"stylised" poems
She lay with her back to him, face to the wall, says: “Nothing is black and white. All shades of grey. I wanted it to be… just wish it was white.”
She placed the cracks in her voice at calculated places, hoping but no reply expecting. He is usually not aware of her subtleties, the hints to the real state of things, with her. Then he lays his arm around her as he says: “At least it’s grey, not black.”
Her eyes widen in the dark but do not flinch, and she pulls him by his hand closer onto her, wishing it was the only touch she needed to bring her the ultimate comfort that she wanted, that she needed.
“But I’m afraid, the black will seep in and make the grey darker.” She swallows, suppressing her fear for speaking fatalities. “Sometimes it seems like it has and does.”
Silence falls over them as she waits for an answer; the black stylised curls he drew on his wall gaze back at her, with still, reciprocating wonder.
She reminisces to how she drew curls on her own wall, with the artistic charcoal she got for her fifteenth birthday; it was a meagre gift from the one to whom she would lose her virginity barely a few months later. Now, the curls are gone, and her contact with him fell away soon after the fact, reduced only to sporadic visits on her part.
Finally, listening to his steady breathing in sleep, she is convinced he had given up the conversation, feeling comforted that he reassured her enough for now. Her eyes remain open still though; they peer through the darkness as if it held her fortune, solitarily illuminated by the stars shining through the skylight above her. It is relating conflicting prophecies however.
If I was as pure as white, no black could – would contaminate my love for him, she thinks. But white is for virgins and she has been in love before.
© 2006
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
No, not a ghost,
but aptly stylised as the dove,
the brooding feathered presence -
with a tendency from the first
to spread, to hover, and then to swoop,
not slow to sing,
commentating, or annotating
where exposition is needed
- a narrator if you will, both direct
or by human pen and voice,
a catalyst, an expectorant,
not hesitant to disrupt and prompt
a change in direction,
keeping our toes agile,
challenging our stale agendas.
Not a ghost out of sight
that we might pass through oblivious,
but a bright presence,
ready to swoop in at a moment's notice.
The most Holy Spirit.
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 4:20 AM UTC
rubicon hangover
sherbert lemon sunrise
butterscotch *******
with an afterbirth smile
pastiche or phantom
beautiful proportion
cutting mothers apron
the circle of time
location location
circumnavigation
stylised continuum
great britain is a lie
mass for the masses
blood on the carpet
thank you for not smoking
its a marvel we're alive
thirty thousand drowning
thirty fathoms counting
suffer little children
not in my back garden
slumber in a haven
sleeping with forbidden
waterfalls and gravestones
selfish over soil
war americana
revolutionara
helicopter complex
compliment our ego
nuclear disaster
what use is a master
fall out over fallout
tinnitus and drones
avalanche of feedback
pentatonic ***** slap
abstinent castrati
carry me away
shiver orchestration
gentle fornication
sexually vacant
naturally vague
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:51 PM UTC
She stood at the edge of the world
and prayed to a God,
who she knew
could not exist
Wondering how her life
could have come to this
How could he leave her empty
of all emotion except her anger
How dare he stare into her eyes
while the anger slowly strangled her
She welcomed the black clouds
that enveloped her
upon the edge of the cliff
and threw her hands
spread out proud
With a **** You***
upon her lips
**** you God
you pompous ****
You self stylised imposter
**** you very much
for deluding humanity
In this space...***
You just lost her
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC
In a world where all half truths
Are more dangerous than none
Taking sides does of necessity
Place yourself outside the truth
Of things that are truly eternal
An’ lets transience rule the soul
Revealing all that’s writ above
As deceit writhing down below
Boot heels in the worried earth
Churning up that fearful storm
Tearing stones to bleeding dust
Blinding audiences to madness
Dressed in vestments of sadness
To be born poor and beautiful
Is to really never stand a chance
In that rich an’ very ugly world
That taught us all how to dance
To the sound of magic in the air
Coloured flowers in our tresses
Stardust on our boot heeled feet
Dancing visions along the street
Before the nightmare kicked in
And the coloured lights fled out
Leaving us all in black and white
Lost for days at the lack of light
In our stylised monochrome hell
Taking a chance on another dance
With the dark side of that moon
Spinning alone in a broken room
Fixing thoughts on a turning table
Flowing from the eye of a needle
Stitched some souls to living hell
Burning music to the pits as well
To rise again in sounding beauty
Today tomorrow an’ all eternity.
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC