"trafalgar" poems
So I'll have mine
and you'll have yours?
who could ask
for anything more!
grey beards march
the union jack
build a wall
and send them back!
Grudge, sludge
a sanguine view
****** off
and take the cue
hide, plunge
aristocrat
run the field
like an old tom cat
Narrow pass
and capital flow
falling crude
and currency woe
deep depression,
mutineers
the mastermind
of project fear!
Silver spoon
at Hampton court
madness waits
in Davenport
divisible
and off the grid
**** it up
100 quid
Helen’s horsemen
unified
the springbok club
will never hide
plebiscite
in deep despair
an open scroll
Trafalgar square
Grapple, grovel
sentry shame
along the shore
of river Thames
king of wankers
lord of beat
break the rule
of old elite!
Stone the posse
bullets bare
load the chambers
fists in air
voices, faces
haunted souls…
should i stay
or should i go?
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
'Are you pleasing those Lions?'
She thinks to herself under Nelson's Column.
'I am no hero of the Nile, nor of Trafalgar. I am an empty vessel.'
City of Angels, yet full of devils. Will she find the exit from Oblivion, in those molten, vermillion revels?
'And will you climb that stairway to heaven? Is it true that what glitters is gold?'
That golden dust, which lies on her beside table, sedative for her sorrows.
'Oh he was a foul coxcomb. England expects every heart will follow its duty!'
She is followed, by those feral eyes;
Those on the underground, those in the streets
And those who she will wish
her eyes will never meet.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 6:59 PM UTC
i live in a ******** so boring tractors roam the streets in the usual
traffic,
but i found that you can wizen up to a title of wizard
by finding inanimate things entertaining and thought provoking,
because the internet will not become
the next scapegoat of goldfish memory - not the next
box of entertainment - it will be what god’s green earth indented.
out here, where you’re far from trafalgar sq. you
get crows circling back to the origin of the woods with odin on the lyre
venting out against too much pigeon **** coo coo of the attired men and women marking karma with the no. 13 and being ******* on from on high,
you get seagulls, even, seagulls so far into dry land... imagine!
and you get the autistic zoning in of the cat’s eye,
those cats are very autistic, their eyes tell the sad sad story
of encapsulated solipsism - snap your fingers or meow
and they look at you passing you looking at some randomised
point of entering their sleeping pattern - very autistic those cats,
they look at you almost cross-eyed when you try to snap them out of it -
out of it being: ****** off at being awake.
very autistic those cats, those cats are very autistic, they look
at you looking past you, looking almost cross-eyed -
don’t blame me for the zigzag or the w!
so as i said, it’s so boring where i live you see tractors and crows,
and the only solidification of your presence is either provided for
by an addiction to television eager for the flicker -
or drinking... watching bricks, thinking bits and bobs out
for the torrent of slavic plumbers building the great ****** of london.
lo... upon the yonder... there it blooms *******
i like places where trees tower over man's handing man brick on brick -
makes the sky a bit bigger and less asthmatic.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
*(Not a home, I said.
An address.
The badges and the blossoms
Bragged ‘excess’.
Etched into every tree
The word:
S U C C E S S)*
I am London
And he is me,
Not ever knowing which London to be,
A button eyed orphan,
A one man band,
A Dickensian madman
Whey-faced and untanned.
I was a Ruby Infant,
(Montpelier)
Via turreted school
(Machiavellian lair)
My conspiracy of ravens
The guardians of lore,
Falling in feathers
To a barbershop floor.
My mind is confetti -
From each Westminster wedding,
Each pill, each stumble,
A little be-heading.
I first kissed a girl in Trafalgar Square
And the memory of her is still there in the air,
In the backdrops of photographs snapped up by tourists,
In the lost eyes of pigeons,
(I know it, I’m sure of it -
because I know London
And he knows me -
We flow into each other
Like the Thames, to the sea).
Gobstopper ******** in Whitechapel lanes,
Knee-deep in the streets, leaving opal-ghost stains,
The bleeding graffiti of Mary Jane Kelly,
Our deaths, our murders,
So many, so many...
