Archive for the ‘Poems’ Category

You mean to tell me,
That this wretched scrap of fabric,
Green as envy,
Is the meaning of life?
The means of ones survival?

I’m to break my back for this writ of coin?
This imitation of worth?
To bear restless nights and foreboding,
Over its accumulation,
Must we sell our souls to the banker?

What ever happened to,
Art and triumph,
And love and joy?
Were they rendered obsolete during my sleep?
Replaced by this sickly green memento?

Work hard for scraps,
Your little jade tokens,
And watch others,
Those fat cats,
Grow fatter.

Last night,
There were strange lights in the sky,
Creepy neon greens and oranges,
Comets raving as if sentient,
You remember it making your head hurt,

You wake up to eerie silence,
No birds chirping or distant lawnmowers,
Everything aches,
Your cat hisses as you pass,
The paperboy gawks way too long,

The street feels somehow off,
There are bizarre burnt spots on the lawns,
Your neighbour doesn’t know who you are,
Passers-by stare at your house as they walk,
Vacant expressions and wide eyes,

It’s your imagination you conclude,
An off day surely,
At least you think so,
But your spouse forgets your name,
Your children flinch at your presence.

Mankind is but an acorn,
A humble spore,
Still at the beginning of its life,
Only just beginning to thrive,
Still a long way to go,
Only dreaming of one day being a redwood,

The growth spurts come thick and fast,
Microscopic to industrial to digital,
Evolution to innovation to augmentation,
Sometimes strangling other life,
The years plod on,
And the seed is preparing to split,

Not all trees reach their apex,
It’s a dog-eat-dog world,
Mans upsurge has been anathema to many,
Practicing allelopathy through progress,
Trees often blot out the sun for others,
And hominal endeavours are a choking canopy,

I do wonder,
When the time comes,
Will humanity sprout as an oak,
Or burst into a parasitic wasp?

To this clownish drudge,
Writing is everything,
A hobby,
A passion,
But most of all,
An obsession,
A mania within these bones,

It’s not optional,
Not anymore,
If the words don’t come out,
If the thoughts aren’t vented,
They begin to chew me away,
Like maggots in a bloated corpse,
Like exsanguinating leeches,

This implacable need to create,
It’s the greatest gift,
But the most harsh of curses,
But the finest art is one with suffering,
A wordsmith must craft,
A writer must write,
I must write,

I must.

Did you see the latest circus?
That royal death,
Or that famous marriage,
Or some such elite scandal,
Oh they had money,
So you must have,

The elite are putting on a show,
The circus is in town,
On the screen and radio,

The interviewers dive between bodies,
Like stuntmen on a tightrope,
Do you see those paparazzi on the trapeze,
Trying to get a good shot of our stars?
The crowds baying in sycophantic fervour,
They’re looked down on like a travelling freakshow,

The serfs always need to see their betters,
The circus is in town,
On the screen and radio,

These clowns on the red carpet,
In gaudy suits and frumpy dresses,
Blockaded by hi-vis knights,
They’re not really too funny,
Selfies are hardly comedy,
But the media eats it up,

You see,
Celebrity is the greatest pageant,
The circus is in town,
On the screen and radio.

The attic of my brain is infested,
A legion of cerebral rats I fear,
Vile little vermin,
Perhaps my mind was ample carrion,
They gnawed on my memories,
My good times,
The smiles and beaches,
Seizing chunks in gory fashion,

With each nibble,
Images began to distort,
A stony tint overlaid the joy,
Stories took dramatic new turns,
I had to act,
I had to chase them out,
Club in hand,
A flood of rodents into the aether,

To avenge the elation already consumed,
To salvage what little remained,
To remember some joy.

The revelation was like a diorama,
A breath hanging in the air,
Clocks stopped in their tracks,
Shocked faces and closed fists,
A car crash frozen in time,
Unlike a table-top simulacrum,
These models are flesh,
The flushed cheeks and tears are not painted,
The vegetation is upturned tables and bile,
Art precluding a debacle,

This moment caught in biting ice,
It’s very real,
The next moment,
Won’t be so scenic,
It’ll be all rage and discordance.

Some are pursued by spirits,
Corpses of a hundred yesterdays,
Ectoplasmic bindings,
Every past hurt or teardrop,
Every bugbear and tribulation,
Lessons that stuck around too long,
This reminiscence does you no good,

So the best recourse,
Is to bury it,
Slay it and put it in the ground,
Stuff it in a pine box,
Exorcise that spectre,
Forget it,
Let that shovel be your survivor,

If you don’t bury the past,
Six feet deep in salted earth,
You’ll always be haunted by ghosts.

I keep walking,
Day by year by century,
Battered and bloodied,
Like a dreadnought shelled from shore,
Calloused toes escaping my socks,
Torn and slate-hued as they are,
My feet only shielded by cotton remnants,
My shoes wore away eons ago,
Burned away upon the Earths face,
As I keep walking,

Now the elements chew at my soles,
Bitten by pebbles and life both,
Pools of acid and discarded razors,
Ore fashioned of every cruel word,
Ripping my socks further,
This has been going on for so long,
I know I could get new socks,
Temporarily soothing the hurts,
It’s a novel concept,
Alas I must keep walking.

Do you ever see your soul in another?
Like a beacon amidst the masses,
Dancing for your eyes only,
They’re not you but somehow familiar,
Physically diverse perhaps,
But a spiritual doppelganger,

It could be a stranger,
Or an old confidant,
But within their form,
A flaxen glow emanates,
Your soul reflected,
As if a mirror stood before you,

That spirit in the one before you,
Maybe they were always there,
Perhaps the mirror was too foggy,
Blemished by your traumas,
Perhaps you weren’t ready,
To meet a true friend.