
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 5:14 PM UTC