Bells,
Chiming,
Dark
Oubliettes,
Cradle me, London,
My bowed silhouette,
Settle me down
in your newspaper bed,
Love me,
Watch over me,
And when I am dead,
Make me a martyr,
Smooth out my head
Swallow me up in your gum studded streets,
Somewhere busy where I can feel millions of feet
Treading into me,
Over and
Over again,
And every so often, now and then,
Play out your bells for my syllables four,
*Ding **** ding ****
Four and no more,
To remind yourself, London,
Of silly old me,
Who like you,
Never knew,
Which London to be.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
A pigeon sings in Trafalgar Square
It has graceful charm
And bears no harm
As it sings in Trafalgar Square
A pigeon sings in Trafalgar Square
The joy it brings
When it lifts its wings
As it sings in Trafalgar Square
A pigeon sings in Trafalgar Square
Whilst watching migration
From across the nation
As it sings in Trafalgar Square
A pigeon sings in Trafalgar Square
And the world flows by
Like a lullaby
As it sings in Trafalgar Square
A pigeon sings in Trafalgar Square
Not a single care
For people who stare
As it sings in Trafalgar Square
A pigeon sings in Trafalgar Square
Then it flys up high
Without a goodbye
As it sings in Trafalgar Square
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 9:27 AM UTC
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-east distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;
“Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?”—say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
2.3k
This year was different
or was it me?
same Trafalgar crowds
link-armed-laughing
pigeons
puff-chested gluttons
different air
full of afterthoughts
I could almost touch
fluttering away
like rusting leaves
on winter's breath
I waited
on our bench
dark cold
stark old
wood
lovers kissed shyly
birds squawked
she laughed
eyes wide
flushed cheeks
Valentine's heart pounding
in a fledgling chest
I wondered if she were me
willing me to remember
hugging him close
I longed
to melt inside her happiness
old words, love and burger-boxes
where do they go?
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
There it sits on Nelsons head
watching all and sundry in Trafalgar Square
this place of a great empire
this place I screamed when born
Even the pigeon knows and coo's
the empire will rise once again
so I make haste to prove
London will never fall
I make a journey tonight
back to my human birth place
going back to my birth place
just to feed that pigeon
There I will vow to not falter
never to yield
for my empire
only to that, do I kneel
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
Streetlights glow softly tonight, oh such a simple delight,
Fleeting through the blurred streets, how quick my heartbeats,
Footsteps in snow; paired with faces aglow,
Pitter-pat they go,
Down in Trafalgar Square
A Nordic pine so fine, a true one of a kind,
Upon which one could not scribe such beauty in mere rhyme,
And you'll know it's the right time
When ears hear tunes of glee, eyes see sights carefree,
For it is the season of joy and celebration,
Down in Trafalgar Square
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 9:03 PM UTC
At the fountain
by Nelson’s Column
you met Julie
in mini skirt
and bright
red top
her hair hugged
into a ponytail
a copy of Sgt Pepper’s
under her arm
you in jeans
and open necked shirt
came across to her
standing there
looking into the fountain’s water
sorry I’m late
you said
missed my train
no problem
she said
bought my own Beatles' LP
and she held it out to you
friends say it's neat
and way out
she added
as you scanned
the sleeve
where we going?
you asked
drink I must have a drink
she said
how’s things
at the hospital?
usual stuff: treatment
drugs to get me
off drugs
therapy
psychiatrists
nurses
and so on
you?
she asked
I’m ok
you said
ok is crap
ok is boring
is mediocre
life either *****
or it’s exciting
and over the top
she said
the Square was crowded
people
and pigeons
and water
and sun
and sky
and mixture
of perfumes
and bus fumes
let’s get that drink
she said
and so you went off
to a bar off
Trafalgar Square
and ordered two drinks
and sat outside
in the sunshine
I think the fat nurse
on my ward suspects us
she said
suspects what?
you asked
you and me
and that small room
o that
you said
she took out
a cigarette pack
and took out
two cigarettes
and gave one
to you and lit
them both
think she’s jealous
or envious
Julie said smiling
free love
makes some women angry
Schopenhauer said
somewhere
that wives and ******
despise women
who give ***
away free
it undermines
their contracts
how’s Jamie?
you asked
still locked up
she said
they claim
he was supplying
but he wasn’t
they ******* him up
she inhaled
and searched
your eyes
you still playing
your saxophone?
yes
you said
I practice everyday
annoys
the neighbours
sometimes
but got to
keep up with it
and hone the skills
she sat legs crossed
her thighs exposed
her footwear bright
her fingers holding
the cigarette
the lips red
her eyes
like small mirrors
small **** pressed
against the red top
the memory
of that small room
off the ward
she and you
and brooms
and boxes
and such
and kisses
and ***
and on edge
for the door to open
but not overmuch.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
To be loved or to be killed answers by Mario Antonio,
A beach signature novel, very guilty and very pleasure
Soaked in with characters of mafia and every targeted ******
Shh!——He is whispering to me
“Keep your friends close but your enemies closer”
Who is under control, who cares about the battel
Whispering Shh! Some say the world has balanced ball
Godfather is a silent observer. With guilty but pleasure
He demands no power but friendship loyalty.
Struck fear in everyone he has known.
Shh! These are Five Families he plays with,
Still figures of glory. Shh! check the ground
The mud tied up dragon flight throats,
Stepping stones from Europe boot soles.
The Cloud, clouds. Under defence of greed.
The gilt and secure domes of Russia melt and float off
He commands dragonflies behind the clouds
with circled country borders. Across countries and spaces.
Like the drone, drone like shooting machine.
The invisible drone has got so far, with 400 feet height!
The Pentagon calling Trafalgar Square
Russia, Ukraine game theory with Tianmen Square
Back and forth of tactical and strategic manoeuvring,
with every character shining in little part he must play
“Your enemies always get strong on what you leave behind”
The drone, The Cloud, clouds drone
He is a silent observer, the Godfather.
May 9, 2023
May 9, 2023 at 3:32 AM UTC
the first verse has some sort of divinity in it
innit?
followed by blah
induced by education
influenced by footsie
******* by governments
you never get the bike you want
spider-man is a man in a costume
your best mate takes your girlfriend to the prom
you blink
you water the roses
your parents and your wife
hate you
you have been adopted and divorced
without having a say
you loose your keys
the global warming ain't warm enough
to keep the numbness away
feed the meter
feed the children
feed the pigeons in Trafalgar square
you have a common face
and love is a hypothesis
never proven
yawn
fret
shuffle
your keys are missing again
your looks, brains and mojo forever
stuck in a queue for uniqueness
everyone else on Earth is already unique!
laugh like a clicked emoticon
when society flips you:
head - hope
tail - desperation
nada in between
watch out!
the last verse is coming
[look busy]
Jun 27, 2012
Jun 27, 2012 at 12:40 PM UTC
I once
met a man
with a thousand
yard stare
and a club
in his hand
in Trafalgar Square
and the blood
on his club
matched the blood
in my hair
one fine and fair
morning in spring;
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are sound
Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how crazy we would
Be without it
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 5:41 AM UTC
when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.
- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell *** positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
If only the Christmas lights on Oxford street
could fill a table with food to eat.
In the hungry days of shop doorways where
some sit silently
shiver violently
the lines of lights light up their nights
as if they need reminding that the
'morrow brings them nothing new.
Nothing to do but wait
as another bus draws up and
more get off to sate their appetites
among the bright lights of
Oxford Street.
Winter nights.
The soup run does not come
never will
the traders,council and the coppers
think it gives bad vibes to shoppers,
still it would be nice to think
that homeless people get a drink of
something hot.
Down Trafalgar Square there's somewhere where
they can spend some time
have a meal ,a shower and a crypt
seems fine if a little odd
for the poor sod
who's only got what he's given.
A new shirt and trews
he's not from Scotland
but beggars do not choose
they accept and
sometimes painfully,
the helping hands from a charity.
It's such a sad affair that some don't care,
don't give a look and yet think nothing
of sharing pointless posts on
the pages of Facebook.
