Sapient

A man sat on a wall surmising the days dissipation,
The sun sizzles when it sets and so he waits in anticipation,
That morning he had sung an aubade to the sun’s rise,
Now he watched it go as though its sinking was a surprise,
Pink billowing clouds drink a shiraz of fleeting light,
Just like a drunk, they will get in a fight and weep all night,
The foray of firmament had also fought a gallant war to stay,
But nights battle against the raid had held the suns rays at bey.
 
Revelation came as the man sat upon the wall,
Concepts and dreams hypothesised were not his thoughts at all,
Ideas are spore that float looking for somewhere else to seed,
Hibernate in the mind until from the mental sod are freed,
With this the sky fades and loses more shiraz in its shine,
While this wise man gulps another bottle of merlot wine,
Closes his mind and wades into his soul,
Dulling his musings and letting the wine take control.

So thoughts escape him like poorly held balloons,
Elegantly they rise with a beauty to rival the moons,
Multi-coloured made of silk, and quiet as a thief,
Filled with the hope for love, but more were of lust and grief,
Caught in air currents mutable then pulled taut,
Looking for the night to bare witness to the battle fought,
Frantic like sperm in search of wombs and cells to nestle,
Yet tantric as they consume the husk in which they lay rest in vestal.

They search to find the chaste angel who always alludes,
But these balloons chase tails in tormented tangled moods,
For this wise man was to obsessed with mental mangled nudes,
While birds and the bees seek the trees for their sexual interludes,
Past an angel’s laughter they climb to fuck and perspire,
Oblivious to the mess of the heart they ignore as they soar higher,
Past a subtle look of love,
Their path not supple so they miss the beauty as they fly above.

They missed the look in her eyes and lips,
All for the taste of sweet nectar between another women's hips,
The last thing he remembered of her is a vanilla fragrancy,
And she had sadly left because of his blatant flagrancy,
Then suddenly a balloon bursts,
Thoughts of perfection gone because he had put his erection first,
The wise man watches the last balloon disappear with a gust,
Alone he swoons with red wine in his veins cursing at his lust.

Cordate Box Of Eaten Chocolate

Ugly commissioned housing flats sprawl in growths like overgrown warts,
At one time the area was a “luxury living” estate that lacked public transport or youth sports,
This is where this man walks with a purpose bottled to portray calm,
In his arms is a gift wrapped in a filthy cloth and shielded to protect it from harm,
He turns down a path that runs towards a drain that was once a fluent stream,
A cluster of wild weeds gives reprieve from prying eyes in the affluent moonbeam,
He places the package on the ground then skulks down on his knees as if to pray,
Hands like talons he starts to franticly dig a hole in the trash muddled clay,
With fingers slicked with mud he wipes a brown sludge across his mug,
Contented he places a cordate box deep inside the hole in which was dug,
He had buried the chest beneath to stop it from seeping its toxicity,
Then weeping he quits his home, leaving the hidden box in the city.

He roamed this land in search of something more imposing,
And when he returned to the city it was in the throes of decomposing,
In time all civilisations vanish from history with their technology and their thought,
In reality it’s not much time for a city to disappear with all knowledge that was taught,
We are ignorant to believe we know everything for we really remember nothing,
So how can we pretend to understand our future without knowing our own beginning,
He paused once more, contemplating why he had left this forgotten city,
It was the box buried of course, but the rotten society was the catalyst for his pity,
Money and trepidation had desperately ruled the people despotly and covertly,
It had raised dumb, delusional children, and for some reason it had fat poverty,
He stops his musing when he realises he is standing upon the marked cross he had once left,
He was cautious for all around were signs of decay and some certain signs of theft.

He falls to the ground and claws at the Earth’s sod once again,
He searches the soil for where he new his package was left and lain,
And as he wearily scrapes the ground he is hit with ambers of recollect,
Memory rapes his mind until his memory is filled with a burning regret,
But this is not worth the sadness in his eyes, for “Love loses all the time,”
He looks to the skies and begs the heavens to help his spirit rise above this grime,
By digging in the dirt he tries to seek a healing,
But what he will find will make his feelings hurt and send his emotions reeling,
He thinks about old love letters written impassioned and with blood,
And it is their memory that create the tears that make it easier to dig in this mud,
He has a qualm whether he will find his treasure in this neighbourhood,
Then with elbows in the belly of the earth, his crud caked fingernails grate on wood.

