"technicolour" poems
1:11am:
in my lungs you breed a pale disease
you are even in the air I breathe
3:29am:
heart in half chasing electronic dreams in technicolour screams
your claws in my teeth as I drown out my whims
3:45am:
and all the nights I spent lying in the freezer
and all the little lies we wasted telling each other
and even as you left I had not come around
I was the reckless wrecking havoc on wicked ground
4:59am:
last night I was flying around
dazed and dazed and dazed all over
awaiting my jewelled crown
adorned with the prestige of an empire
even in a new cage I could not throw you out
5:27am:
even as the sun rises surely troubles stay the same
even if you came back now I would gladly play your games
even after all this while all the daze you left me in
still you are imperial and my grailed heart it shakes like porcelain
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
that night, i wore a polo shirt.
i thought *hey, i'm going to a friend's
dorm, no need to dress up, right?*
so i wore a polo shirt, a yellow and blue and pink
thing. i'd bought it from a charity shop
only weeks earlier, when i was still exploring
a new university town
and finding not-so-hidden gems;
and sure, it was three sizes too big
but it was comfortable, and made me feel safe.
turns out, you didn't care about polo shirts
or tank tops. you cared about what was underneath
and i was drunk enough to let you - or,
well, not really let you, but i didn't need to dress up
so i wore baggy clothes and a smile
so i had half a bottle of jack daniels
and i had a nineteen year old point to prove
and i had a pill that you gave me
and i had - sorry, have - a therapist's bill.
but this isn't about you. i don't write about you.
i make a point of not writing about you,
actually. which is to say that i write about you
in a way that doesn't let you hurt me anymore.
i write about what i was wearing
(did i deserve it? in my 1970s male t-shirt?)
or what i was drinking
(it was university)
or how i tried to throw myself into a river
in the aftermath
(but i didn't, because i got thirsty, and i didn't
want to die thirsty, so i went home).
no, i'm writing about the polo shirt i was wearing.
cotton, i think. polyester, probably.
the amazing technicolour haze of am i sober enough for this?
who knows how many iterations
of the same lancaster charity shop
it circled through, old men with families
and wives and kids -
it probably saw birthdays and christmases
and, safely tucked in the back of a closet,
shielded itself from the almost-crisis of cuban missiles.
and then, me. a nineteen year old
branching out into the world for the first time;
a lover of poetry, maker of music, naïve and beautiful.
then, it was just a polo shirt, and i wore it
as long as it was laundered, for a month or so,
until december. not that i stopped wearing it
because it was cold. it just reminded me of hands
and hands and hands and
**** how many hands can a man have?
how long will i have to feel them?
i didn't shower the day after, just slept.
a hangover, right? just a hangover.
and then, when the hot water in my dorm
daily ticked on, i washed every inch of myself
to get rid of you, and your foam banana shower gel
that your mother probably told you to buy.
so, what compensation do you owe me?
what price should i put on things?
you touch it, so you pay for it.
one charity shop shirt, three pounds please.
Jan 26, 2022
Jan 26, 2022 at 10:55 PM UTC
Evergreen and ivory
Turquoise tears bleed ebony
Fuchsia trees bear violet cherries
Blood oranges,
Mushroom clouds and ashberries.
These are the thoughts that grace my mind
As I turn to leave
Garden gnomes and rose scraped knees
Faster now
Faster than before
Kiss me golden,
Less, then more
And tell me who I am.
Coteries and clandestine deals
Soft-sweet midnight chamomile
And indigo aspirations
Somber February celebrations
Anniversaries white and red
Blue and green and white and red
And can you keep a secret?
Black-tea memories always slap me sleepless
And I have never known quite exactly how I feel.
Clementines suspended in yellow lamplight
Cross it out to scarlet rewrite.
Beige mountains and Alaskan hills
Crescent moon and sawdust mills
Silver smiles on a benign boat
Blessed if I'm an allusion to a footnote.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
Before you get lost in the unfinished maps of her veins
the ones like yours, but not stitched up too many times to count on the ticks of a clock,
make sure that she trusts you enough to tell the truth.