Another bus drops off a few even as some drop off the
grid
and we bid goodnight to the rights and wrongs
the Christmas songs
the happy throngs
and hide
inside
another
doorway.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
Benedict met Julie
(the druggie
and whatever
else she was)
circa 1967
at the foot
of Nelson's Column
in Trafalgar Square.
She was dressed
in a mini skirt,
tight top, her hair up.
He dressed in his red shirt,
pink slacks, black shoes,
smiled as he approached.
Never guess how many times
I've been chatted up
as a ***** she said,
since I've been
standing here.
Guess you
put them right,
he said.
Do I look
like a *****
she asked.
No, of course not,
he said, taking in
her mini skirt,
the tight top,
the pressing out ****
She sighed.
Anyway you're here,
where now? She asked.
The gallery? He said,
indicating the National
Portrait Gallery behind.
I need a drink, she said.
Are you allowed
with the medication
you're on?
Since when
did you become
my father? She said.
He looked at the people
round about, the pigeon feeders,
the meeting of lovers,
visitors from some
foreign shores,
middle class,
up your *** bores.
Ok, he said, let's go
have that drink,
then take in a gallery
or cinema.
I feel a need
to make a hit,
she said.
They only let you
out of the hospital
because they think
you can be trusted,
he said.
Then they shouldn't
trust me should they,
she said.
But they do.
It's up to you,
but I'm not
sticking around
if you go back
down that alley,
he said. I said
I felt a need,
didn't say
I was going to,
she muttered.
She moved away
from the Column;
he followed, through
the Square, pass
the people and pigeons,
the kids and parents.
He gazed at her ***
as she moved ahead,
the sway of it,
the thighs, sans
stockings, her feet
with sandals,
treading the ground.
She stopped at the edge
of the road; he stood
beside her, took her hand,
felt her warmth.
They found a bar
in Leicester Square.
Ordered drinks, sat down,
lit cigarettes, smoked.
Guess who I met
the other week?
He asked.
Who? she asked.
Charles Lloyd,
he said.
Who's he? she asked.
Jazz sax-player.
Met him outside
Dobell’s' record shop
in Charing Cross Road.
Is he famous? She asked.
Sure he is. I got him
to autograph my copy
of his latest LP,
Benedict said.
What did he say?
She asked.
Sure man he said
and scribbled on
the back cover.
She looked out
of the window;
took a long drag
of her cigarette.
He watched her profile,
the lips holding
the cigarette,
the puffing out
of smoke.
Thinking of her
in the hospital ward,
the white dressing gown,
the skippered feet,
that time they made love
in that small room
off the ward.
Another drink?
She said.
Sure, he said,
and ordered two more.
Some place inside her head
a wild wave of need
swept up the empty shore.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
Nima splashed water from one
of the fountains in Trafalgar Square
over Baruch. Laughing she did
it again, but he side-stepped, like
one out of rain, hands wide as if
to bless. He'd met her a few moments
before; by Nelson's Column, she’d
written from her hospital bed, drug
taking recovering (so said), cold
turkey or whatever she'd scribed.
Finishing the ablutions, she walked
on, he followed, stepping beside
her, catching her in profile, taking
in her cropped hair, brown, washed
and washed. She talked of the nursing
staff, who talked of her behind her
back, some at least, she added, chat
of the *** cupboard we used, that
time you came, she said, laughing,
walking out of the Square, along by
the gallery, her voice too loud, he
thought, but sounded out by the
traffic passing. She was clothed in
a blue dress, too short, he thought,
seeing her thighs, sans stockings or
tights, sandaled feet. They went into
Leicester Square, she talking of one
of the quacks she'd seen, head case,
foreign, fancies himself, she added.
Baruch, spied the billboards, new
films, merchandise, drinks, cigarettes,
lowering his eyes, watching her sway
her hips and **** hands swinging,
gesturing. She stopped by a bench
and sat down, he did likewise, ears
catching her words, holding them in
his mind, something about them being
jealous of my sexuality she added,
giving Baruch the eye, maybe thinking
me a ***** a druggie slapper, she
said laughing, her hand rubbing against
the top of his, he sensing skin on skin,
remembering, the quickie in the side
room, cupboard size, just off the ward.