He wipes the sludge to the side, then pulls the box from the ground that binds,
He grabs the rag that is wrapped around it until the cloth unwinds,
He holds the box in his hands that holds a brief moment in history,
Then from his pocket he produces a rusty key to unlock the mystery of his story,
He places the bold cut skeleton into the slot and finds a resistant click in the mechanism old,
The lid pops open and releases a glow that penetrates his mantle with its vapoured gold,
With trembling hands he reaches inside and produces a muscled meat,
Morosely a heart lay in his palms not bleeding but still it beat,
Tenderly he kisses it, then puts it back inside the box,
He then adds a glowing jar from his chest to the casket that once again he locks,
With trembling hands he wraps the cordate box, then places it back in the hole,
He starts to fill it in, for after all his travels he found out that what use is a heart without a soul.

Peace Laundered

Melancholy hands rub at his lacrimal gland,
Sadness like sand shoveled into a gold diggers pan,
Sifting through mental nuggets of belief is this man,
And leaving heart size rocks of grief on a river in drought,
No gold in this soil just hardened stones of heavy doubt.

His head belts out a cadence in dulled reprise,
He has simple thoughts that somehow defies the wise,
Its an ignorance bliss that excuses the lies,
A self worth like a crushed ball of aluminum foil,
A man was born for work yet he tries to die by its toil.

Consumed by a sphere of angst that he will eventually despise,
A smile that can not flout gravity or the laws it contrives,
There’s a tongue constantly bitten so it deprives,
No enlightened words can escape the soul beneath,
You too would recoil if you where befell by such a grief.

There was no vibration when his heart regressed,
Nothing had vesiculated in emotion or as time progressed,
But there was a fight not felt but he new it transgressed,
A tight clenched resistance beaten back by force,
A messy riot that had slowed him and dissuaded his course.

One man left alive, blood beside his feet,
His body shook even though repressed by the heat,
Even in success you could see his resolve stood there in defeat,
A man who had fought while peace was laundered,
And in battle he realised his time away was squandered.

A man is a leaf caught in an eddy shallow,
Useless as he twists himself into sorrow,
Turning in a daze for days as he forgets tomorrow,
He spins, drowning in his own mental phlegm.
And when awoken he only see’s death and mayhem,

He licks his swollen eye with a tongue half eaten,
His resolve is aware of its fate and knows that it is beaten,
An alone soldier waiting to die as if his destiny was written,
Thoughts of unresolved arguments and unanswered quips,
His solid soul sturdy, while his flesh flails in strips.

He wipes his sweaty forehead with a blood caked rag,
Rings the sodden cloth that was ripped from a white flag,
A slurry of liquid is extracted into a plastic bag,
He gags as he gulps the sweat and blood like cheap wine,
But the cost of it is more then he could ever afford or consign.

The horror in him was no longer frightening,
The thunder that attacked was killed by its own lightning,
The rumbling stopped and the rain that came was cleansing,
No more spinning, or noise, or violence,
He just stood there soaked in stunned silence.

Two Crowns And A Knife

His body wobbles in a waltz of near tumbles,
On cobble stones his feet gobbles the street
while his mouth stumbles on mumbles,
It’s a verse, or curse, or worse, it’s poetic gibberish,
A stutter doused in red nectar sweet
and a sweat that’s venom and feverish.

There is saliva splatter inside his cheeky chant chatter,
Saturated word and rhyme spat from his memory tatter
that is as soaked as his grey matter,
Noisy babble quietens to whispers for only the closest of ears,
Soft prose flows
with angst and hurt from a man beaten by the years.

Mind material pent has finally frayed the flesh hem
and has broken him,
His face ashen as he spits the words through phlegm
in some cryptic hymn,
He catches the prose as to ration those that he has not penned yet,
For he has little poetry to spare, spend, or
lend, for they were gambled like a bet.

White gnarled knuckles encase the words adhered,
Geld to his fists in chiseled welts as if those words had seared,
They were unheard laments
that now exist on the skin in metal weld,
How long could these increments persist,
and how long could they be held?

