Poetry

Skeletons – For Jody

Convinced she brought the rain
she locked herself away
by coincidence, the sun had rose
when she woke the next day.
She took this as proof,
packed her memories away,
and convinced herself that if she left,
then the sun would stay.
Though they would never know,
her family smiled from a frame,
that balanced on a ledge,
in the cave she should remain.
Thoughts of her families warmth
lessened Jody’s deign,
she turned away from the thought
that she was worth the rain.

She couldn’t help but remember
her mothers frozen womb,
as she fell victim to the ruse,
and warmness of her tomb.
As years passed, word spread,
of the skeleton in the dunes,
who danced in her own madness,
under the light of moon.
When we arrived even her father,
did not take her as his own,
but I would recognise her
if only blood and bones,
her knees gave way,
and from behind her glazed eyes,
I saw that my touch,
was still a touch she recognised.
From my arms she asked me,
if it had rained since she went away,
and with her final breaths she cried,
as I whispered “every day.”

Limbo

I consider you, in a somber bar somewhere downtown,
where you move swiftly somewhere beneath the smoke.
Alls that holds me back is the part of me which remains,
in a sandy plain with my liberated lungs.

In my right ear the piano skips keys in ecstasy,
delicately touching on my own fantasies.
All the while the blueness of reality hangs over me,
as the hum of the trumpet resists the piano.

My left ear, in it’s chastity,
still hears the echo of some native beat,
Ekwensu, Ekwensu! We know not the meaning,
but our chants surrender to the rhythm in harmony.

This Porkpie hides a meter of hair and beads,
Untidy nepali stitches are covered by this cheviot tweed
Occasionally it covers nothing by nudeness.
As I remain when I jump to the prudence of the crickets call.

I swing you in time to the hazy beat of a trumpet,
agreeing with it’s tainted story as I press on your lips.
Jazz is lost under the desperate roars of a lion,
which subdues more quickly, I have found, with more liquor.

Meager:

We are numb and we are weak, for what must we fight for?
we need not redden our hands, nor suits, with the blood of animals,
as they lie waiting for the lower-class man, holding arrows to their own necks,
sweating with unnatural obesity in heaps of unneeded shit,
the same shit that they lick off the arses of their bosses,
of men with more money than themselves, of stone faced mother-in-laws,
of their children, who are strangers, of Thatcher, and of the best educated man.
Dig. Dig. Dig.

We are numb and we are weak, for what must we fight for?
We healed the cracks in our feet when we shrunk the Earth,
shrunk it with motor engines, and aeroplanes,
and stripped Poseidon naked and pathetic, using two hundred feet of metal.
The other half of the world which, for it’s inhabitants, remains full-sized,
we shall view kindly from behind celebrity presenters,
wondering why they are so, so weak, whilst one son battles an ox with his hands.

The Cuckoo:

I do not wish to go to heaven,
as I do not wish to remain myself.

Just last night I felt a burning in my ears,
as I danced clumsily through tables in my own usual fashion,
glasses smashed, drinks were spilled,
all the while I continued to pour out nonsense to uncomfortable faces.
Among the faces were ex-partners,
with whom come a whole new set of mundane thoughts,
of arguments, of affairs, of lies and truths,
that I would rather were buried with me.
In eternity I could find fault in even the kindest things I have done, I’m sure

As a child the kettle left proof of it’s heat on my hand,
and through my life I’ve gained much other evidence of my time on Earth,
just as I do not want to sit boiling in my regrets,
I have little wish to sit in this vessel for eternity.
Tell me what a sullied body has for golden baths filled with holy waters.
It would be unfair to say that there is nobody “up there” I wish to see again,
But I could stand to be around none of them forever.

When my mind had more innocence, reincarnation frightened me.
I saw no prosperity in living without memories of our loved ones.

I have been warmed by the arms of lovers,
lovers who have later left me colder than I was before I knew of them,
I have seen a beautiful soul,
abuse her vessel until her skin clung to her frame,
I have seen this brutal earth take seeds barely sown,
to leave loyal homes with barren gardens,
and gives fruitful gardens to the Judas’s of motherhood.
I have seen a fire with good cause extinguish itself.
She now wonders the same path apathetically, although the zombie of a martyr.

Though I carry all of this in a basket, just twenty years weak,
already I know that my basket would unweave,
should it carry the lost lovers, and souls, and answers,
of other lives.
Nature’s only true absolution is the loss of the memories,
that we hold so dear.
Call me an unholy apostate, father,
a turncoat and a traitor to your Catholicism,
for when I rest these ears will hear no more of it.
Just don’t call me a cynic –
For your wish to live but once is far more sinister.

