Monday, 10 October 2016

hi hello! i am no longer orignal but a plain brick wall




An ode to a chopstick and earwigs
I am still learning my lefts and rights yet new markings appear here and there
The bath is cracked and the milk curdles once your toes touch the surface,
Toes that have written anthologies which made internet poets weep
You are no poet
 An ink scribbled daydream with your cardigan drooping
Sucking on the teats of culture,
 a boiling heartbreak
Reborn of stolen originality. 
Yet here we are
singing with the earwigs whilst drumming a chopstick
teach me my left and rights and 
I will teach you the art of throwing spare change into the well
 or how to have tea parties with car guards
let us be the definition of art breathing through life,
let our toes dangle and voices rise
with the earwigs.


 





Saturday, 24 September 2016

Catacombs (of yourself)

Wondrous light fading
a symphony of the catacombs
as our light light follows endlessly,
into the belly of the serpent.
Slithering this way and that
While the rotten souls point in your direction.

Woken up
Youre in bed with a monster
who roars his endless love for you with a voice that shudders the earth
you are a filthy monster, accusing bitch goddess
which is the dream, which is the monster?
 

Tuesday, 9 August 2016

Saying Sorry is as simple as the use of a comma

I am learning what is mine and what is yours.
I have learnt how to tie my shoes and when to stop stirring the jam.
I have also learnt where to put the stamp and how to rescue a bee
also how to read the recipes and when to pronounce a silent letter
along with where to walk on the pavement and when to lick the ice-cream
however 
the art of when to not say sorry is which i am still new to.
I'm awfully sorry that I forgot to sing happy birthday in tune
I'm really sorry that I didn't want to go to that one party
Truly I'm sorry when I talked too much about Yeats
I must apologize for that one time when I kept humming
Or when I cried too much looking at a mere copy of Klimt
And I am sorry for holding your hand too much 
Also I forgot to apologize for when i got the hiccups 
I'm just sorry for apologizing about my self-worth
Im sorry if this is too much about me
Im sorry if this makes no sense

I'm sorry for writing this poem.

Sunday, 24 July 2016

the violation in picking flowers

Long grass was supposed to be our comparison to our childhood
but now i all think of is allergies and bee stings.
i dont enjoy the poppies,
far too flamboyant in that red dress,
tapping her black shoes until till we are a heaving migraine 
of self-pity and poppies.
It is a violation to pick flowers
the abortion of a blooming field.
Leave the flowers child
and back to the long grass I go,
water dripping down the tip of my nose
whilst the poppies dance once again.

Wednesday, 13 July 2016

Shakespeare beat me to it but i thought i was in love

To compare the moon to you would be a sin
with her ever changing pattern of sadness
To compare you to a daisy,oh how would i cry
for her plain petals could never douse your passionate heart
To compare the summers day
 in all honesty would be best
For the biting ants and sunshine glare
would most definetly be best to compare
I destest the thought of everlasting love
soon to compare me to that of a dead flower
letting the sun wither me away
in the fields of comparison

Words from a carrot cake splattered notebook

Sunshine streaming dust
Blake would have said it better
but the ice cream is all gone 
and the tears are all finished
I dislike our presence in the library
I dislike your presence in my memory 
boots are scuffed and muddy
sleeves are soggy and wet
the tea went cold
I dislike your presence in the kitchen
I dislike your presence in my memory
The milk is off 
thick,vile and yellow
much like the protection of your heart 
get out wild beast
lead your trail of rotting nostalgia somewhere else.

Wednesday, 6 July 2016

one time i just mixed words like a cake and the result was arrogrance.

WRITING LITTLE WORDS
the little words dance and groan in my mouth
silly words which serve no meaning other than sounding pleaseing to the ear of a stranger.
at some godforsaken time of midnight is when the little words are born
imagine that of thousands of bubbles being delivered  between the legs of a thesaurus,
the torn out libary pages and dog eared steals from school.
this is not a confession,
simply the beginning 
the little words are diseases of the mind
romanticizing the horrors of what should and should not be conformed or condoned
they are the leaky eyes of the last pomegranate on the rotten tree
mere words or ocillating comparisons repeating themselves until 
heaving up the result;
the out of tune piano recital,
the burnt bread.
this is not a confession
this is an illusion,
of a self pitying prince wishing himself in a castle to complain of dragons and loneliness 
these are the odd words which dance in my mouth and on my fingertips
i am no poet
i am just trying to find my way
in the upsidedown reality of  breakfast before brushing your teeth
and taking your clothes off before your shoes
these words are tunes i wish to play
this is me calming down
breathing in the words
and repeating them in my head
the traffic lights are confused whilst pigeons are the image of anarchy
i am done
the words have left me
these are not confessions
these are just words.