They are carnations cocooned by his rock incarnation,
They would be expelled unabashed just for validation,
A peace offering to any who pass his bench and being,
As part insight and part redemption to quench this man’s wellbeing.

This sorrowful genius’ addiction is rife,
Where salvation pleas are now replaced with a knife,
Held tight to release the crown from his forehead,
It digs more then it cuts
until there’s two crowns and a whole lot of red.

The release has put a spell upon the drama that unfolds,
He stands with gestures animated as he shakes the bloody knife he holds,
“And I dub thee sir, sir… Sir what?”
“Sir, I don’t know my name… I just think I forgot.”

The drunken slur is less coherent with the crowns laceration,
A bottle of wine filled with blood he downs in celebration,
Swelling visions to collaborate a memory now in rot,
The telling incisions on the temple are to hide the things he had forgot,

The nectar dropping in the bottle was more cause for alarm,
But the poet drunk and drowned had no concern for harm,
The bottle drunk and he is incriminated by his loitering,
Adieu, my sweet night, for the mind is busy self and cell slaughtering,

The thoughts subside and he is finally blind, quite still and absent,
As the divine wine diminishes the mind, it replaces the will and his lament,
A quiet like those whispered words castrated from his mouth and hell,
Cut into pieces and spat into a bucket, and lowered back down into the well.

Peacefully Counting Sheep

Fossilised in a petrified heap,
The body branded by a certified sleep,
Eyes are sanded by slumber counting sheep,
And the drenched weep,
A tides motion of white water creep with the sub conscious afloat,
And the mind adrift upon the rift that reaps havoc on that battered searching boat,
Till the anchor finds hold in those dreams so deep,
It is old,
And frozen in a thought cold,
A glacier,
Hands in amazement lose grasp of holds and fold upon the faces fascia,
A mask for beneath,
Clenched teeth under the smile,
It is the sad wallpaper underneath the new tile,
It still weeps with stains from it’s past,
A tarnished piece of a termite feast that breaches the staple spine of the boats mast,
Silence bounds with leaps to gain but not to guile,
To sneak low as not to show a shadow cast,
“I’m not angry today,”
Constrained bile and decay vile spewed upon the deck of this dream dinghy boat,
“The first time in long time,” I gloat,
Where the thirst for outrage is contained in resonance of a knell chime,
A bell that has the power to detain and reform,
To take the billow out of a storm,
The silhouette of hate culled,
The clouds and the night curtains pulled,
A scent of sugared lime sneaks through the shutters as they close,
Rosemary and thyme squeezed over the trotters of a lamb,
More damn dead sheep to count,
More cramped sleep,
And a boat that is moored on coral and thrashed about.
[Back to Top]

An Upheave Brings Karma

Upheave brings Karma upon those who selfish gleam,
It will weave things calmer and leave community without a reason to redeem,
Finally losing faith in celebrity and our false profits of fame,
We will stain our skin red with our past atrocities and shame,
Basking in the glory of a Utopian light,
An ochre radiance over us as we fight the flailing blight,
Where inhabitants are compassionate and their hearts are all sincere,
And the world appears as brave combatants where once there was only fear,
Happiness will replace the constant battles,
And humanity will wash over us like the tide does sandcastles,
A world not foreseen by a seer or dreamt in a dream,
But one where our populace is cleansed of dregs and left only with it’s cream.

[Back to Top]

The Pyre Tracker’s Plight

There was once birthed a firecracker that grew to explode in nirvana flare,
Shards of its fluorescence hung at a height and procured quite a glare,
Bright electric veins were skewed straight then lured by the Earth's leer,
Permeated in-between midday and the night, but the exact time was never clear,
Lightning speckles magnetised by the outer atmosphere,
They’ve forfeited their fight for life and slowly they disappear.

The night was again dark with spite and ruined by rancour loud,
It was October and the mood was sombre, socked with turmoil fowled,
And if I was a Pyre Tracker I might have tracked the firecracker into the cloud,
Tracked the remnants of the night’s footsteps where lights imprint was no longer allowed,
Pursued through the pyre’s sheen if only I was keen,
But if it was courageousness I was after, it was something I had never been.