Homosexuality

I have argued lawlessly that homosexuality is not a choice,
however I am finding out that I was wrong.

It is the choice of Los Angeles,
who dictate from warm beds whether man may marry man,
It is the choice of the Muslim faith,
who’s own god created such odious desires,
It is the choice of mothers and fathers,
who will love the daughter of their imagination unconditionally,
It is the choice of Uganda,
who are loyal to Leviticus through ignorance of the sixth commandment,
It is the choice of the law,
which either liberates or condemns us to that which has already been decided,
It is the choice of the streets,
which shape a man with every smile, word, and punch
It is the choice of the word itself,
to which some cower as others shout it in pride,
It is the choice of you,
who shall live either way.

I Understand:

Oh! Northern stars! Which shine too brazen for the eyes of any voyeur,
A lonely Aphrodite watches, too paradisiacal for any man to love adequately,
just as the mountain, who’s splendour reaches seldom explored worlds,
becomes frigid under it’s own icy peak.

Like piquant fruits! The trees best efforts, a small part too sweet to taste,
An open fire in a once frozen room, who’s guests are cursed by it’s thick black smoke.
Journeying across Canada on a twenty-second-century train,
On today, off today. Pictures of only green and grey.

A Ferris Wheel over London, which is lost under clouds and the carriages below,
long walks in pristine forests, and emerging with empty flasks and blooded feet,
Family dogs with loyal and peaceful dispositions,
which lick at the feet of Christmas Eve crooks.

Sunbathing on cloistered beaches, inhabited by only alligators
A romantic gondola ride down the Pacific Ocean, lit only by the moon
or kissing your neck in the springs of Yellowstone Caldera,
during her most theatrical moments.

The fullness of your stomach as you satiate it with a fourth beef burger,
and the dullness of your creativity as cocaine beasts you of it’s buzz,
morning erections that fight against the throbbing and panging,
and so more food, more cocaine, more sex!
(If not for penance then for mere self mutilation.)

And the poem that went on long enough to spoil the imagination of any bard.
I understand all of this,
for when I poured myself into you,
you could not help but overflow.

After Life:

I do not wish to go to heaven,
as I do not wish to remain myself.

Just last night I felt a burning in my ears,
as I danced clumsily through tables in my own usual fashion,
glasses smashed, drinks were spilled,
all the while I continued to pour out nonsense to uncomfortable faces.
Among the faces were ex-partners,
with whom come a whole new set of mundane thoughts,
of arguments, of affairs, of lies and truths,
that I would rather were buried with me.
In eternity I could find fault in even the kindest things I have done, I’m sure

As a child the kettle left proof of it’s heat on my hand,
and through my life I’ve gained much other evidence of my time on Earth,
just as I do not want to sit boiling in my regrets,
I have little wish to sit in this vessel for eternity.
Tell me what a sullied body has for golden baths filled with holy waters.
It would be unfair to say that there is nobody “up there” I wish to see again,
But I could stand to be around none of them forever.

When my mind had more innocence, reincarnation frightened me.
I saw no prosperity in living without memories of our loved ones.

I have been warmed by the arms of lovers,
lovers who have later left me colder than I was before I knew of them,
I have seen a beautiful soul,
abuse her vessel until her skin clung to her frame,
I have seen this brutal earth take seeds barely sown,
to leave loyal homes with barren gardens,
and gives fruitful gardens to the Judas’s of motherhood.
I have seen a fire with good cause extinguish itself.
She now wonders the same path apathetically, although the zombie of a martyr.

Though I carry all of this in a basket, just twenty years weak,
already I know that my basket would unweave,
should it carry the lost lovers, and souls, and answers,
of other lives.
Nature’s only true absolution is the loss of the memories,
that we hold so dear.
Call me an unholy apostate, father,
a turncoat and a traitor to your Catholicism,
for when I rest these ears will hear no more of it.
Just don’t call me a cynic –
For your wish to live but once is far more sinister.

Witches

If she floats she’s wicked,
and if she sinks she’s out of sight,
let the water come between us a guilt,
and we’ll carry on despite

“Lord have wrath on you” she cried,
as they tied her to the chair,
but what can be the harm in wrath,
between a hundred of us shared?
One life is a small cost to pay,
to ensure our own health and lives,
she drowned for our children,
our parents and our wives.