He talked of his boring job, the mind
numbing labours, the Coltrane jazz LP,
played on and on, he said, eyes closed.
She lay her head on his shoulder, he felt,
smelt the combination of expensive scent
and hospital smell (soaps or disinfectants),
felt her fingers rubbing his. She took out
a cigarette, offered him one, he took and
she lit up with red plastic lighter. Inhaled,
exhaled, inhaled, silence, her hand wrestled
with his, watching smoke rise, upwards,
twirling, in the hot summer spread skies.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
I would have loved
to have had ***
with Kafka
Nima said
something about him
the photo of him
I sat opposite her
in the café
in Charing Cross Road
she had a coke
I sipped coffee
I feel the same
about Marilyn Monroe
I said
love to have got
her in bed
Nima looked at me
disdainfully
you would
she said
not necessarily
for ***
I said
just to listen
to her voice
sense her being there
the scent of her
Nima shook her head
ok I’d listen to Kafka
and sense
his being there
but ********
his **** off
at the same time
she said
an old guy
on the other side
of the café
gave her a look
have you read
any of his books?
I asked
some
she said
the one where he turns
into a big beetle
actually it doesn't say beetle
in the book
it says gigantic vermin
which people has interpreted
as a beetle or bug
I said
she sipped her coke
it's his body
I want to go to bed
with not his book
she said
he's dead
I said
died in 1924
shame
she said
he doesn’t know
what he's
missed out on
I guess he did
I said
she smiled
have to be satisfied
with his books then
won't I
we drained our drinks
and went on our way
I went to Dobell's
Jazz Record shop
and bought
a Coltrane LP
then we walked
to the train station
where she got a train
to the hospital
where she was being treated
for her drug addiction
I went home to play
my Coltrane
on my record player
via another train
thinking of her
and Kafka
and me and Monroe
having ***
in that cheap hotel
off Trafalgar Square
where Nima and I
once had *** there.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:46 AM UTC
The silence creeps through the valley of misunderstanding.
The lies grow as weeds in an unkempt garden.
Who are you to tell me how to live, how to be.
Trust is essential here, in this foreign land.
Belief in ourselves, disciples of our own religion.
I am trusting you with myself, trust me.
This is not a battle.
We are no Trafalgar.
You are not Nelson.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 2:55 PM UTC
but so askance the two eyes,
the brows so gliding into
a weaving of sorrow -
there she was, readily to be painted
for a caricature portrait at
the congregation of artists
at Trafalgar Sq.,
for something being spotted
as over-blossomed,
but then the economics kicked
in, and the dream died,
back to square one...
but that single instance of her
worried brows and the mournful
droop in her eyes
as if readied for the Monsoon...
but forgetting the inflammatory
juicing of her genitalia...
what an oddity to see and thus
describe the counteractive ingredients
of what constitutes a human body
in egg-like-wholeness... chicken's
nibble cluck and peckish pluck of the
constant agreed nod for being a factory
of eggs and a slaughter-meat.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
Julie sat on one
of the fountain walls
in Trafalgar Square
and lit a cigarette
she looked about her
as if she were onto
something harder
as if she had some one
looking at her
from some secret place
you gazed at her
unused to seeing her
not in her hospital
dressing gown
and slippered feet
her hair had been brushed neat
and makeup applied
and she said
I was picked up here
some months back
by some guy
who wanted ***
he thought
I was a pro
and the things
he asked for
god that was the worse
and with that
she paused
and stared at the Square
at the people
and the pigeons
and she inhaled deep
and then exhaled
blowing the smoke
out of the corner
of her mouth
like you’d seen done
in the movies
what did you say
to the guy
who picked you up
and what did he want
you to do?
she looked at you
her eyes scanning
your features
and then leaning closer
she said
I told him I wasn’t
a ***** and to go off
some place else
you watched her fingers
holding the cigarette
the way she held it
between her fingers
as if it was some
precious item she’d found
what did he want you to do?
you asked
he wanted ***
in all my orifices
she whispered
before inhaling again
the cigarette was clamped
between her lips
and she rubbed
her fingers
on her jeans
she ******* up her eyes
against the smoke
my grandfather said
if it wasn’t for ******
more women
would be *****
and attacked
you said
that guy was a creep
he smelt of strong aftershave
and body odour
she said
what a combination
you said
she stumped
the cigarette ****
onto the wall
and flicked it
across the Square
let’s go and view the art
in the Gallery behind us
she said
and you followed her
to the Portrait Gallery
her buttocks swaying
like some ship at sea
the jeans tight
and clinging
and across the Square
church bells were pulled
and were ringing.