I searched the pyre cloud beyond illuminating frost,
Looked through a hole in between the backwash that lay upon the moss,
But all I am is a pathetic man full of fatigue,
Filled with spite, and lack any ounce of intrigue,
I lurch with convulsions by a stomach afraid and tied by a frayed knot,
For all the things I am, a Pyre Tracker I am not.

Yes I am a coward full of fear,
So I did not search for the loss even though it vanished when I was near,
And it was I who stood their when last it was seen,
Yet I did not disappear through that slit of light that slipped between,
It was I who watch the light snuff out with a single breath,
And still I did not follow, I did not follow into death.

A flutter of leaved green was cleft by my side,
A gale whispered while stillness in the dark shook and cried,
Swept up behind me with a gentle hiss that kissed goosebumps up my neck,
It was a Pyre Tracker who ran past me towards that lights that beck,
With bold strides he followed death into her grave,
He tore into the lightening like a man possessed by the responsibility of being brave.

In a flash the Pyre Tracker was gone in the seam of dawn,
And he was stuck in that dark forlorn as the clouds were slowly drawn,
Then the gleam shimmers shut as if the beam had never been born,
Like a dark swirling blur as the fragment mends what was torn,
I am left listening for quiet, for that's the way I feel,
My hands cradle my eyes and my legs are collapsed to a kneel.

I memorise my memories as the past month grows in size,
Arise October for you are only sadness in disguise,
I am saturated as anguish covers me with brine,
A waterfall of emotion showers me in placental shine,
I am fetal, signing a cross for sins I never new I saw,
They start to draw blood across my sinew that is raw.

No more pain in October for this is all that I can bear,
I know that you can not completely heal the wound when once it was a tear,
So I wait for the Pyre Tracker like I was a Pyre Tracker minion,
Wait for him to beckon me to join him in that dominion,
But the night is still and the light leaves no mark or shrill,
I am a shark submerged in blood to subterfuge the kill.

I tumble in waves of recollect, like the sky did the dark,
Where is that brave Pyre Tracker, and why did he embark,
The firecracker that the Pyre Tracker tracked again cracked,
Light turned to sound blaring and stark, then blacked,
Thunder startles this shark from it’s thoughts of fear,
A feeding frenzy in front of him rips at all the quiet near.

I disappear, then reappear in constant vesiculate,
Thoughts pleat existentialism that my heart tries to debate,
It creases my existence with folds of repeated cries,
Mental anguish escaping like the torrents from those saddened skies,
Is it some melancholy metaphor to leave the cursed without mirth,
Just as my friends leave selfishly, as if friendship has no worth.

More death in this month then there was ever any birth,
In a guise of life it applies pain in some plan by mother earth,
More hurt released in this month of October,
Or is it just an excuses to keep me from being sober,
Another bang, and I glimpse the Pyre Tracker tasting blood,
I am distraught for he is drenched, beaten, and kneeling in the mud.

It is a lot of blood that pores from brutal flesh rips,
His eyes slowly blink as fingers dip into the cuts in his lips,
He is broken, and his body shows the ferociousness of the fight,
His screams defy the lightening wire that grip and gyre the night,
The Pyre Tracker’s face contorts by gnarled forces from his core,
The rain that pounds him seems slowed as he waits there bashed in the gore.

I wish I had the the courage the Pyre Tracker possessed,
I wish I was half the man he was but my bravery is repressed,
I ponder that there are no clues leading you to peace,
I am vexed by a want to remember him, but also I want the memory of his demise to cease,
I remember the Pyre Tracker’s face hacked with scratches like a lace,
I remember him look at me from high in that pyre place.

I am tormented by guilt that pounds me like an incubus hymn,
With thunder as cymbals and rhythm drums are only screams from him,
The Pyre Tracker is dead and I wonder if he found the light,
Was he happy before the battle and at peace after the fight,
I did not see him die, I only saw him disappear,
Slurred memories to escape being sober this year.

[Back to Top]

Pathetic Pseudo Repartee

Inside the skin is where I will open this conversational folder,
It will begin to unwrap from around my skull and shoulder,
And then unfold the hull that encases the faces of my ancestral kin,
The solid Timbre of my being not soaked will float if it’s not attached to the boat while mentally traversing.