Another one hasn’t surfaced.
Silent stillness becomes trite.
Bring out the others!
I bet we got some right!
Justice! We roar as she rises,
and the mayor stands tall and staid,
“God’s work is done,
thanks to the sacrifices we made.”
Word in the village,
is that Mrs. Smith has got black hands,
as when her husband left her,
death captured his land.
Mrs. Smith, she baked us bread,
when I was but a maid,
she’s in Church each Sunday,
oh the part that she has played!
Best to play it safe,
how else could we sleep tonight?
For if she floats she’s wicked,
And if she sinks… well, she’s out of sight.

Love Poem

“Why don’t you write for me?”
His eyes were painted insecure.
“Do you find no inspiration,
in the knowledge that I’m yours?
Do you shy from my shamelessness,
do you tire of my demure?
Or does your muse simply find,
that I am of no lure?”

So I sat scribbling words,
siren, and endless, and revere.
Sticking them together,
with an obvious veneer.
I soon saw a page,
wrote in someone else’s hand,
words I didn’t recognise,
phrases I didn’t understand,

Why can I write of dragons?
Of highborn wizards and heinous seers?
But I cannot pen an syllable,
about he whom I hold dear?
Just as doubt creeped in,
something occurred to me,
how could fabricate something,
that is so very real?

Winter

As I steal through prosperous forests,
Children in violet bow their heads
By the time that I desert it,
All but few lye dead

When but meek I pray only on villages,
Claiming their crops as my prize
As I flourish, their livestock starve,
May only the valiant survive

Only the primrose may I forgive
For much must die if I’m to live

I force my way into towns,
Where victims retreat beneath their covers,
I make naivety from fantasies
And mavericks from lovers

Their skies are plagued with madness,
While their trees bare nothing but woe,
This barren land is my progeny,
My fertility: the living’s throes

Only the robin may I forgive,
For much must die if I’m to live
The cities’ chimneys pour out defences,
However their armour is but a beck
My hands pry themselves through windows,
Through cracks, up skirts, down necks

Murderous meadows and silent cities,
In the sky not a song nor chime,
My rein will be long and unforgiving,
A formidable wintertime

To Be:

Foul mouthed cunts,
how you curse through the gruel of bacon sandwiches
at Daily Mail headlines,
HP sauce dripping onto your clothes all the while.

Foul mouthed cunts,
how you curse at me from the passenger seat of a Corsa,
fucking and faggot,
waving your dole packet although it were a Union Jack.

Cretinous ignorant bastards,
how the embers of your sterling burn on in ashtray,
‘Your fucking grounded’
your daughter jokes as she sips on one.

Cretinous ignorant bastards,
how you provide moderate amounts of alcohol,
puff, swig, barf,
as you’re more understanding than your own parents.

Finite Schadenfreude,
how I long to stub my cigarette beside my bacon sandwich,
tasteless samsāra!
and soil this dreadful tweed with HP sauce.

Finite Schadenfreude,
exempt from the calls of clattering Corsas
not a pen in the house,
how wonderfully grim.

Vegetarian:

If an eye, for an eye,
should only make the world go blind
then a man, for a man,
would leave no man behind,
and if a soul, for a soul,
would leave the earth disowned,
why only save the souls,
which rest in bodies that you know?

Finished.

I cannot finish a thing.
I write these words now, knowing that when I come across them in a few days I shall curse myself for wasting a page,
a book,
a lifetime, on emotionless ramblings.

I cannot finish a thing.
I pour my whole self into something, only to find out later on that the juices of my imagination leaked through holes in the bottom of me, escaping into several poorly filled glasses.
I poke peas around my plate, as I do words on this page.

I cannot finish a thing.
I dream of Ginsberg! I dream of Kerouac!
I see my name on trophies, on certificates, on public school anthologies printed years from now.
In my right eye I am at the forefront of a second beat generation, whilst with my left I unknowingly absorb articles about Somebody’s shock nine pounds weight loss.

I cannot finish a thing.
My mind is a kaleidoscope, too busy and fast paced to ever fully capture one image,
or perhaps my passion for whatever it may be I am passionate about today, is merely a mask worn by my eagerness for passion itself.
It could be that my fervor is for words themselves, in which case perhaps a career in transcription would suit me better.
I cannot finish a fucking thing.

A poem,

A stanza,

A sentence,

A thought,

A conversation,

A prescription,

A dream,

A meal,

A smile,

An orgasm.

I cannot finish a

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