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 3:03 PM UTC
i've been awake since 6am
i'm running on two and a half hours of sleep
i've been on the road since 7am
and i'm writing this at 1pm
i'm thinking about greggs sausage rolls
thinking about where i'm going in life
thinking about when this road will end
thinking about slowthai's yugioh cards
thinking about how much i love frank ocean
thinking about how i interpolate milo lyrics to fit my life
though i probably couldn't tell you what his words mean
thinking about how i drift from one person to the next
desperately searching for a new friend to cling to
thinking about why i didn't shave my face
for two weeks i was scared that with a blade in reach
i'd be tempted to slice my throat
if i drowned, would my body float?
thinking about how i should cut my hair
thinking about how i can act cuter
thinking about that coil girlfriend
but maybe i'll go for a boy instead
i burned my mouth on a greggs sausage roll again
so it looks like it's all going to plan
sometimes i view greggs as a temple
and the sausage roll is my zen master
i find solace in cheap british bakeries
just like how i find peace in a black man's philosophies
today i'll get my groceries from the nostrum grocers
and write poems at the apex of my sleepiness
this road is only going one way
and i can't go back to pick up the pieces
so i collect what i can to stitch together a new tapestry
made out of the few remaining pieces of the old me
maybe one day driver will say i have perfect hair
thinking about how excited i am to read tallen's messages on discord
it's nice hearing about his l5r discourse
thinking about how i promised to deliver instrumentals for quetzal
but i never did get started on them
thinking about my friend gabe's new album
and how i wish i had richard dawson's falsetto
and how i wish someone would hug me
but if i admitted that, that'd feel pretty needy of me
i don't know when this road will end
maybe i'm stuck on here forever
immortalised in the asphalt like a dead bird
approach me like you would your dad hanging in trafalgar square
i used to smile in every selfie
now it's a chore to smirk at all
but it ain't all bad
i might make curry on saturday
or maybe i'll make chicken soup
and it'll be better than hers
because i'll make sure to remove the bones
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 5:08 PM UTC
Bedazzled Dreamer
Put the long boat in the deep waters of the mind the calm peaceful knowing all is glowing we glide not
Knowing where were going the subconscious will be our guide dividing the two worlds the quiet
Submersible is wild anything may be floating in these depths we have left shore far behind truly
We have entered unchartered waters there is no fixable Bering a lustiness takes over there is no helm
Just a pervading looseness not unsettling but truly uncharacteristic for the coconscious must always
Have a grip a grasp of what is where it is and every detail must be quantified now all senses are blown
A storm is brewing its far reaches unknown but there is softness that excludes fear the overriding
Thought is possibilities can be forged maximized eternalized thoughts are ghost like unknown entities
They were formally known but now remain a mystery dislodged from thought bases that are not solid
All is free association tantalizing in one sense then disconcerting in another what do I do with my mind
Surly it has jumped off the track I could be bewildered if I could get a hold on the situation free flowing
Unspoken but still distinctively saying volumes where is the slow button reams voluminous thoughts
Are spewing into nothingness being lost I can’t keep up the discernible is mixed with eons and theorems
Time and space is void of meaning the world here is elastic mass it convulses at will no parameters exist
The only thing constant is high velocity change being in one place is impossible all is jumbled who stirred
This caldron in my mind voice and pure thought are the same think it know it what burdensome lives we
Live when it is all a tattered sail on rough seas we behold nothing know nothing in the extreme
Romanticism blurts out sail for Trafalgar we are strangers in a plush gifted void try as we will there is
No simple answers but we are a simple people truly the only time were are fit is when we are sound
Asleep well then sleep on and I will do the same dreaming is therapeutic just think how crazy we would
Be without it
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC