Monday, 16 June 2014

Routine

Tiptoes traverse the muddy trail,
heeding not the heavy heels
which hinder their tender tread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition
through foliage fair and frail,
each steely sinew anneals
to a thorough structured thread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition
must eventually derail
from the salubrious appeals
of the constant path ahead...

Helicoid

Sunday's splintered sunlight
punctures panicked moments
that the mind construes as truth.
A subconscious retelling
of Monday's mundane memory
that manifested in my youth.
The authentic narrative
from a nebulous night
in a morphinic stream
is surrendered seconds
of a worn-out waking life
wound up in last year's dream.

Tuesday, 20 May 2014

The Mystique has been Lost

The mystique has been lost—
paper print-outs replace
the palpable ticket of card complete with a shiny seal,
now scanned lazily and discarded,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
seen through a plethora
of phone screens capturing the same pixelated images,
to share to more indifferent, unseeing eyes,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
a predetermined set
readily available to be previewed on the Internet,
playing only the most $ucce$$ful hits,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
and through the sea
of vexatious tropes from a diluted, stagnating scene
that the Internet age has brought
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
and yet the music has not.

#Ink

Carve something graceful
into my chest meaningful;
so to kiss and clench.

Crossed Paths

There is a saccharine romance,
a scenario spoiled by chance
when passing by a stranger
known only by a smile and glance.

And so the sweetness is subdued
to its lonely circumstance,
in a crossing of dreamy eyes
which can both beguile and entrance.

Both parties go separate ways
whilst their minds skip, hand in hand
both pondering what could have been
if confidence had more command...

Monday, 19 May 2014

The Changing of Guard

Waves peel away the pebbled sheets
on the maritime mattress,
folding gently towards the foot
of the ocean bed.

The dawn sun rises
at the dusk of the lunar reign.
The bed is freshly made
to be slept in again.

Dishwater

Ink ingrained into the palm of my hand,
a furtive reminder;
now here
subtle enough to be washed away.

Saturday, 10 May 2014

Wren

A wren springs
from his seeded seat
on to the branchlet,
which wobbles
 from his slight weight.
A wren flutters
his tiny panicked wings,
plummeting to the floor
in stuttering glide
before flying away.

It strikes me how even
the most fragile birds
make errors of judgement.

It strikes me how only humans
let pride prevent us from moving on.

We are the ones who forgot how to fly away.

Monday, 28 April 2014

Yonderly Shores

The susurrus brush of sinuous waves,
systatic with the siccaneous sand,
is soft in her sun-clad syzygy
guided by the virason's weathered hand.

The fusillade of over-turned fossils
foraminate the fool's merry frescade—
a farraginous flânerie falls short
of foaming footprints he's now forced to wade.

And so the shore laps up the shingled kiss,
an insatiable disregard for man;
insidiating with the sea to spoil
his own lecanoscopic day-dreamed plan.

And so the shore stops his saccharine kiss,
the velleites of man in ignorant bliss.

Sunshine Under Lock

The morning mist
makes way for afternoon bliss
that the month must miss.

But the early bloom
and her serotinious moon
cannot come too soon.

The Breadth that Breathes Between Strangers

There is a breadth that breathes
between strangers,
it is what predicates them.

Born in the bloom of hostility
in a dewy-eyed spring,
it bears no rational prejudice.

Yet we send our souls to slaughter
of stuffy summer petulance;
even a breadth can be confining.

Monday, 14 April 2014

Floating Above Water

You approached like a red balloon
against the cerulean sky,
carving your certain way through the clouds
to catch my  sun-spotted eye.

I tried to avoid your burning gaze
hearing of the damage that could be done
but nervous glances downwards met
the placid reflection of the sun.

My tense disposition knew one way
to maintain an amiable shade,
so I smiled into the ripples
of all the paths that I have made.

Then I stretched up on to my toes
reaching your form with a pin,
and hearing the pop I closed my eyes
to immerse myself within.

Monday, 7 April 2014

Above the Motorway

I see vehicles parked on bridges over motorways.
I wonder if it's an unmarked police car
measuring the velocity of careless crimes
or a lost soul contemplating their final act.

I'm sickened at which my instincts would prefer.

Surrounded

The dissonant swarms
are surrounding again
inside my head.
Inside my head,
swarming my thoughts,
they surround me again.
Where can I escape
when they are in me?
I can't escape
this part of me.
Each snapping jaw drones
and my neck snaps to look.
I'm lost again
back in my self dug rut.

Saturday, 29 March 2014

Undulated Dew

Silence—
as deep as an ocean,
seems to end our spring song too soon
until soft warmth
drips
off your roscid lips
and sends ripples across the room.

Wild Dance

Whistling winds whip away at withered leaves
coercing them to sway and dance
into an invisible ballet,
like a stringless ventriloquist.
Airy and wispy, the strength amazes me
and I feel myself pulled
by nothing
towards nowhere
but on and on
nonetheless
and I wonder what allows
such a boisterous wraith
to wreak havoc on the elderly residents.
Angry turbulence and resentful gusts
I fight against on all vectors
trotting on myopic as a mule
saddled in dignity.
I ignore the dancing leaves
and pierce through the medium
like an arrow through flesh
and I continue through the contiguous solution,
heeding none of its warnings
of an immensity unseen
and far too visible,
and march on triumphant
only to be left dancing in the current
along side the foliage
I once ignored,
and hated.

Monday, 24 March 2014

Sunset and Secrets

A splintered sunset in salmon skies
stuck in my paws which are rubbing my eyes.
Obfuscating bark parts to reveal
the dark of the woods til the next dawn will rise.

For now, owls perch on branches of teal,
sharing the secrets that night will conceal.
The morning fire kindles the smouldering shade
whilst phantom embers attempt to appeal.

And so in the day, more secrets are made
by that one star who refuses to fade,
yet the day also swears that he will not tell
as the trees protect light with their palisade.

And so time went in a coherent spell,
until the secrets spilt and the first tree fell.

Sawdust on the Wire

Here it is, that feeling.
Starting at the centre of my sternum,
where I keep store my solemn secrets.
The same scene floods back.

Starting at the centre of my sternum
and, working their way up to my brain,
the same scene floods back;
sawdust on the wire.

Working their way up to my brain,
the new pills soon take effect.
Sawdust on the wire
dissolves in the synapse.

The new pills soon take effect.
Here it is. That feeling
dissolves in the synapse,
where I keep store my solemn secrets.

Spillage

Nobody realises how much they piss
until they aim into a pint glass
and now all that I'm left staring at
is another sentimental spillage
that my body's cell can't sustain.

Saturday, 8 March 2014

The Final Stretch

A variegated verdure of tendril-like veins
vesuviate their stillatitious sudor.
Sweat sweeps down sinew strengthened trunks
with each strident stride; with each replanting of the roots,
engraving an ephemeral power
against the pot-holed pavement.

Natures' tempest, with its own truculent power, contends each giant step—
torrid torrents transfluent to the fluent pounding.

Yet each droplet,
each beat,
each step
fades...

until the spirited spurt of a storm with home in its sight
reaches the final
S        T        R         E         T         C        H.         

Saturday, 22 February 2014

Flyaway

In memory, of the child
who bounced the ball into the field
and though he searched, he realized it would never return.
While the grass and the earth choked it
the child stopped and turned away for ever.

He moved on — It remained.

Self Cycle Reset

The greatest consequence
a lost soul must conquer
is who he has become.

This terrifying notion
keeps me awake all night
til I forget with untroubled sleep.

And I wake up
some three months later
forgetting that I ever existed.

Monday, 17 February 2014

Cloud Walker

I dance only with colours
but the world's all black and white;
I laugh a lot in dreams,
but I can't say that of real life.
So I dwell on the threshold
of phantasmagorial bliss
noctambulating my nepheloid nights
with feet rooted in the sun's kiss


Monday, 3 February 2014

Undue Residue

A simulated resonance
echoing in my
ribs.
A wind chime rusting
in a disintegrating
space.
A crow pecking negatives
in the saran-wrapped
sewage—
I leak
and we
drown.

Jalapeño

This morning,
out of boredom more than hunger,
I looked into the cupboard
to find a jar of jalapeños.
Let us not get into the argument
of whether they should be stored
in the cupboard or fridge;
they were unopened
and so warranted no need to be refrigerated
whatever your preference.
Anyway, this inviting jar was labeled
hot and sweet,
and it made me wonder
if I would ever have a jar of jalapeños
to call my own.