"weaponised" poems
you talk like a kennedy.
east-coast americana.
salt spits from your
weaponised mouth.
go back to your compound
and lie on the surf
from whence you came.
chunky sweater man.
i’m not your jackie,
nor will i piece your head back
together. your old-world
dreams return to the sea.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 11:03 AM UTC
i've weaponised words
this is just the overture
to a reckoning
how long can your past
remain buried and dormant
'neath the soil of lies?
little man, old man.
I have come to square the tide
your flowers will fade
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
“YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR FATHER!”
screams the judge,
wielding a whiskey and a weaponised Women’s Weekly,
as I flare inside but choose instead to smile meekly.
Was my Dad the spawn of Jeffrey Dahmer?
Or the bloke who used to watch Kojak, on a Sunday, in pyjamas?
In fairness though, the absence of the villain of this piece,
last seen clubbing in Ibiza with a girl who’s not his niece,
does nothing to lighten this affair.
Especially with his crimes bequeathed to me, his heir.
The charges apparently too ignoble for repentance,
I brace to bear the brunt and bile of sentence.
Her glib-gab gores each guilty glance.
Each chapter claimed by circumstance.
Her words a whip, envenomed lace,
lashed out anew upon my face.
It matters not that he’s elsewhere,
I stand accused for the genes I wear.
I’d serve notice now, demand redress,
if he hadn’t eloped to a vague address.
The urge to silent scream? Repressed.
Repeal rejected, defence disbarred.
Appeal affected, mis-trial marred.
A deafeningly dead deal is on the cards.
I pause perpetually and play the clock,
Until “New Witness!!” echoes around the dock.
Youngest courtroom entrant in our history,
identity unknown and gender still a mystery.
“Oh, look how wonderful this is!” coos the judge.
Now as sticky sweet and seasonal as fudge.
“Of course this cherub must approach the bench,
with the defendant as mouthpiece to represent”.
“Pray tell, sinner, its testimony loud and clear"
*Cue a minor mandate that only I can hear *
A pause. A private parley.
The pup's prose presented without palaver:
“I will grow, just like my father”.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
It’s not really difficult:
the golden rule,
walking in others’ shoes,
giving two ***** about
the lives of others.
It’s right there.
Has been since the days
of squatting in caves
planning mammoth takedowns
But the clowns have weaponised caring
to become a choice.
It’s not. Raise your voice.
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 6:53 AM UTC
5 years of closing, like a shop in permanent clearance. Slashing prices on pieces of yourself, giving away the best parts for a fraction of their worth.
Frustrated and resentful for not being accepted at full price.
You’re too much, too cold, too sensitive, too uncaring, too… ‘not ‘the type’’.
Not into small talk.
Nothing in common.
But at least you don’t disgust them… right?
5 years of closing - the shutters grinding down heavier every day.
Once full. Open. Lit from the inside.
Now the shelves are bare,
the signage faded,
the windows covered in the dust you’re desperately trying to wipe away.
Feelings? Dismissed.
Truth? Twisted.
Vulnerability? Weaponised.
5 years of closing - not all at once, but inch by inch.
One lightbulb burning out, then another.
One shelf cleared, then another.
You used to know what you stocked.
There was clarity in who you were.
There’s inventory somewhere, maybe -
but no list, no labels.
Just shelves full of things you can’t name,
and no one left to tell you what’s worth buying.
Intentions? Questioned.
Needs? Inconvenient.
Silence? Safer.
5 years of closing - they say you meant to do it.
Meant to shut those shutters hard.
Meant to leave the shelves empty.
Meant to make them feel unwelcome.
As if the boarded windows were part of the plan.
As if the silence behind the counter was customer service.
As if becoming another abandoned shop front was a choice -
not the result of too many days with nothing left in stock.
Unseen in plain sight.
Unheard in full volume.
Unheld, even when breaking.
But hey - at least you don’t disgust them… not quite…
right?
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 8:08 AM UTC
What is a choice, anyway -
is it a freedom, or is it a burden?
For me,
it is a paralysis
between what is and what should be.
Who I am,
who I should be...
who I could be.
Choice opens up possibilities -
endless, unfathomable possibilities.
Choice is making a decision
I am not qualified to make.
In a world where manipulation is rewarded,
marginalisation is profited upon,
and freedom of choice is weaponised -
I’m not sure I feel free.
Where your freedom to choose
now carries with it the responsibilities of greedy oil companies,
tech giants,
and toxic product producers.
It is the irony of being forced into a system
that tells you:
you chose to be here,
It’s your fault!
You drank the highly addictive Kool-Aid
we forced down your throat,
and that addiction -
is your fault!
We are persuaded into thinking our choices are casual,
while they are anything but.
I relinquish my freedom to choose.
Instead,
I search for the freedom of simplicity -
where a choice becomes personal once again.
What clothing mood am I in today?
What do I feel like eating this morning?
How shall I spend my Sunday afternoon?
What’s my body telling me about this social interaction?
In lieu of...
Whose opinion should I base my personality on?
What can I justify as a “healthy” amount of time spent on social media?
Which chickens had the happiest lives?
What dishwashing liquid is the least toxic?
Yes -
I crave the simplicity of what is,
not what could be.
Often, I envy the unbothered-ness of the breeze -
sometimes going this way,
sometimes going that way.
Completely unconcerned with the junction between directions -
simply following its set course.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 8:37 PM UTC
men, they spend hours, days, weeks
seeking, searching, running
to the Promised Land.
their bones, cracking from strain
their bodies, weakening
as their humours run dry.
all in the hope of finding roses,
delicate in petal, soft to the touch
this is where they will lay their heads.
but what if Mother Nature were to rear
her wiry head?
leaving weeds, un-ripped from their homes.
i suppose the weaker men would get lost,
unaccustomed to rich thorn,
glorious thickets, never ending forests
our great Mother, she laughs
as they trip and fall,
tears falling, rendering our grass fertile
they’ve made their bed now, she supposes
now they must lie in it.
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 12:58 PM UTC
what's a good way to say i love you?
what's the best way to really explain to you
the love that i feel for you?
maybe...
no matter where this goes
whether there's more in store for us or not...
you're not HIM,
you're not the villain in my story, and you'll always be far from it.
you could never hurt me the way HE did.
and although your words carry more weight than HIS ever did,
not once have you ever weaponised your words against me.
and you're real to me.
you're real.
so ******* real.
even from here, you're real.
Aug 1, 2022
Aug 1, 2022 at 6:33 PM UTC