Tuesday, 31 May 2011

The Prints of a Pony

New stage, same jumps;
but am I a
one trick pony
or a pony
living in a
one field planet?

Concinnity

Looking down at my empty glass
I note how quickly hours have passed
without any event of note.
My window has been painted black
whilst my eyelids are growing slack
and there’s a hard lump in my throat.
I have no source of elation
but for music’s reverberation;
the sound’s my only company.
Slumped in a soft seat in the shade
I’m living the lyrics being played
as if the songs were written for me.
In the albums dying seconds
I realise my bed beckons,
where it gives me space to think.
but before I go to slumber
I put on another number
and pour myself another drink…

Monday, 30 May 2011

Sidesteps on the Sidewalk

It is only on the blood stained curb
where you realise
that people are inherently selfish,
when they get on with their empty activities,
hurriedly avoiding your blackened eyes
as they struggle to avoid their own guilt.
The taciturn are not any less culpable
than the perpetrators of violence, and
more nefarious yet
are the ones who bask in the harm
and find delight in destruction.
Standing over you like ominous mountains,
they point their jagged fingers in your direction.
Yet there is still the saving grace of humanity;
The ones who stop, dust you off and pick you up,
the ones who show real concern for your welfare,
the people who genuinely care.

On both sides of the pavement
is clear proof of good and evil;
it is up to us which path we choose to take.

Friday, 27 May 2011

Death Is A Victory March

This is a funeral,
commemorating a death
which has happened some time ago.

I won’t dig up your body
and try to breathe life back
into your rotting corpse.
I won’t throw dust into your open grave
as I don’t even have that
 left to give.
I won’t wear black
when the light
has already long left my heart.
I won’t mourn the death
of something which was once beautiful
when life would only make you suffer.
I may shed a tear
but this is missing the absence of the past
rather than the absence of a future.

It has been a long and fulfilling life
but now it has run its course
and it is time to move on…

This is a funeral,
commemorating a death
which has happened some time ago.

Thursday, 26 May 2011

Tuesday, 24 May 2011

Following the Hollow Path

Is hollow
a state of being
or a mindset?
If I follow
an empty path
will it lead to substance,
or will my empty stance
send me into a black hole?

I'm in control;
my mind's set.
If I don't really know
I'll just sit here and wait
until something fills the void.

Leave Me Floating

I've caught the last wave
on a piece of driftwood.
Now I'm wondering
if you'll catch my drift
or wave goodbye
and cast me away.

Wearing the Keys Away

My back-
space button has had more
wear
than my enter;
but at least I'm leaving
my fingerprint.

Monday, 23 May 2011

Occupied by Anxiety

Anxiety occupies
the jaded, stultified mind;
so is it better
to be active with worries
or to be bored with freedom?

The reality is that
I miss the times when I struggle;
for when I can rest
I long to be weary:
enjoyment is tiresome work.

Window Shopping

There is something strangely satisfying
in going to try on a new attire.
I am not shopping for necessity
but my wardrobe is becoming tired.

For so long this shirt clung to me so well
but now its grip is becoming too tight.
I still dwell in nostalgic memory
when its colours complimented my sight.

I hold no allegiance to my aging clothes
and should feel no guilt at trying something new
but when I have worn these clothes for so long
I still have prangs that I need to subdue.

For the meantime I’ll be window shopping
until I have the money to lay down,
and when I can afford to modernize
I hope that I’m happy with my new gown.

Sunday, 22 May 2011

Floods of Thoughts

Gracefully falling in plummeting pours
the perspiring skies are pounding the ground
until the deserts are resembling the shores
and the world is drowned in pattering sound.

Let us undress and live underwater
in a new Atlantis so secluded
and should the falling rain ever falter
at least the grey skies would be eluded.

Fill my lungs and submerge my aging brain,
keep my pumping engine lubricated,
overwhelm my strength with your falling rain
until my old self has been mutilated.

I want the rain to wash away mistakes
so that my barren wastelands are flowing lakes.

Saturday, 21 May 2011

Overgrowth

My life is becoming exponential
and so these feelings cannot stop growing
but when a thought exceeds its potential
I would rather have sentiments slowing.

I shear the excess out onto the page
but it spurts back though my veins to my heart
so that words become obsolete and aged
and are just as na├»ve as at the start.

So shall I leave the growth to manifest
and let myself become a natural mess
or do I feel that trimming is best
and let the waste weigh my weary heart less?

To make a decision I must be bold;
from now on my words shall be less controlled.

Tuesday, 17 May 2011

Distortion and Drizzle

This dissonant distortion
is distancing my focus
in uneven proportions
and I'm losing my locus.

This constant dismal drizzle
is dowsing my drowning thoughts
until my production fizzles
and my sunshine has been for naught.

Saturday, 14 May 2011

Snowflakes at a Funeral

Snowflakes plummet in slow motion slumbers
with such a sombre and solemn descent
which saddens in exponential numbers
until the sky's soft mourning clouds are spent.

The 'drops fall into the freshly dug hole
and occupy where the soil once sat,
covering the body which the skies stole
the snow evens out 'til the earth is flat.