Unravelling,
Travelling,
Revealing my unhindered essence foaming,
Until like a homeless older roaming, I am the basic sin of a complete nonsensical thing,
A ring ringing, a whistle stinging, or a numbing disclaimer,
And penetrating and grating on the cerebellum chamber,
Till I remember the mumbling and thrumming that cushioned me in the womb wall from the stomach rumbling,
It’ll just be noise,
And like that homeless beggar that we ignored,
He somehow still annoys,
Till the silence and the poise is void of any joys,
Muffled, like you were drowning,

The sound sing compressed as though you were downing a shout or a stiff stare,
I doubt if there will be quiet when I'm gone, and then again I don’t even care,
For my vortex will vex past the cortex into the next,
But what if there isn’t,
What if my death and stillness mean there’s nothing left,
For how will I know that the Earth’s cancer will live on in a Gia glow,
Rotational in gravitational defiance,
And the silence may or may not exist, be it in eddy or in flow,
But at least for me all the pathetic pseudo repartee will have ceased,
Hopefully at the very least decreased,
Dissolved like melting snow, then evaporated,
Or shaved like fleece from a dear doe, then incinerated.

Once I stop, then I hope to will all prevarication,
For when I am dead I want hear the equivocation,
The sensation in complete saturation of a nation and planet,
From the top of Tasmania to the toe of the Thanet,
From a false lovers maternal net, to a layman's intellectual regret,
Personal conversation, to the laymen of the internet,
Verbal intercourse ejaculating disease over peoples faces,
Abdicating their soul for a big screen television and a segregation of the races,
Destroy, consume, abuse, annoy, doom, use this Earth,
To deploy a plume of crews missiles at targets valued in human worth,
Like little boys whose only joy is to be the first,
Number one of everything, when everything is none,
Fuck the virgin, create faults in perfect versions,
King pin of power, and death,
The desecration of the Earth and her breath.

[Back to Top]

Magenta

My centre not middled,
Dwindled low, beneath, below,
A belittled cordate soul,
Just a box lying in a hated hold,
Folded corners tight,
And my sight blocked by boards across condemned windows,
Lost eyes are hollows,
With pools suck down these holes in which nimbostratus follows,
Clouds of tears flow, outside and in,
And I begin to choke on evaporation,
My condensated lungs are compensated with nothing,
So I breathe less and cry more,
I am foetal, slowly drowning,
The sound, drip, drip, dripping salt water,
The rise socking the tapestries that hangs on my inside,
Around the walls wide,
And the wise weaved memories of my past are the twine now loose, and pulled,
Fraying ends are my mind slowly loosing, the colours dulled,
I am no longer choosing my form,
Inside, the storm holds my thoughts and the wind violently bashes the windows,
The breeze slows then hardens, quickens, intensifies,
Why this wind blows,
Why my mind the wind chime, and my body held by strings,
The whiplash stings, and the cloud still bleeds,
Feeds weeds now vine around my wings,
I fall like a rock, a stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,
Shakespeare knew me,
Painted these words magenta and spoke them with clenched teeth and a stern fist,
And this leap into sorrow, into anger, ripples the reflection causing sections to disappear,
And so do parts of us, and in fear we watch the recorded film slowly taped over by the eaten past,
Nothing lasts as I turn my head past my shoulder to see the young person killed,
For forward is older,
So I enter it one foot in front of the other with a scream and a shout,
My throat hurts as my mouth fills with muck from my own dug hole,
The dirt is my soul shovelled by myself into a muddied heap that I climb so I can stand on my own pedestal,
I am such a fool,
For my feet sink in the mud, the blood,
My centre a thick cooled pool of Magenta.

[Back to Top]

Lustacyst

Lust in gusts of passion,
Causing this heart to lose traction,
Slipping in the swoon of debauchery,
While waiting to be skewed by cupids archery,
Nervous prey just seconds away from death,
Soaking up sympathy with every last breath.

A restricting black curtain keeping me in check,
The pantomime hangs my own eyes around my neck,
They are just blood shot pearls throwing glances,
Hopping for slim pickings and thinner chances,
With dancers on dance floors,
For scores of whores to release my balls.

Fuck! What the fuck did I just say,
My words maggot eating this decay,
I’m a repulsive piece of tasteless fruit rotten,
Sotting fool with responsibility forgotten,
Disgusting verbatim of charmless assaults,
A fist punches the head that calls vulgar insults.