Make sure that she loves you enough to know how you lie.
Remember that every single time you open your mouth, she's wishing
you're saying I love you.
Remember that on Fridays she doesn't want to cook.
And she sure doesn't want you to cook anything that was slaughtered.
Remember that she prefers cheap whiskey over champagne.
And when you're opening your ribcage to show her how fast your heart beats
when she grabs your wrists, make sure the butterflies are set free.
Make sure they find the window.
Make sure they find a home.
Remember that every living creature is just that, living.
Remember that they have a heartbeat.
And when you stop breathing when you see her with her hair down,
when you're thinking about starting a religion about girls with flowers for eyes,
tell her she's beautiful.
Tell her she's so full of the future.
Get her a telescope so you can show her the moon when it's bigger than both your thumbs.
Take her skiing while it's Summer in Australia even though you curse the snow as if it
were born out of wedlock.
Let her know she's not the first but she's definitely the only, and you're so scared of dying.
You never know what you have until it's locked firmly in your grasp as if to not let it run away.
You might lose a lot of blood but you'll never lose your way home.
I don't want to hear the dial tone.
I want to hear your voice, I want to hear you scream. Tell me to leave.
Tell me that I am the only road that leads you to a purpose.
That in a world of blindness I am so technicolour.
Even though I can't promise you that, I can give you my words, thrusted from my lungs
like wildfire.
Searching for the way out.
Talk to me about religion, please please convince me that there is something out there other than
rotting in the ground for all of eternity.
Bible scripture doesn't whisper of your lips like my pillows do.
I never really thought about pillow talk until they started speaking me to sleep.
I find myself found by the curvature of your spine, of the shadows that take up residence on your shoulders like they have lived there all along.
I want to kiss away every bit of pain that has ever stopped you from smiling at strangers
and let you know that I'm coming home and I will always find your hands.
Let your ribs shake when your heart has had enough.
Let them shake.
Let the rain come through your window while you're sitting there in your makeshift darkroom.
You are the only thing I know about consistency.
And before I get lost in the unfinished maps of your veins,
I will be making sure they lead to me.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:42 PM UTC
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -
the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.
pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.
pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.
pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.
pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC
You can call the kettle black
Have a yellow streak
And be tickled pink
Turn up out of the blue
Or feel it.
You can become green with envy
And red with rage.
And dream in technicolour.
They can change but they never disappear, because
without colour.
What would be left?
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 10:54 AM UTC
Sun slits in through slats
of kitchen window blinds
and she is alone.
The art major is cooking
spaghetti,
pretending her thrifted T-shirt
bearing a cotton copy
of Campbell's Soup Cans
is not stained with tears and blood.
Oh, but that's hysterics and
hyperbole;
art has a tendency of making its worshippers
melodramatic...no?
The blood is only tomato sauce
and the tears...
well, what are tears but
water and salt?
After all, dramatizing the
mundane is just one awkward shade
of artistic temperament.
Visualizing life through
a heavy silk screen.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is redder and
redder as she cooks.
Just as
her paintings bleed more blood
as she dangles a brush over them -
the teary-eyed watercolours.
The art major has decided
that drawing out extremities
of colour
might transform
her own life into
a pop of a Warhol painting.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
She thinks, tries to
think
in technicolour.
Today's thought-pencilled thesis
concludes (like a brush stroke of uncertain finality) that
love is the red of tomato soup cans.
Anger is the boil, passion is
the gulp,
danger, caution, warning,
the hot breaths, fleeting warmths,
the burn and sweet and tang.
She looks down at the
scarlet of
Warhol's soup cans,
blooming in worn out cotton
on her chest.
It might as well be blood, she
thinks.
It is,
it is,
it is.
Blood red love -
tomato soup cans.
Sun sets in slits
through kitchen window blinds
and she is still alone.
The art major sighs and
stirs.
The spaghetti is ready.
