Moving Mountains

I see you,
Flawed masonry,
Quibbling over pebbles,
Pushing life’s boulders uphill,
A sorry little Sisyphus,
Eroded and marred,

But I truly see you,
Unlike those with sand in their eyes,
There is yet seismic activity within you,
You are a tectonic force,
Wiping the smirks from cliff faces,
Making molehills of mountains,

There are alpine ranges in your path,
It’s true,
We all have our peaks to climb,
But keep true to yourself,
Be the tumult beneath the Earth,
And you’ll sweep them aside like so much dust.

Yachting

Do you see what I see?
Upon our local tides,
Like the odour of seaweed,
A flotilla of elites,
A horde of second home owners,
Bleach-blonde and windswept,
Boat shoes and red chinos,
Onboard their carbon fibre trophies,
Spinnakers like noble house crests,

Do you see what I see?
For the summer they buy the waves,
A fashion show on the blue,
A lavish display for the plebeians,
A laugh in the face of living costs,
And when they deign to make port,
To mix with the chattel,
They just look down their noses,
Whilst sipping their IPAs.

8Ball

You must know,
So you shake the ball,
Hoping for some foresight,
Some validation,
But that little porthole offers little,
Only half-truths and vagueries,

There is noise within,
It emanates from the internals of the orb,
Malignant laughter,
Padlocks and chains,
Sloshing with answers unsaid,
Mockery in every movement,

It knows all,
Everything kept in those inky waters,
But it’ll never elaborate,
It enjoys the secrecy,
Many say the ball is a plaything,
But it easily toys with us.

Early Hours

It is the mourning period of the last night,
The early hours of the morn,
When foxes cry and frost descends,

I’m cloaked in the velvet breeze,
Lapping softly against my cheek,
This witching hour,
This twilight,
It is a meditative time,
When the sky burns its many candles,

Even as lethargy rears its head,
It is pleasant,
But it’s the calm before the storm,

Something appears on the horizon,
That eerie blue glow,
It is as beautiful as it is foreboding,
For I know what follows,
That which burns the eyes,
And wearies the soul.

Glitches

Were we meant to be this way?
Chrome and lipstick golems,
Matrices of issues and fallacies,
Or are we full of glitches?
Bugs in every interaction,
Error reports aplenty,

We twitch and palpitate,
Walking like static,
Our bodies morphing and shifting,
Streaks of colour arcing off our forms,
As if on an old television,
As if made of pixels,

Were we meant to be so technological?
Without the means of recoding ourselves,
Error icons and sheared cables,
Blue screens and melted solder,
I think some programs are superfluous,
So call the task manager.

Cryptids

The world is far more bizarre,
More populated with oddities,
Than we tend to believe,
There may yet be things out there,
Creatures unknown to science,

Things in the mountains,
Beasts leaving fur in pine trunks,
Things in the woods,
Hiding in plain sight within blurry photos,
Things under the waves,
Prehistory in Celtic lochs,
Perhaps even in the sewers,
Cold-blooded jaws laying amidst the grime,

These things were myths,
Figments of frightened minds,
Mere pareidolia,
But who knows?
Man is not omniscient.

Call Me Chaos

With glassy eyes you ask me,
What I am,
I am you,
All of you,

I am that hunger in your breast,
The puppeteer holding your strings,
I am the primordial ooze from whence you came,
I am that voice in your head,
That which raises your fist to another,
I am the dark shapes in your periphery,
Those whom make your pulse race,

I am each butterfly wing removed,
I am no theory,
I am intrinsic human nature,
Call me chaos.

Beautiful Disaster

She was truly dazzling,
It cannot be denied,
But a fiasco nonetheless,
A car crash with mascara,
A shark-tailed siren,
A fiend with perfectly painted talons,
An armada of red flags,
A beautiful disaster,

For you see,
Beauty is not worth in itself,
A person needs more than that,
Her most of all,

What of kindness?
Or wisdom?
Are they not worthy of pedestals?
Does superficiality supersede all?
Looks rot away,
Souls do not,
Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder,
But an eye can’t see within.

Magic Tricks

It’s all a performance,
All of it,
Each breath wears a top hat and cape,
Shuffling onto a stage,
There are no volunteers here,
Only a captive audience,
But the tricks are played regardless,
Global sleight of hand,
Slicing maidens in twain,
Pulling the heads of rabbits from hats,
Smoke and ash and mirrors,

And at the end,
No applause is heard,
A grim reaper is drawn,
Is that your card?

Sociopath

There was a man,
Who appeared to lack emotions,
Or at least the comprehension of them,
His face was grey and blank,
Almost reptilian in temperament,
Like a mannequin in the best makeup,
Looking the part but not grasping the role,
Giving no hint of sensation,
A stone wall against all,

He would act,
Often brashly,
Regardless of the effect on others,
He would pay them no mind,
And no more to right and wrong,
There’d be no expression upon his face,
Only two orbs staring,
Analysing,
But not feeling or understanding.