Then there’s the flamboyant gestures that are as common as dust,
True pledges of love though dammed by this wall of rusty lust,
And yet I would offer my riches, my pearls,
For one night of hearts with lovely girls,
Please listen for my list starts: Honey, Peaches, Strawberries, and cream,
My tongue, your belly, your nether, no never, I dream so it seems.

Then how about just one of your pearls,
A glance for my perils,
My troubles,
Give me another one of those doubles,
To make these feelings slow,
But my lust a cyst and it will grow.

Until I’m consumed by my rampage of dribble,
To draw my phone number I scribble,
And to speak of romance is only a stutter,
I utter words as a bouquet but instead set butterflies a flutter,
I want to place your rose petals and pollen to my lips,
To be stung by the bee as I lick the nectar with plentiful kisses and sips.

Honey buttered love is just the sticky lust of drunks,
Lashings of sweat and sweet promises that morning debunks,
And once the honey is gone so to the lust sours,
And all beauty offered the night before, slight sleep devours,
Gone are your flowers and the heart is bereft,
And it seems that when you leave me only the dirt is left.

[Back to Top]

Jettison the Jetsam

I would stand still if I could,
Be a photograph of this thought,
Photograph this place,
A reminder,
Remember,
A trace,

A memory of a smile lost under a sad grimace of contorted lines,
Overgrown vines strangling shrines,
A forgotten piece of mind in a jungle of people past,
Their insults cast like shadows in afternoon sunshine,
And in the dank grows this vine,
Starting to untwine,
Flotsam and jetsam from the frayed floss of rind,

In the dark is a moss maligned,
Beneath the slime is that smile,
The one that I have lost buried in my mind file,
But in the mean time,
While I try and find my mind and feeling,
My temple has brine reaching it’s ceiling,
Drips overflow eyelid sills parallel to earrings,
Gushes as it fills the drums of hearings,
Makes ripples resonate with beats of light in the souls waters deep,
That sound can’t make me find the slumbers as to sleep,
Or find the sheep to count as did the little girl Bo peep,

My simple reason ate the white purity,
Right into morals I use to keep,
And kept,
Slept with and bore,
Eaten as a worm does till it hits the apple’s core,
A married man fucking a whore,
Diminishing in character and colour to create a hoar,
A rapport I have with the centre of my sphere,
Until I disappear some more,

A saliva swallow as I step back into the photograph,
I laugh as I turn black and white with no grey,
I am a snippet of the array,
A statue in decay,
I try and discard my cheek of its salty drizzle,
Marble lip that’s bit by a faulty chisel,
Teeth stilled in a nervous bite of a fright face frozen,
A desired chip of life I’ve chosen,

Stop this hired ship of life charted to the horizon,
The line crossed between reality and reason,
I am franticly jettisoning my thought from my sinking intellect,
Splatters of slurred words replace my dialect,
Infect,
Inflect,
Like a swarm of killer bees in deflect from a honey specter,
The nectar tar like ambrosial heretic directed from its course,
So much sweetness it’s bitter and quite distant from its source,

My luggage my baggage that I toss to try and keep afloat,
Somewhere someone is trying to save me with bounty or a boat,
With closed eyes I hold the vision so I can gloat,
I am a proud captain on a sinking ship charted for an enlightened latitude,
Where drowning my righteousness will rectify my attitude,
I stand mute meters from the mizzen,
I salute the dissipating horizon,
And the water that it lies on,

Preoccupied prodigy bought up in Marxism,
Photograph this now conceited defeated effigy caught in his own martyrism,
As the water climbs the rails,
And the sails gust with gales,
Then finally in the wake of the sunken,
It is the stillness that prevails.