Aug 2, 2015
Aug 2, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
/ although i'd love to go back to the cinema of, bell, book & candle from the 1950s in early technicolour... can i? don't think so... trapped the rekindled narrative of myth... i wish i could, do the supra-capitalist, drunk at 5 in the afternoon, and still pulling the strings... early nostalgia of what was late nostalgia of what was 19th century german concerning ancient greece... i chose 17th century france... because? because... why could it ever be england as primo optio?! am i either that daft, or as much stiff for waiting for eddie zee theerd?! well? well done, you guessed my thinking: write a fictive narrative, it'll last longer, like a photograph.
immigrant song, led zeppelin -
probably the only grand theatre
plus,
of thor: rangarok;
i still don't know where those
M16s came from...
and?
given they used
a led zeppelin's song?
i honestly, don't want to know.
i was honestly going to favour
a black sabbath oeuvre,
using only solitude
by the witches' congregation
ask, aspect,
or subsequent, marketing ponce
scheme.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC
dented but not broken
in the demon dark
the deep chasms
of the wilderness
and the forgotten recess
silence from tender slumber
has awoken
the synergy of temptations
on their merry dance
sip divines peach nectar
the naked flesh and heaving chest
unleash thy sporadic vital spark
the impressed intent
of thy chosen scent
fuels the interactive nodes
neon infused electronic spasms
that echo in the dark
a subtle jowl in latent jest
as twilights nimble fingers
unbutton what remains of carefree days
and the fallen angels
with such sweet caress
to touch the mystic
unfurl the arc of your rainbow
and shine your rays
on cobbled memories
of Paris in the rain
and Tokyo Blue
hustles in the backstreets aroma
blow the cobwebs a gentle kiss
on days like this
left unchecked and laid to rest
gathered in momentums voice
and uttered as a sensual breath
the nakedness of emotion
the arcane interventions
should not be left to fade
to fill the empty space
they call the void
these technicolour moments
we've made
stumble on the waves
the fragrances of youth etched
in unedited stop motion
the contours of discovery
sparkle in the ether
the azure eyes
and the open arms
of the ocean
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 10:39 AM UTC
her subtleties and jewels
are billboarded for the drawing of crowds
but the faces sketched by the grease lights are not
the kind that such an exquisite artwork of womanhood
like her should bring out on such a soft spring night
so they fold her up and pack her away
careful not to crease her fine linen soul
and place her neatly away in her cedar chest
knowing i will sneak her out later for wine and ballroom dancing
bring her back to the circus of the obscene
just as dawn creeps into the cool crisp sky
a single tear in her eye for her lost teenage years
when she only wanted to rebel a bit
but spent the time posed neatly like a porcelain doll
she was a lifesize lovesick reproduction in technicolour of herself
all thouse years ago
better to have gone away
better to have been a roadside companion
of the weary walkers
than grown old as one of the window decorations of the world
shes there now in the sun faded backdrop to the shopping season
but ill rescue her someday
well live in somerset and sell glass trinkets
her introspection is the short film version
but her poems are the epic novels
of such sweet romance
it sways the most hardened to the tender embrace
to the love of soul to soul kisses
she weaves such a tender tale
but her nights are spent alone
watching a winter moon
cross the summer sky
her hand aching for the hand that once held it
aching for the love that abandon her to this fate
i hope someday to fill that void in her world
wedged between the cardboard cowboy's forever smile
and the caped crusader sleeping off his drinking binge
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
i see technicolour but mostly violet
slopped across the walls in polygon inlays as
the bulb from above casts a glare across bare walls
like a nuclear winter, i huddle beneath the coverless duvet
trying to breathe life into sentence fragments as a
freight train tears up the blackened skyline and
with morning, this will be a memory too
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 11:42 AM UTC
saying **** off* seems so much more
easier when you're petting cats....
they just say it for you...
there he is, Quarus,
the operatic singer nearing sunset,
200 variations of a mulling of meow,
i end up calling him Orbison Rufus,
the ginger Roy of Peckham -
he basically meows lazily like Roy
singing... as said / i.d. (id est): the umbras
or umbrellas - counting the shadows'
version of Apache's yawn: ah-woo ah-woo
ah-woo nagging the reflex...
gave them the yawn and gave them 1950s
America... Billy the Kid talking to the king of
Specs... hank marvin.... cheese grater
with those teeth... dozen cows buckling with
the herding in while the dog carved a feel
for religion in the translation of the Vatican
from coliseum into football requirements...
the movies were great in the 1950s, just after
the technicolour... petting cats was never such a thrill...
the operatic meow, onomatopoeia from echo
in a cave to knock-on-wood...
