Archive

Poetry

Ever wondered why you die?

Why the world keeps turning

with no respect for the amount

of humanity going up

in smoke?

Is it a code defined genetically

to be executed in the event

of

failure?

Mine will be closed.

 

 

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How I remember

you lying in your bed

leg in traction

pupils dilated from morphine

no helmet could supply

enough protection

I made mixed tapes

to plug into your headphones

while you slept

I listened to you rave

deliriously at our father

about anything and everything

that had happened to you

raving

raving

raving

and they say talking helps

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It spreads like panic

like scrambled eggs of toast

yellow peril is upon us

huawai no warning of the ghost

 

that haunts the cities, the volumes

of participants in global

balancing that shifts and looms

like a surgeon’s scalpel

 

Hack and cut, saw and pry

see the legs of civilisation

come away and much less spry

it limps on, dreading amputation

 

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I have made friends with the devil

and his voices in my head

I no longer sing in sympathy

I feel no more the dread

of knowing that all to be

is yet to come

it shall not be me

who falls out of the sun.

 

I pull back the sheets

on your dreams and

not alone I see you again

in the shape of your screams

of nightmare and lash

of overcoming the sash

of all brevity

and entering

 

I walk with you through

to the misery of darkness

holding you for your accounting

of your distress

wondering where I am

as with closed eyes

that flicker with wake

you smile.

 

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When I heard you I could not

understand

how a nine times winner of concessionary works

could ever find themselves in it, the shit that is,

for it is a wonderful experience to be

the one who isn’t only allowed, but is given

the right to make all the workers

of the world unite

under fellowship of rulers and

learner motorcycling

monkey-men

 

true it unites all the writers of worldly events too

for they do not know it but they are asking

for the working man and woman to understand

they are asking for newts and fig-rolls for the

work of then and now

 

I wonder could you ask yourself for the works

of all the went and where for the whys are all about to

be allowed to start their own guidance

for there is a missile about

that could make it all seem too smooth

to watch as they advertise for the work

to be done with the swiftest intent so that

all the world sees they are in control

The press.

 

 

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Sage words

they come from a man

long in years and experience both

yet you see not the voice’s carry

through the arms of bowery trees

that echo laughter from insanely

putting away the useful

and keeping entailed those whose

differences make them

all the more useful to us.

“This weather is schizophrenic

his decision was schizophrenic

his behaviour was schizophrenic

his experience was schizophrenic

has derogatory tense

yet it is not the schizo-phrenic who sizes

up enemies like they are chosen for them

to make do with for their own purposes

like they do with schizophrenics

putting we away and asking

not how to make it to there and then

and not here and now as to know when to ask

if it is due to the weather or schizophrenia again?

 

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Paint by numbers and hold onto

the verve with which

you try and gain control

of brush-head and canvas

 

 

scanty with the pen which

slips off the page

without so much as a whimper

ready to disparage pages that

have gone before

 

 

crazy with the whip

hold onto the quiet times

and get ready for the cracking of

chain-armoured leather

and shortage of foods

for war is never far away

 

 

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