[Back to Top]

Lacking Ceremony

He finally gave into the silence,
And then the silence killed him,
It had snuck up within his enclosure and snuffed him as though the candle wick licked,
The silence stealth and powerful
Then the silence tongue and mouth killed everyone,
The silence was finally quiet,
And the world no longer a riot,
It was peaceful,
And it sat in that reticence, listless and thoughtful,
Bent over as though spineless, writing in a drawing journal,
A catalogue of its convictions,
This encyclopedia of poetry, and predictions,
All of which lacked restrictions of any kind,
Was hand written, ugly but divine,
Divine because it was cataloged in the files in its mind,
A book of disturbing noise but not a racket,
Although at one time was beaten for its sleaves and jacket,
They were shed when the thread of the divine was shred with red wine,
A clarets vapors downing,
It’s papers browning, and in decline,
As though it were spilt and long gone,
Distorting words as though they were spelt wrong,
And an attempt of correction was benign,
The silence went on,
It was some kind of search like an archaeologist find,
But it was a purposeless kind of search,
An exploration of civilisation or treasure,
A hunter killing for pleasure,
Dressed in a style regardless of weather,
Useless hunter was more of a gatherer,
For now this hunter is lost,
And the words are scratches not embossed,
Or mounted on a wall,
The insignificant tracks leading nowhere,
They’re now here,
He’s thirsty,
And at a crawl,
Haggard,
And like him the last page of his journal is tattered
But it keeps the others together,
But what will keep this hunter,
He stand’s mid space in nothing,
So therefore what is up,
What is down,
He stands not knowing his own face,
If only he had enough fortitude to detach himself from the space,
Fill in the hole and stand free and oblivious to ridicule,
But he is too afraid to be perceived the fool,
If we could only offer our heart and hand unblemished by pretence to others,
To escape the cycle,
Live in haikus,
Harmony,
Peace and calamity,
Lacking ceremony,
And loving the land,
But even I am forever trying to convince the people that love me that I'm not wonderful,
And those who don't, that I am,
But I ramble some more and sit under a sky teal,
With all the people like brambles covering a field,
I sit amongst this field,
I am one of them as I yield,
But where in the bush do I fit,
No more than a blueberry picked, and sucked dry,
There is nothing as ugly as being a clone before you die,
Dead flowers were once alive,
And their fruit once carried seeds,
It’s hard to sprout roots when all the land is covered with the same tasteless fruits,
Weeds under the rock of day,
When that rock is lifted and night begins,
Time stops,
Until the rock is replaced crushing the dreams,
How heavy is that rock,
As heavy as the thought that if I didn’t like anyone,
Then I could talk to everyone.


[Back to Top]

Gravy Licks

Dave Davies slaves on his guitar melody waves,
Makes his gravy licks slick, with finger pricks and strums,
A rhythm like tribal drums,
There’s a beat that mimics the tapping of his feet,
No bums on seats for everyone stands,
They’re clapping hands caught by euphoric contrabands,
Or maybe just joyous neuron electrics and their strands.

With a passive head bashing,
They're thrashing and splashing,
Drowning in the honey that they’re swimming in,
A runny orgasmic kind of sin,
They grin and move to the grove that occupies their skin,
It’s a liquid that soothes those nebulous tubes to infuse within,
The blues that ooze from sweat head to socked shoes,
Where energy and peace produce more synergy then they use.

Dave chews on the cords to release their flavour,
On tasty sounds that he sucks on to savour,
It’s such a sensual pleasure,
A zest for your listening leisure,
A treasure in your chest to cover the endorphin’s expenses,
Sunken trove into your senses.

Dazed with drunken music booze,
Multi hazes and faceted hues,
Awakening the magic music muse,
She stirs in wisps of mist that contort and concave,
Insights Dave to bend the octaves inside out,
Their liquid soothes and are as smooth as felt,
And the muse levitates like rising pollen and music notes,
Resonating off columns in the acoustics as it floats,
Like echoes in archaic caves,
It shakes the architrave,
But still within there’s peace and harmony,
A one man symphony.


It is A to Z,
It is Zen to a spirit finally free,
A calmative melody,
It reeks of sexes,
It peeks and vexes,
Becomes internal,
External even, odd, eternal, reversal,
A universal bang,
Yin and Yang,
In the corner somebody sang.

The music was contagious, infective,
It had caused a reverie in the body collective,
Entrancing the people dancing as their bodies grow like trees,
And weaved leaves and branches like fingers in a breeze,
As they bear their souls and reach for the night above,
Dave Davies’ music enraptures and preaches of lust and love.

