Untitled

We wrote ourselves into a corner

Where our convolutions
were mistaken
for revolution.


The circle diminishes
a shrinking diameter
where theories abound
and ultimately
we will run out of room to manoeuvre.

Corners
curving around us
in no particular formation
and all directions.

Your pen
is a feathered quill
still dripping from
the ink I provided.

Mine
a raw bone
not quite picked clean
the flesh
still clinging tenaciously
to give a hint of colour
in an otherwise
white expanse.

You ask me to write tomorrows mood
the rise and fall of weeping
as it catches our defeat
as
it
draws down on unpaid debts
as it
slides beneath thin skin to
stripped tendons of emotion
naked to the stinging air.

Breathe in
and feel the ache.

Remebering.

I am writing this to me as reminder.

I have lost track of how many times I have attempted to step beyond the narrow edges of my skill and become/evolve/grow into something/someone/somehow better.

It is a gift to think you are brilliant, the total refusal to accept reality, to accept limitation, gives this moron his head to run free with wild horses leaping over rough ground towards the mountain top where it all awaits.

"What was I thinking" has become my catch cry, the horror movie child’s voice chant background song to my days.

And that is just it, I wasn’t thinking, I am never really thinking, just allowing my mind to dance along to its own beat, travelling roads I have no experience of, and therefore, no right to write.

I am ashamed of my lack of self, how I cannot really accept that deep inside, I have a story to tell, in its misshapen evolution of blood, water, lust and hate, and somewhere, an abiding passion that swallows all before it, a great consuming beast of need that shambles through my dreams and devours days and nights with equal disregard. My denial of myself is my greatest achievement of all.

I have heaved the spade, thrown the sod, patted down the clay, buried me far deeper than the sun can penetrate, and it is so cool here, beneath.

Sometimes, I got it right, and said something just the way it needed to be spoken, elicited the words to tell a worthwhile tale.

But mostly, I am full of shit, and sick to death of it.

And this is to remind me, so that each time I allow my fucking puffed up sugar daddy of an ego to take over and spit out , regugitate, vomit up , shiney slick and self serving dollops of bullshit, I will remember

This is not who I am
or how it is
or what should be said.

My penance

will be remembering.

Untiitled

Someone is asking me about beautiful

On the paving stones I lay
so many years ago

a butterfly
dies silent.


Someone
is asking me
about pain

Rain
driving in
through
the holes
in us.

A filling
brimming
drowning.

Somone is asking me

but I have stopped

listening.

On being Super

Hero's are a dime a dozen

you can find them
glowing on any street corner

Tucking capes into jeans
smoothing down super stencilled names
on lean muscled chests


They chat and tap out tunes
with super feet
awaiting damsels
or dangers
or complete strangers
to call
or email
or yell from a tiny window far above

They smoke thin cigarettes
and show each other tattoo's
of serpents
of suns and stars
of hotted up cars
and holocausts.

And when the call comes
they strut and thrust out chests
in super duper
poses

And when the call comes
those that aren’t too drunk
or stoned beyond construction
or too caught up in metaphysical dissertations
and complex explanations

leap from super feet to the sky
cept those who cannot actually fly
they just flop onto the pavement
and bleed profusely
while the drunk stoned ones
laugh and point.

And those that can fly
assault the sky
with a myriad of colours and super powers
showering down on a helpless world
awaiting salvation

They seek and save
send those who are evil
to a waiting grave
all the while
offering mouthfuls
of white white teeth
and homilies
hewn from their mothers womb

In the after glow of redemption
the whole world spins in fawning gratitude
graciously forgetting to allude
to the damage caused
the broken cities
and shattered states
the flatten forests
and boiling seas

Super means collateral damage
is muttered by the grateful throng


Someone suggests
inventing a super song
to raise the praises to super hero's everywhere

But then

someone else suggests

that would be too much


Meanwhile
back on the street corner
the supers nudge each other and laugh
in loud reverberations
proudly show the new additions
to collections of scars
and indentations

<>No one questions
intent or direction
meaningless repetition
a growing infection
never mentioned
out loud.

Note: Absurd and utterly without meaning, this poem none the less,
wished to be written, to those of you who expect exemplary poetry
layered with brilliance at every turn, I apologise :)

<>

Untitled

There are walls within walls

The stud frame supports
secrets
beneath plaster cracks

a pencil of light
exposing truth