200 variations of the knock
and 12 whiskey shots downed
while playing poker... 12 cowboys
1 Milwaukee and 30 Turks... classic Tarantino...
i said the Apache yawn... i never said giving
out smoke signals...
Quarus my ginger is demanded as having laughed...
he's Roy Orbison with the meow,
pretty much lazy...
looks like a murmur when he tries singing,
pretty woman, trolling down the street,
Gucci, Chanel, and everything in the scrapheap of lobotomy,
as is Paris necessarily mentioned: chiselled
white collars... Roy knew before Elvis...
the trick came with sunglasses,
and the gluttonous slur of the half-opened mouthing
for subsequent mouthing it off...
no amount of cheese in French could ever
charter the success of the cheeses added to cheeseburgers
with the milkshakes, which were plainly Dutch
laughing cows named Novices....
quick-melts and some said:
dreadlocks of string-yellow Gouda pulled
for a hippies' worth of Chinese chugging down
a pint or two, for worth of gag and the slim mascot;
the Chinese never taught Cannes arithmetic
of the thumb through to pinky...
i don't know how they taught counting
with their complex ideograms, they never taught
arithmetic give their encoding...
they taught pure math.. they never taught the simplest
of assurances... meaning so few of them became bankers.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
I’m praying for Pangaea so I can run to the ends of the earth for you. Mixed signals are cancerous so I swallow yours down to keep you safe. Sure, souls like fire in my bloodstream burn on the way out but they’re streaming for you into this chest cavity missing a heart, my own Judas, betrayed me for your eyes. Even saints can be lost causes, darling, but you’re neither. You’re a superhero, all technicolour capes and dollar-store disguises and you’d think I’m the damsel in distress but I’m your nemesis. Why else do you think I’m burning Earth to the ground, for my own perverse enjoyment? I’m pulling your hair, putting tacks on your seat because I’m too afraid to say I love you, which is a truth, which is a bomb to defuse before our bed becomes ground zero. I laugh at your jokes and offer myself up for slaughter but you’re not biting so I’m walking home in the snow, alone. I’m cold, I’m frozen. I’ve gone home to a Heaven of ice, heads in the freezer like a good luck charm, your words carved into my palms so I won’t forget. Back to the lab, back to the drawing board. Maybe I’ll close the warplans for tonight.
I know you belong to her but I’m jealous, baby, I’m so jealous. I’ll tell you to bow down, defer, sing a hallelujah to lull me to sleep before I remember how much it hurts to love you. And tomorrow when you’re gone I’ll plan death: hell, maybe the world’s. You might love me then. I’m not too hopeful.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
I read between the lines
of black and white faces,
that stare, unblinking,
from the other side of a dream,
a child born free *******
on the fruits of a lost Empire.
The memories are slippery, sweet,
like the ripe flesh of a mango
squelched between eager fingers
stained by the heat of summer.
Shady like the flaming canopy
of a gul mohur tree,
dancing abandoned like a
rubber slipper, bobbing carefree
on a warm ocean wave that
carried my seed across the miles
on forgotten promises
into the arms of a dark night.
Searching for the colour,
I hear the cacophony of racing tongues,
uncommon wealthy mouths closed
to the stench of the natives rotting
like sardines packed into tin can shelters.
In the blackness they awaken me
like a telegram from a long lost relative
arriving on the next train from nowhere
laden elephant like, tin trunks filled
with the treasures still hidden somewhere
in the bottom drawer of my mind.
The technicolour *** bits wrapped
in faded fragments of my imagination,
tied with the string of longing that tugs
back to the creation of this child
ripping open a present from the past.
Unaware of the black and white gaze,
she runs wild, abandoned,
innocent, invisible
child of loves lost dream,
her playground a museum
of passion and pain.
