Contrasted Cliffs

In layers of scratches and incisions

your form evolves along the bumps and bends,

shaped by passing time and man's decisions

where sturdy lives may meet their crumbling ends.

But amongst the chalk, granite and the sand

there is something of beauty to be found,

for throughout the differences of the land

it's all anchored by the same common ground.

So let age not define your sense of self

nor be it the colour you have been formed,

you are not your possessions or your wealth

but sculpted by the beliefs you have formed.

Do not discriminate texture or tone

but see beauty in all kinds of stone.

Iceage

Oh how you've been clinging to those icy grips

like languishing leaves lost among litter.

The weather, it tries its best to warn you

you'd be left directionless and bitter.

That's not to say it's cold all of the time

but rather a sudden forecasted front

and what meteorologists once said;

they'd now rather not be taking that punt.

The forecast's grim; but at least not for him

who's walking around in shorts and a vest.

His happiness shows, for he really knows

he's on the cold Earth only as a guest.

And when the ice melts, he'll swim in the flood

and when he's drowning he'll say "it is good".

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.

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 men 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.

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-

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.

Returned

In the tremors of your dawning 

spot pride and your clothes

thrown from the white sheets

each dirtied 

by the floor 

and by the terrible realization 

of what we’ve done to each other.

Warm Wires in Winter

Alcohol, narcotics and prayers flavour the falling of night.

Our talk of games a game too, of a sort,

smirking dance swirling inwards,

skilled balance and mirroring of feet's skittish friction.

Your hair descends in waves I long to twirl and surf.

Your soul glows warm and woozy in my orbit.

Your pouty lips and gleaming bright eyes beckon

to realms purely sumptuous and light,

full of intangible glows and stampeding butterflies.

As our lips meet, sweet confidence decimates regrets

that could have been, grasped like tattered rags

by those too blind or quivering to act.

I hold you close, your charms now tangible, in grasp,

your lilting laughs and deftly wicked winks pepper the wind,

gusting across rusty heartstrings,

stirring from slumber groggy half-dreaming sentiment.

I feel a melting, melding into intimacies unmapped.

Yet each moment of contact must end.

Banter and power remain,

and yet I long again for that glowing coal of you, you,

a true you to warm tingling fingertips,

that secret soulful sphere of self you keep so safe, so guarded,

yet shines through like a jewel in your smile.

Plummet

Children sitting on the cliff edge, examining

the ebbing tide,

tossed pebbles first, then flowers.

The flowers floated;

the children sank.

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.

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.

Filth/Fresh

Repulsive layers of hoary skin,

days old on my body

full of sweat and sin,

matched by the lewd grubby stubble on my chin.

Loosely layered filth on my sheets

which grip me like a drug

and fester where the flesh eats

my former self obsolete.

Transcendence,

I ascend.

The dirt from my bristly past descends down the drain,

icy water pours and devours me,

heavenly bites like an angel's unrestrained passion—

a startlingly strong baptism

penetrating my pores.

Resplendent layer of unspoilt skin

I am born;

I am youth.

Flight from the Fly

The devil is at my window.

Six legs latched onto glass.

His hexagonal eyes disinterested.

I freeze and wait for him to pass.

His crooked smile twists my way.

I look fearfully to the floor.

He stretches a bony finger and beckons.

A signal that I can't ignore.

It's become clear that I'm found.

I have no faith to hide.

How could I possibly use the shadows
when the darkness is his guide?

So I take a shaky step full of shame
and climb onto his sebaceous back,
feel his wings flutter against my heart aflutter,
almost praying for an attack.

But when I open my screwed-up eyes

I see that I'm falling through the air.

I'm paralised completely,

death has answered my prayer.

Broken Doll

There are knots in the strings on my shoulders

and I have not the nails to disentangle.

You can ken from my canter and my carriage is contracted;

the controller's lost control.

How'll I relocate my lifeless limbs

with none to manipulate my marionette—

and even if it could be managed

how'll I master my own movement?

So better to sever these tangled chords

and decussate this surplus cerebrum,

disassemble the parts and restart

to give this stooge corpse a course.

Negating the Negative

Considering the phrase "too much of a good thing is a bad thing",

would the inverse indicate

that too much of a bad thing could indeed be a good thing?

It would most likely be concluded to be a rash rationalisation

for the very beginning-

"too much..."

implies an excess, which in itself connotes negativity.

With that being said,

this apparent negative is already an alternation—

or a negative-

of a postive action, and so any negation of a negative action

would invalidate any reprehensibility.

Right is wrong is wrong,

and wrong is right is wrong.

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.

Mouldering My Mind

Nothing so coarse as that course

which will take my corpse to the morgue.

A rot in the roots where golden explosions grew,

sees that the soil masks my beauty completely

and my withered state must collect what it's due.

I have let this plant overgrow,

keen to reap the fruits of its embrace when they ripe-

but that comforting clutch is clenching too close

and the now blackening grass is past the graze of my grasp.

I won't be picking fruit again.

Rainfall Come Up

I kneeled and said to God,

"It is you, Lord,

with your head in the clouds,

without your feet on the ground.

How could I believe?".

He replied to me so kindly,

"It is you, Son,

taking things only as they seem

without daring to dream.

Have I reason to deceive?".

I considered his words,

with guilt in my heart

for I knew that all of my sins

could not even begin

to cancel true love that he holds.

And he considered such thoughts,

with enlightened omniscience

and as the clouds parted

a heavy rainfall started

seeming like a punishment to most.

But yet I felt his warmth within each drop

and my eyes were opened wide.

I took the Lord's hand

just as he planned

and he led me into the light.

And so I became the night.