But that dugout will always be hollow,
the earth can never be even again
until another blizzard should follow
and my body is claimed by the rain.

Snow offers a burial holy and right
so let us mourn in an attire of white.

Bitter with Amnesia

I'm bitter with amnesia.
I wish memory loss would last
for life would be much easier
if I'd forget about the past.
But soon after when I forget
my daunting demons are dragged back,
slyly whispering of regret
their cursed tongues scathingly attack.
I want to unhear those voices
who have my heart in a seizure,
I want to undo your choices
and forget about amnesia.

Nautical Nostalgia

You tell me to talk when in turmoil
but my tongue is tethered to my teeth
for when your actions have made me recoil
it's up to you to find what lies beneath.

Anger sweeps in as curling roaring waves
but I manage to keep my storm at bay
considering the lives that silence saves
I try to shoo all my grey clouds away.

This 'ship will never endure the dark night
if the captain keeps looking back to the shore
without keeping the miles ahead in sight,
his map is filled with how he longs for more.

But then, at last, he untethered his tongue
and it soon became clear that not much was wrong.

Tuesday, 10 May 2011

Garden of Commons

The view from the window looks sinister,
with our gardens overrunning with weeds
and plant pots emptied in administration.
We need to bury the Prime Minister
for all his soily deals and dirty deeds
that have put us in this situation.

We don't want to be your discarded tools
so don't take me to be an utter spade;
it is time to chop and crop away excess
and tug away the fake flowers of fools
tat make us overworked and underpaid
and leave our garden in such a mess.

Approaching harvest it's time the weeds went
or we'll suffer a winter of discontent.

Monday, 9 May 2011

Something In Comfort

Draw the curtains and don't let the light escape
through the exposed window just to your right.
Lock away the darkness and prying eyes,
leave the busybodies to the dark of night.

Close the doors softly before the wind slams
when they are left blowing slightly ajar.
Lock in the sound of soothing melody
and block out the shrill voices from afar.

In your private cage, you are now unbound,
locked in your mind and locked out of the world.
and should chance arise for you to escape,
you'd lie in your cell, contentedly curled.

These bars that surround are your own designs
but there's something in comfort that confines.


Disappointed by the Postman

The rattle of the letterbox,
the barking of the rattled dog,
the drum roll of anxious steps;
the sounds of the early morning round.

The tearing of the envelope,
the scrunching of discarded junk,
the sighing towards this months bills,
and yet that golden ticket waits.

Disappointed by the postman,
you're left lingering by the door
and that thing that you're waiting for
will have to arrive another day.

The cycle continues all week,
we expect the things which won't come
but one day I will get good news;
I'm still waiting for that day to come.

Sunday, 8 May 2011

Middle Ground

Between the garish and the taciturn
are those of cultivated tact and taste
who only seek the pleasures which they earn
and let no privilege go to waste.

But sometimes it is better to be brash
and be covetous for things that you'd like
for fortune can sometimes favour the rash
and stones are cast to those who make first strike.

There is also reasoning with restraint
when your desire goes past necessity,
without scathing tongues and without complaint,
finding no loneliness or asperity.

Between the pragmatic and profligate
lies the middle ground that I wish to take.

Friday, 6 May 2011

Treacherous Roads

The roads that I travel are filled with holes,
worn and weathered from both tread and time.
Their unstable surfaces take their toll
but now I must endure their final climb.

My engine falters at the highest peak
but kicks back into life after a brief stall.
My view from the top is beautiful but bleak,
knowing I must encounter the next haul.

After a consultation with my map
I resign myself to make the descent,
praying that my brake cables will not snap
and that my fuel gauge is not void and spent.

I managed to return safe and unharmed
but each mile left me more scared and alarmed.

Tuesday, 3 May 2011

Corridors



I am worn out by this incessant corridor,
narrow and dark, with no hope of escape.
With each step I take I encounter an obstacle
that I must pass to carry on,
and with each impediment I pass
I feel a bone break,
so that I’m rapidly shattering away
until I cannot walk any longer.
With each snap I take a look back
and wish I never embarked upon this journey,
but now I am too far gone to consider going back,
and I am resigned to the fact
that I cannot resign.
I am scared of the prospect
of being trapped in this tube,
unable to carry on or return to the beginning.
I know that I must face this test,
and I know I am able.
I know that I must face the next,
and I will still be able.
But how long can I carry on taking these steps
with no sign of reward?
When I do reach the finish line,
will I want to celebrate my freedom
and use the life which I have earned
or will I just want to sleep in my spacious earthy bed
and stop walking, stop worrying, stop breathing?

Shower

The shower can be such a soothing place
when the water washes worries away.
Hot water pounds against my frowning face
and drowns my sorrows in a scolding spray.

In this solitary booth life is plain
I’ve left used thoughts in a pile with used clothes
and as the mind’s murk trickles down the drain
a cleanliness of thought can now compose.

I’d stand in this spot ‘til the water chills
but I know I must return to the world
where I cannot afford to chase my thrills
lest my efforts be stained and unfurled.

They say a shower hides when someone cries
but what happens next when the water dries?