Born free ******* on the fruits of a lost Empire.
May 31, 2011
May 31, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
Play your sad guitar a while
that I may sing for thee
of words that sit within my heart
and technicolour dreams.
Play a tune of broken wings
now healed by tender hands
brought to flight by friendship strong
and moons in distant lands.
Harmonise with me this night
let music be our guide,
you see my soul in different light,
through darkness, where I hide.
Then I'll lift up my song to thee
the sweetest ever heard
and raise my voice in thanks once more
to friendship, love and words.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
My mind is a ghost house,
Haunted by souls still trying t
still here
o be found.
Some live
still
Others,
mere vapours
still here
Exhale, then die, and resurrect in technicolour,
Only to expire
again
Like candles in an unexpected breeze.
The windows were left open
In the dark, the spectres
still.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 5:12 PM UTC
Fragile delusions
Rainbow dreams of daisy fields
False complacency
Shatter in technicolour
Mediocrity knows me
Jul 20, 2010
Jul 20, 2010 at 1:02 PM UTC
Will you please pin my shaking hands to the quivering universe and let me engage in communion? Because lately I have been feeling like a lonely colour in a soundless scape of unending sensation. Too weak to cling tightly enough for any whisper of permanence to latch itself to my soul before it gets caught in the door shutting on their technicolour fatalism. Let me tie my noose to the stars before they fall from the heavens in energetic heaps of light. I will tumble to the dirt alongside the hot white waste expelled from a realm where the gods will weep at the hedonistic horror disguised as modern drops of reality. Let me come to rest in the core, lie motionless among the charred remains of all that we once thought holy.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 7:12 PM UTC
rusty knees folded under a
quilt weaved by the calloused hands of
particles of grandmothers' grandmothers,
head heavy on a
down-breasted pillow,
rising and falling softly
in a bedroom den,
whispering relative semantics of
a testament revised
while outside, tornadoes uproot trees
and displace plywood houses
with charred pies frozen on the windowsill,
entombed from the harsh winter's frost
and incubation in false ovens;
i recall seasonal naps of
drifting and wakening
and colourful mosaics
painted across the dreamland sky,
drinking cups of melatonin-laced chamomile
steeped in an angel teapot that induced
psychosomatic apparitions in constant relay
from earhole to earhole and
assisted with pulling an endless rope out of my
mouth which had been tied to the pit of my ulcerated stomach,
my head twisting in a corkscrew spiral,
meeting a longing gaze
and twisting back again,
oh! my bottled neck!
you retell poems softly spoken loudly
with my kisses on your heavy eyelids,
before we drift through the sheer veil
into unified consciousness,
taking a glimpse at our crowning home in
an infinite land,
enveloped in time-honoured Love
bestowed upon us in
pure, Divine fate,
watching endless words of
'i love you', 'i love you'
trickle like sand though a
heavenly hour glass figure;
to wake, a chance to celebrate,
to die, a chance to find each other again.
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Add a verse,
You have it
In you.
Excrete and devise.
Throw-up
Your insides
In a technicolour
Burp.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 10:49 AM UTC
There are times when writings is useless.
When the similes go on for too long like when the ocean merges with the sky and your eyes cannot the define the boundary between each crystalline blue and it is almost sublime because there is no end or no beginning and that is what I think of you. Infinite
There are times when art is not enough.
Like those times I cannot make the right mixture of the hue of that lovely tint in your eyes and, of course, not matter how many times I trace you in the canvas those lips like rose petals will never move and say "Me too."
There are times when music is lacking.
How you remind me of a melody each and every single time I see you and despite trying to trap the melody in these useless music sheets nothing comes but a few missing music notes that birds and composers have not and will not fathom.
But if I could write you down in paper,
I'd let the words scramble away once more because the free verse of your world intrigues me further more than finite verses on washed out paper.
If I could paint your essence,
Life would be a monochrome film,no more technicolour, no more blushing cheeks. I like you much more in this everlasting landscape where you can dye the world a million colours and still search forevermore
If I could play you in to melody,
The poor birds would be envious and the world would be a quiet place without composers able to eclipse that lovely song of yours. And yet, I love this cacophonous world in which everyone is deaf to you but I who can discern such a faint, dainty tune.
