Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Schiamachy

I studied my shadow's sapient subterfuge
as she sequestered in a selenic delight,
somewhere I've never gone, in the dead of the night—
though I wished that I might.

Her swasivious sweven was fleeting and false
as she distracted me from my supine routines,
in a fickle frisson of Freud's wish-fulfilling dreams—
she is not what she seems.

I wonder where tomorrow takes my shadow, and
why can't I too show the silence that she displays,
and if I stray from the sun can I go away—
can I leave with the day?

Sunday, 12 March 2017

Her Horticulture

The lifeless tendrils of her faded amaranth abate
in vicissitude of the verdure found within her Spring.
All plucked are her petals, as their douceur dissipates
and left is an unbloomed knosp of a madness enate.

Still those truculent turbid tendrils tangle around my chest
and try to feed on my tacit and altruistic manner.
Internecine and intransigent, I sometimes detest
those sciophilous, shady seeds that ever began her.

I shudder to think of poisons injected by her thorns
or the injury that one would endure from ingestion.
The vesuviation of variegation is forlorn,
revealing the verisimilitude behind beauty's deception.

There's a torpid tabefaction in this tryst of turgid shoots
and I'm wary of tatonnement in the tawdry tangles of Spring.
I will avoid the plants bearing the serpent's ripest fruits
and, like weeds, rip them up from their once roseate roots.

Friday, 3 March 2017

Dinosaurs in School!

A pterodactyl's gliding in the hall,
we're all terrified and trying to sing.
We all really hope that it will not fall
but I spotted some Blu-Tac stuck to its wing.

A T-Rex is terrorising the loo 
and its arms are too short to wash its hands.
I don't know what this carnivore will do;
can it sit on the toilet or does it stand?

A triceratops is catching some hoops
that it found outside with its three horned face.
The teachers are trying to read with groups
but children are running all over the place.

A stegosaurus' plates rattle the office,
letters and envelopes fly everywhere.
It whips its tail and spills all of the coffees
onto the computer, the desk and the chair.

A brachiosaurus is sat crying in class,
rifling through all of the children's trays.
It's trying to find some nice tasty grass
on which this poor hungry herbivore can graze.

And finally we find a diplodocus
sat on the carpet talking to his friends...
suddenly the teachers and children are raucous
Friday's loudest roar as the school day ends!

Wednesday, 15 February 2017

The Fortitude of Fallen Foliage

Often is winter's arrival mourned
as an icy season of bitter death
but I find it rather a time adorned
with the opportunity for fresh breath.

The solstice is dark and hard to endure
and it represents the pessimist's peak,
but after that those dark days are fewer
and the skies steadily appear less bleak.

So do not mourn the fallen rusted leaf
separated from the embrace of the tree
but rather take solace in the belief
that it will benefit from flying free.

The fallen leaves, once so solemn, stir
from the comforting pick-up in the air.

Saturday, 11 February 2017

A Cold and Lonely Embrace

Nothing stirred the
empty flaking seat; -
not even the leaves cast
off of tall pines
dared to take spot from the empty chest
that waited for its missing piece to come.

And so they waited, taking half the bench
and watching the frail hands of the watch tick
steadily ahead to disappointment
and to empty arms resting on cold knees

As the shadows of the trees slowly grew
the face of the watch shined in the sunset,
the hours opening the metal arms
as if to console the teary-eyed soul.

Crying into a Coffee Cop

He gazed at his vacuous visage
in the treacled reflection of black coffee,
as its steadiness is displaced by his laboured breath
from his own brooding reflections.
A gulp goes down, to ease his burning throat
and then another displacement
as the tear weaves from his gossamer lash
into the bullseye of the cup.


Sunday, 29 January 2017

In Chase of the Roadrunner

I am the coyote that can fly
but only so long as I think
I am the touching the ground.
I will look down to see
nothing but air
and my predicament will realise
itself.

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.

A Blue Fire

The moonless midnight
is ignited by a spark;
engulfing the dark
and capturing my heart.

But the same heart knows
only sorrows can transpire
from this wild fire
that I've allowed to start.

And yet, although I wince,
I can't convince myself to dowse the flame
nor let it tame,
but only to bask in its heat.

Her name was taken by the wind,
a rescind of that spark
now taken by dark;
the promise of Heaven in wistful retreat.

Saturday, 21 January 2017

Dharma Initiative

Sulphurous mist

gives it's purgatory judgement

whilst others take the iridescent youthful souls for their virtues.

Existential paranoia and needs to follow a system

and the rhetoric of what would happen if we didn't execute the orders precisely.

We all await a release from the isolation that occurs in our own minds, and ultimately, the only rescue is the salvation of our intertwined past sins.

Thursday, 22 December 2016

Wisp in Wonder

The wisp of smoke
dances towards the sky,
reaching from your dying cigarette
that litters your light fingertips
buring into the overcast troposphere,
resigned to the thickening fate
that the once dainty effluvium has.

I wonder if it is envious
of the smoke that is reserved
to be graced by the touch
of your full, fleshy lips
exhaled softly into the overcast troposphere,
dancing elegantly into the dense sky
savouring its farewell kiss.

I realise that whether by lips or fingertips
the smoke's time in your presence
is ephemeral and all smoke
must eventually join the clouds;
if I was that blissfully endowed smoke
my last action would be to hover
a halo around the crown of your hallowed head.

Saturday, 3 December 2016

A High Street in December

The middle-aged mother meanders merrily,
marveling at carefully arranged window displays,
taking the stretch of pavement with her
life-long bags full of wrapping paper, socks, wine
and the latest toys advertised on Saturday morning television;
there's even a little something for herself
clutched in her right hand, the handles of that particular bag
now ingraining red lines into her frost kissed skin.

Meanwhile morose man moodily make an attempt
to move past the moderate pace of the myopic mother,
making a play to dart in the road where
there's a window of opportunity to squeeze past,
however the 4x4 vehicle puts a stop to that, the driver
making an awful attempt at parallel parking into a space
which, in honesty, is large enough to fit a whole squadron of sleighs;
the man sighs, glancing at his watch, resigned to the fact his train has gone.

The children in the back of the oversized car squabble
over the song choice on their shared music device,
making no attempt to put it away as their father had asked
although in honesty the father would much rather put on a song himself
which reminds him of when Christmas used to mean something to him;
something that might tear away the tedium of sitting
on a cheap plastic faux-leather sofa in the changing rooms
of a budget fashion chain as he gives as small nod of acknowledgement
to the men who share his plight, tapping their feet as wives desperately search
for the garments that might let them reclaim their youth.

Meanwhile, the beggar attempts to benefit from
the well documented "Christmas Spirit", shaking his twenty pence pieces
in his coffee cup, hoping that the charitable might fund
his next meal as they plan their extended family's feast,
but he doesn't count on their short, impatient temperaments
wanting to endure this annual task as efficiently as possible,
so they pointedly avert his pleading gaze,
looking down at their phones or up to the billboards;
anywhere but into his eyes.
All of the citizens floating along in their own snowflaked bubbles.

Friday, 25 November 2016

Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,
steamy windows and steamy china cups
as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,
and though he knows that he should focus
on the plot that is being dictated to him
by the seemingly omniscient narrator
he can't help but get drawn into the words
that resonate with his morose soul,
looking blankly at the hot tar
that swirls around in his clammy hands,
avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;
how the year has provided proof that the future
seems almost completely bleak
-though life would still go on believe me-
there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,
not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.
Without that glimmer of purpose
that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...
-what good would livin' do me?-
he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty
than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.
Cold to the world, he makes for the door,
resolute in his plunge.
And a stranger holds the door open,
motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out
and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away
[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]
as his darkness is replaced by
an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.
-God only knows what I'd be without you-

Wednesday, 9 November 2016

X Axis

Each year pulls me further to the left,
and I wonder if my standpoint
is an x-axis
and that I am therefore
growing more and more negative
or that it is in fact spherical
and I will come full circle.

Thursday, 3 November 2016

Pieces of Autumn

A leaf glides on the water,
and ripples disperse around it;
Crossing over one another as the tree's
lachrymose with the lake, dirty halos
crowning these dead pieces of Autumn.

Passing under the bellies of mallards and Canadian geese,
unmoved and uncaring of the water's caress,
they stretched out like wings to whisper against
the nests of reeds and wrappers stood on the banks.

I wonder where my ripples would reach
tonight, if I was to die and leave.
The world would turn no slower
and the sun would shine no darker.
I'll pass under the bellies of ducks
an unheard voice, a disregarded ripple

Enfolded

Enfolding my breath
into subtle shapes, I cherish
watching them float away silently
as if coerced by a gentle magnetism
into unknown and unseen—the inexplicable—

And this existence we suffer is unpredictable
how could we act with pragmatism
while cascading down violently
into the earth we perish
enfolded in death.

Splintered Sun

Trunk splintered sun
lights leaves aglow.
Hands stretching high,
mist flying low.
The summer's death
is all for show.
Nothing to see,
nowhere to go.

Caught

I walked heady into the sweet,
damp night, however caught I was in its
leverage.

The dog across the street whined for me, impetuous, drummed
my porous skin into air,
like a mother praying for their child, making 
me alive again,
embryonic.

Sunspots blossomed over the fullness of night, and 
I curled, ashamed, inside 
their morning light.

Monday, 17 October 2016

Baby Teeth

I pray not to be kept
only for sentiment
like milk teeth in a vitamin jar;
distastefully disregarded - but not discarded
high up on a dust sheeted shelf.

I'd have no room for growth
already extracted
and discoloured with age;
an empty keepsake - a cluttered headache
that no nostalgic pill could remedy.

And I pray don't liken my love
to the taste of Calpol,
    sickly saccharine and sweet;
nor that friendly smile - gone for a while
replaced by a bitter tasting scowl.

Instead you should hold on
to what's relevant now
and the teeth that serve you best;
to chew and grind - but never merely to remind
as some torn and toothless trophy.

Saturday, 8 October 2016

New Block

Laundry detergent invades the air, 
stifling the petrichor concoction
that collides with the swept leaves
discarded to the cobwebbed corner
where the puddles declare soles out of bounds.
Freshly baked biscuits stake their claim,
packaged neatly with plastic and ribbon 
but they too crumble to the scent
of disintegrating damp wood
burning black and iridescent red.
Smoke rises into the crepuscular sky
and is ushered away by the wind,
the fire crackles on as biscuits are opened
and freshly made beds are disturbed
as childish feet disturb leaf piles under amber glow.

Saturday, 1 October 2016

Plunge

The breeze would gladly meet
her hesitant feet
as they cross and reach to the end.
Like great grinning teeth
the waves and rocks greet,
waiting to embrace their new friend.
Her earbuds dangle at her chest
faintly exhaling their best
eulogy for their oldest of friends.
She would feel blessed
to ride on that crest,
but that's not how this song ends.

She would see no hope
in that dangling rope
that offered to pull her to land.
Nor would she cope
with the strain of the grope
or the embarrassment of stretching her hand.
She'd wait for clouds to part,
her favourite song to start,
and then steady her now trembling hands.
Then she would brace her heart
and finally alone, she'd depart
thinking "This is living" as she lands.


Skydive

Life is a skydive, descending from heaven.
We see flashes of beauty, experience moments of excitement.
Some may feel safe to know they are in the hands of others
whilst some brave going it alone,
but all of it is a distraction
from the downwards spiral that starts
precisely when we realise we are falling
and ends only at our death.

Planes Mistaken For Stars

Planes mistaken for stars
and I thought I saw your car
take a sharp right
in the calm of the night.

I counted and gave them all stories
imagining their burning glories
but my dream was cut short
effectively taken off life support.

I thought that I'd have to wrench
myself from this bench
as the residents gazed
at a man alone and crazed.

So I slowly trudged my way
to a cage of bricks and dismay
to see your car there, parked
and the clouds had left the skies unmarked.

Friday, 16 September 2016

Tokyo Moth

The homeless man heard a knock at the door
and his obsidian drive
told him that he was alive.

Distracted like a moth in Tokyo,
he sought any form of light
in the bitter cold of night.

His wings fluttered from staircase to window
and found alleviation
in hazed radiation.

His weary rise and fall began to slow
on his back with hired support;
the only thing he'd ever bought.

Now, this moth only had one place to go
and fell into the lure
of artificial light impure.

The homeless man heard a knock at the door
and his obsidian drive
told him that he was alive.


A request

I'd request
just a single blade of grass
tossed into our furnace
to burn
like the wings of a butterfly
ensnared in a spider's web
but remain trapped in a field which,
though lush and green
stretching as far as
my arms reaching out to you,
snuffs out any spark
before I even strike flit to steel.