Rudimentary Rumblings

Virulent vitriol, violent in his hate,

erupting without encracity -

flaught infant flocks watch him vesuviate;

he devours young hope with voracity.

Fremescent rocks rained from the mouth of his vent,

a fusillade of barbed, bellicose bricks -

burning the innocence of all where he went;

sending souls along the lava of Styx.

But through the rumbles, the roots where he stands

grow a verdure still of verdure and pure - 

remaining unmoved by chaos he demands;

standing up for all hope; steadfast and sure.

That rubicund ridge could foam in its threats

but dowsed with indifference and peril wets.

Autosarcophagy

If I could eat through these walls of hard bone

to find an exit from my dingy cave

then my jaw might clamp onto some unseen zone

that leaves me with fresh strategies to save.

I know that soon my gnawing teeth will yield

when they start to pierce the layer of thick skin

that's worn so thin it can no longer shield

my empty vessel from the mess I'm in.

I've come to terms with my fruitless escape

now that I've noticed I'm my own jailer

and if this prison is one I can't reshape

then I will remain wrapped up in failure.

But I will still keep biting at my skull

for my restless stomach is never full.

Broken Black Glass

|                                          .lɒnimɿǝɈ 

|                                         bǝmǝǝb ƨi 

|                                bloʜ ƨǝʞɒɈ ɈɒʜɈ 

|                         noiɈɒυɈiƨ ɔiɈpǝƨ ǝʜɈ 

|                 liɈnυ bǝɿonϱi γlǝϱɿɒl Ɉυb 

  |                  Ɉnǝƨǝɿp niɒp bǝυbbυƨ ʇo 

|              noiɈɔǝlʇǝɿ ǝƨnǝɈ lυʇiɈip ǝʜɈ 

|                                               mɒ I . 

|                                      ɈnǝmɈnǝƨǝɿ 

|                                ϱnibnυoƨǝɿ bnɒ 

|                       ǝnob bǝƨopxǝ Ɉpǝɔxǝ 

|                                  Ɉʇǝl ƨi ϱniʜɈon 

|                           bnɒ nɿow ǝɿɒ γǝʜɈ 

|                         liɈnυ niʞƨ nǝʞoɿb ʇo 

|              ƨɿǝγɒl nǝǝwɈǝb ƨǝbilƨ ɈɒʜɈ 

| ƨƨɒlϱ ʞɔɒlb ʇo bɿɒʜƨ bǝɿǝɈɈɒʜƨ ǝʜɈ 

|                                                  mɒ I

 _____________________________

An Avalanche

The aberration of comfort is such

that pain becomes a remedy for angst,

irrational counters irrational

and I can see all my flaws with disdain.

It's as though observing an avalanche

with fond memories stored at the apex

and though safe in the knowledge that I'm safe

I get the stuttering sense to absond.

But do I flee from the danger I fear

or fly towards that which I'm set to lose;

how will I know that which I already know

if I'm concerned with how instead of why?

In indecision, I'm buried by snow

but I feel no fear with my skin aglow.

Feathers

Feathers in your mouth and blood on your tail:

I can't help but be a fool for the facts.

Immaculate paws point to faith I'd lacked

and oust me as someone fragile and frail.

Yet we're still clearly left with a dead bird

and its carcass conveys a carnal sin

so it takes all my strength from within

to dismiss the tweeting that I had heard.

For sometimes feathers are merely feathers

and blood can come from natural sources;

when careless suspicions run their courses

fearful minds can break free of their tethers.

I still nurse that bird in my gentle hands

knowing not who did it harm nor where it lands.

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-

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.

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.

Worms

Words will wagger,

I'll wager,

like weary worms in earth.

I've heard your counter-

arguments

but cannot see their worth.

They are embroiled

in dirt

and hide within their hole.

Yet if we unearthed

enough worms

I'm sure it would take its toll.

A Change of Light

Has there been a change in light

or have I just noticed your flaws?

The rays that break through the blinds

expose the state of your paws.

