Cans

Home is where the heart is

or so I have been told

but it isn't the ones out on the streets

whose hearts are empty and cold.

Hungry and not heartless

not harmful, but hurting;

so their heinous criminalisation

is more than disconcerting.

And yet they're swept away

like empty cider cans,

dropped by ones not labelled for addictions;

dropped by privileged hands.

No-one's there to pick them up,

 they all just walk straight past

for they degrade this depressing city

and are looked upon as trash.

But don't throw them away,

recycling needs some sorting;

for every sorry state we find a use

with the right supporting.

See a can? Pick it up!

Put it where it belongs -

we should be looking for the good we can do,

not ignoring all that's wrong.

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.

Renovation (Lucifer's Ascent)

Demons emerge from the ground

wrought from ruthless steel and concrete.

A decaying world under their shadows drowned,

their conquest nearly complete.

Grotesque forms grasp for the skies,

Heaven's territory is threatened.

The old from consumption dies;

its ancient breath deadened.

Soulless galleries of glass now stand

where once stood old forma proud.

Gone are days of beauty grande

replaced by a more maligned modern brand.

Melting Pot

The world will wither under the weight of dust

and the lies of the mass media.

First the oil will run out, and then the trust

descending into mass hysteria.

And all is in the hands of some elected fate

choosing between a burials or cremations;

whichever offers the best exchange rate

must be the best option for Earth's divided nations.

Throw your dollars, your euros and your pounds into a baseball cap

and melt them down for what they are worth.

Smother yourself into their smouldering sap

and save your skin before you save the Earth.

Worn

The lone man stalks the road,

old patched jacket sewed

marks snake where he once strode.

A stolen meal, nothing owed

he still lives by moral code

that lone man nothing slowed.

Biting Back at the Crocodiles

Fourteen billion eyes gaze

transfixed on the same thing;

their own self-centred sentiments.

If only we were staring at substance

instead of inconsequential ideals--

and as the starving skeleton stirs

from his lurid lacrimation

his sleepless lucid dreams

are controlled by a Sandman society.

Our own tears are filled with foul floods.

Illicit spills of banal and lilliputian "loss",

these opprobrious cathartic tears blind us

from a sight for sore eyes.

So let not our own troubles be a willing distraction

from our despondent and decaying domain,

but let them guide us into worthy action

and put a priority on the purging of proper pain.

Sunday Morning Prayer

Bags on my floor;

did I really cause this mess?

Bags on my eyes;

I know the answer's yes.

Change on my desk;

rolled-up notes all but spent.

Change on my mind;

Lord, is it too late to repent?

The Heart's Purse-Strings

Hard earned feelings are often spent far too swiftly

on those products of desire they don't really need,

and before the month ends, they're scraping the barrel

for someone to buy back just a bite of their greed.

And then there's those dithering, fastidious souls

who let their fortunes amass in their airtight heart,

but for all that it holds, the heart weighs too heavy

and the seams that hold it compressed will fall apart.

So how best to spend those soft somethings in your mind

when stringent savings rot and capricious spendings break?

I will keep the purse-strings of my heart tightly sealed

'til there's an investment on future's profit to make.

That Weakened Feeling

That weakened feeling has hit again;

thank God it's f-forgettable.

Decisions between dreary isolation

or desperate destitution,

if only there was a clear-cut solution

I could not count regrettable.

I'm tired of how I have spent my time

and I'm tired and spent again...

The Defeatist Design

I cannot allow defeat to defeatism,

so I'll defeat my demons instead.

I must beat the feeling I'm already beaten

or face giving up my soul to the dead.

Yet death is something conclusive,

and it is finality I have always wanted.

If I could see the plans in their clear contrast

I would not feel so damned and daunted.

If I could capture every mistaken moment

like some embarrassing polaroid snap,

the details might be free to observe at will

but more dwelling would not prevent their mishap.

So conclusion is something of a fairweather friend

which falsely shows up at the end;

maybe I'm better to be beaten by the dark,

for on the dark I can always depend...

Force-Feed

Fools force-feed

to facilitate their greed.

You will find the fuel in food

when driven by need.

One Track

Senseless senses outweigh prior pretenses,

rationality and reason are lost.

All thought has turned to the filth you have earned

with little concern for tomorrow's cost.

OD

Down the drain, up my nose.

Push me over, hold me close.

You are my thorn, you are my rose;

you are my cure, my overdose.

Smiles Behind Dustmasks

A forgotten world, so gritty and grim

yet full of the ethics which made us proud.

Thick powders of dust in which you could swim

packed full of the hope which time's not allowed.

I wish to go back to this greyer grass

which I've heard so many stories about

but I'm seeing parallels with out past

and I find the vibes are in their second bout.

Bridged between defamation and delight,

we're in the slog away from recession;

determined to put all our mistakes right

we're in a world of euphoric progression.

And so a bit of squalor makes me smile

knowing the future scenes it could compile.

Cheque Your System

I've recently come to the realisation

that nothing in life is comparative,

and things should only be observed

through their individual merits.

Similarly, the value placed upon an object or idea

should be determined by personal worth

rather than a pre-determined structure

based off the ideals of others.

Dawn

The most repulsing things seem resplendent

for these 51 seconds of fermenting filth,

as my subconscious sleeps with my surroundings

and my mind is a meditating mindfield.

Eyes snap open.

I'm awake.

Rain down, beads of melted wax,

let it soak into my skin.

Rain down, prior perceptions

let me eat myself from within.

I have a lust for this drowsy dance.

I long for this lagging learning.

I want connection to this cause.

You are not that which I am

but I am not that which you're not,

let us tie our better halves together

and be happy with our lot.

Why am I burning?

It's coming.

Why am I drowning?

What's coming?

Why am I alive?

I'm here.

The first time.

I miss people I haven't yet met.

I remember things which haven't yet happened.

I am sure of things I do not yet know.

I have visited myself for the very first time.

It's okay, you're safe now.

I'm here.

Clean Fun

Habits go out of style

after a while,

and I guess yours do too.

I'll still be there

with new traits to wear

presented in a cleaner hue.

So I'll see you in town

with an OJ to down

and you stick to your JD.

I have not abstained

my want has just waned

and this is no longer for me.

Every Breath

Every breath is an excuse for the next

so please excuse me if I cannot speak.

I'm sure you're pleased to hear that I'm perplexed

and that my will and words have both grown weak.

Every breath is an excuse for my last

so please excuse me if I'm out of breath.

I'm sure you're pleased to hear that I'm aghast

and pondering the details of my death.

Every breath is an excuse for a rest

so please excuse me if my breathing halts.

I'm sure you're pleased to hear I failed my test

and I'm personified by my own faults.

Every breath is one closer to dying

but with every breath I am still trying.

Temptation

Leave locks on my zips

and my hands by my hips,

led away from temptation.

Keep my change stored away

and my longings at bay,

led away from temptation.

Let my stomach be flat

and my wallet be fat,

led away from temptation.

Let me remain good

when misunderstood,

led away from temptation.

Can-Do

Self-doubt is the only impediment

which has deterred me from living my dreams.

From now, I will relentlessly believe

that I can achieve any of my schemes.

To be realistic is to be resigned

to the confines society has set,

so scribble out all of the boundaries

and you will learn to live without regret.

And I will keep on scribbling away

until those scrawling scratches make some sense

because if I keep on pressing down hard

the words will be in their own terms and tense.

One of these days I will learn how to fly;

I say it's viable, so why can't I?