There are those times, you know?
When I know I'm not good enough but if I could, I still would not.
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Black and White, Coloured
It doesn't seem to matter
Technicolour, Sensoround
Made the audio much fatter
Shaking seats, scented mists
Make most patrons go scatter
To me, it's still a movie show
And entertainment's all that matters
With technological intracies
That boggle one mans mind
there are movies being made today
With images refined
Clarity and texture match
and a green screen there behind
CGI is god today
And so...it was designed
Today, I pushed the envelope
Moving dimensions one more out
I've seen 2D and 3D films
This one made me shout
In the middle of the first scene
It felt so real without a doubt
That I had to take my glasses off
This new dimension....I must tout
Even with my glasses off
It seemed so real to me
I've never seen a film like this
Not even in 3D
A mystical intrusion
And my senses were set free
Then my wife leaned over silent like
And this she said to me....
"Sit still....shut up....it's a play you idiot!"
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Why is Jesus consorting with the wizard man?
If I were the wizard,
I’d need the beard…
Apparently beards are in now.
But if I were the wizard,
I would change the sky…
The sky is good but it could be better.
The swirled spray of technicolour patterns.
Then if I were the wizard,
I’d live with the cows…
Cows are the divine creature,
Spending their days extracting the golden spirit of the grass,
Four stomachs, one psychedelic voyage. Even waste isn’t wasted.
Now if I were the wizard,
I’d shrink the universe…
I want to see the stars burning in the brilliance.
I want the vast, spiraled arms of the galaxy to greet me by my window.
See if I were the wizard,
There wouldn't be fat people…
We would all be huge and slide around on greased up silk rugs.
The wizard’s power,
will forever sour,
the final hour of flight.
And in his hat,
the fat rat was sat,
and deprived of all natural light.
This albino creature,
was his newest feature,
and preacher to his army of mice.
With a forked tongue,
the call would be sung,
“Semper Fidelis”
Don’t think twice.
This rodent beast has a task from the wizard.
He is to watch you. Why?
For security that’s why.
Those beady yellow eyes shine in the darkness above wizard head.
The ragged ears can hear everything that is said.
What if I were the wizard?
Well, I’d see no need for hats…
The hair is too long for the sun.
His flowing robe of royal blue,
His perfect ideals, misconstrued,
A great top hat with stars and stripes,
And a gnarled finger prodding at the night.
He wants you,
He needs you,
Don’t answer him or he’ll find you.
The power he flexes has come from the masses,
We loved him,
We chose him.
He has barked out the command, “Semper Fidelis!” and we have answered him. Hell has descended on the sands by his feet and was trodden flat by his army of mice. The sands and stones and dusted hills, all plundered to flex his might.
Can you hear him bellow out the curse?
The holy mountain shakes loose its earthly foundations. The sky cracks and returns his call with flashing fiery ferocity. He has summoned forward the Deep and the Dark, and deliverance has fallen. He has loosed these beasts upon us, weather was changed by his hand and the Earth has spit fourth these.
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
Many days,
Poetry will not coax me out of my stupor
with the zest of a child
on the first day of summer.
Many days,
she will not make a sound
as she runs through a house
made of my words - no anklet tinkling against silvery feet,
no soft swishes of her dupatta across the sofa.
Many days,
Poetry would like to leave me alone
- in my home of rust and rubble,
in the middle of technicolour trouble,
me surrounded by blunt edges
of half-chipped words,
half-baked rhythm (never rhyme), half-sighed syllables onto blank paper.
Many days,
Poetry sees me accept complete defeat,
with art gathering dust
in the pages of notebooks that will never need filling,
with pens that will never be picked up, with ideas that will never be strung into a poem.
And yet here I am.
Picking up frayed string ends,
trying to tie them into a verse,
to leave it on the first shelf for her
to hopefully pick up.
It might be time for Poetry
to take 29 slowstumblingstuttering steps towards me,
this is me taking the first.
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 12:02 PM UTC