Yet under the guidance of the lamp

you needn't have a bath;

squeaky clean with a saccharine smile

and I can't help but laugh.

A Collapse of Control

Cornered by a cage of conflict;

cacophonous in its callous call.

Curtains veil red velvet cushions

and creased posters on the wall.

Feeling more crap than crapulent

as an aching kicks my head.

Thoughts return to that veiled corner

and my thoughts are filled with dread.

Playtime

We live the bitter rush

the cracks to the skull from words thrust upon our heads

a plaster on the wound and we're good again.

We refuse to see

the earth is not beneath us it is above us

hinging on our backs

and everything tips

but the weight is there.

Accounts

I've tried deleting your number out of my phone to convince myself that

I won't contact you again. And I don't, yet I still can't help but

scroll through your social media accounts,

[on which I have unfriended you and

erased every trace of our virtual contact

or sentimental photos, as though it would rid me

of what had occurred]

Yet I smile at some things you say

and at others get a little bewildered what I ever saw in you.

Still, the smallest mention of another loser's name

or any implied intimacies

and I still get a warm bubbling sensation in my stomach

and a tightness in my chest.

I probably don't care. 

I'm pretty sure

I don't care.

It's nothing.

Night Shames

Composing conversations

in my head

with the ideal conclusions

to relieve dread.

But what I can construct

within a thought

is never completely construed

the way it ought.

And so I must recompose

with blushing shame

a peripheral panicked past

penned to my name.

Crossing the Storm

Passing the threshold of the storm

on the road to staying dry.

As the clouds slunked off over my head

I exhaled a thunderous sigh.

I was headed firmly north

whilst the gloom swallowed the south.

Looking the storm in the eye

I ripped the sharp teeth out of his mouth.

But now that I have got here

I just want to waste my time and roam

because I know that if I return

he'll be waiting for when I get home.

A Long Walk with Nowhere to Go

The butter moon melts a path into the silky streets

to guide along uneasy feet.

With no-one to meet and nowhere to go

I keep my pace unreasonably slow.

With food for thought, my stomach is full

and I'm sick of feeling this constant pull,

too timid to push, I simply resist

in the hope that in absence I may be missed.

I find comfort in the plots of my dreams

where everything is just slightly different than it seems,

and this altered state is what keeps my blistered feet going

on to a future that I am scared of knowing.

Street Warfare

Segregation sweeps the nation

in a dormant void of action.

There is a hate but that can wait

until started by a faction.

The air is dense, it's so intense

as they both just sit in silence

but then it snaps between the maps

in a bloody scene of violence.

Print It!

You have outlined your foul intentions

with disgusting ink which leaks through the page

so forgive any apprehensions

which I may have at this vital stage.

I understood your plan
but I wasn't fully about it

when you went mad at me

because I had the nerve to doubt it!

But if it was supposed to be secret

then you didn't have to shout it

and now that I know

my mind can't rest without it.

But now I know,

but now I know,

now I know that it won't go.

And I feel lost,

I feel lost,

I feel I've lost all that never was.

But it never meant that much anyway

just some drunken fumble,

a stupid mistake.

It never meant so much, go away

and stop keeping me

awake.

Skint Spies

I grew fond of a light which shone in your eyes

thinking it showed the brightness of your soul

but the source of the shining was concealed by your lies

and the smile which they matched meant nothing at all.

Too often have I felt capable of knowing intentions

and judging people to be exactly how they are.

Too often have imperfections had mentions

and too often have they stretched just one lie too far.

So here is something else for prying eyes to haunt and hunt

I know that my words still fall on deaf but sharp ears,

I am sure you regret crashing in your untasteful stunt

but that is just the way that karma steers.

Keep on insisting to yourself that nothing is wrong,

and I will throw you two more coins to rub together

and watch the sparks fly from your forked tongue

until they frey the rope and our ties can sever.

So why don't you smoke on that?

I hope you choke on that.

I wish we never even spoke of that,

because all of the lies that I have heard

have forced my hand into some hostile words.

Fo-re...

Forgive and forget

before you

relive and regret.