[Back to Top]

Processed White Fool

Accidental occurrences are all premeditated in the past eternal,
Where our destiny’s task is to take the writings marked then illustrate them in a life chart or journal,
Those graphs depict a vacuum that we humans call a heart,
But it’s nothing but a dark segment representing cores feral inside the kernel,
And in that voids stark bodice is a knowledge genius but remarked at as if primitive and primeval,
And now as always the white pigment dictates the class,
A painted skin to stop the radiation of the racist blast,
Akin to liquid-paper covering inks starkness,
Till it’s saturated like a strangler fig’s fingers grasping at the bark in the darkness,
Internal mark grips at the soul, determined to smother,
Paint a heart coal to match the world’s last throws upon its infatuated foes of vermin other,
But that was only ceremonial in suffocated dermis like a shaman's sermon wishing for love and enlightenment,
He too paints his skin with white sap to appease the demons terms and atonement,
And recite gibberish and superficial drawl,
And all that is spat out to appease another processed white fool.

[Back to Top]

Reality Deploys

Contemplation begins where confrontation ends,
For thought has no place, where brawn tends to lend,
And intelligence is wasted, and pointless to defend,
As ignorance is stupid, and stupidity never mends.

A noise builds in quiet places like the approach of torrential rain,
Thrashes all our faces until you can no longer see our pain,
Slouched with eyes masked as though its our soul that cowers,
It to stopped looking for true beauty beyond the plastic flowers.

All to consuming is this metropolis,
A society of strangler figs engulfing the populous,
Where the people are to confused to find simple solace,
Buy our worth with cash and sell our soul for less.

Peace is destroyed by unnecessary consumption,
We are replacing self worth with artificial perfection,
A bee sacrificing its sting for a fix of that pseudo perfect pollen,
While his hive is overrun by some very viscous vermin.
 
Natural desire is retiring behind that bombastic synthetic noise,
Replaced by vainglory when the big boys buy their massive toys,
A petty load of pretty crap that they pile up to their roof,
A bulging debt they can’t afford or pay for, is the hidden truth.

So I should leave this zoo of self providing egos,
These animals’ stench penetrates my body through my clothes,
Taints and creates a hate in me that somehow feels all wrong,
Takes away my happy dance and my peaceful song.

You can see this affliction as I have a transparent face,
It seems the Vagabond has stayed to long in this pathetic place, Spinning in circles, I am confused by wants and needs,
A drunk Martyr whose body is cut when it bleeds.

Procrastinate no longer, I should leave before the winter,
I have scraped the bottom so far and only produced a splinter,
Into the night and unknown I should roam,
Find some light, some peace, and a place I can call home.

I am a leaf that should not hate the wind for being strong,
A brave frond finally finding gravity for it had floated far to long,
A seed grounding its being and placing down some roots,
A tree maturing and finally bearing fruits.

So sift through all that’s old, and that which may be trend,
Look close at all around you, are they enemy or are they friend,
And when deciphering peers intentions don’t lose yours to blend,
For in this world of petty wars, there are little things that only you can defend.

Bedlam in Your Skin

Time speaks in quiet whispers,
Stirs up wisps of memory crisp and full of neon glisters,
And in them is the mystery of where starts the sin,
Where passivity loses,
And the conflict wins,
It’s the start of the bedlam in our skin,

It’s the dead hem where life begins,
And ends,
Where the epidermis mends,
Embraces and befriends the flesh,
And we now see the million faces mesh,
They’re wrung round our essence,
It places a fallacious presence around our aura-vapour,
And the laces of words and lies are made of burning paper,
It’s a papier-mache guise,
And a body in disguise,

We keep our enemies close enough so we can recognise,
Because with them lies our demise,
Encased in an unfamiliar shell that eats us till it dies,
Tarnished and ill we are released when the body fertilises the land,
Only a passing thought in Earth’s epoch and memory gland,
A piece of sand syphoned through the galactic hourglass,
And the weight that hung on our forefather’s shoulders is now flung with us in the cask,
And made into a mechanism that controls the mechanics of time,
The pendulum is swung,
My eyes are hypnotised,

Arise the prisoner of the flesh,
Arise,
Fill that flesh with light and freedom, answers, quotes and questions,
Reflections, reflecting that light to blind the past and present,
And light that will fill the crescent with a whole,
A full moon lighting a path for my soul to find a future,
A moon which releases my moods that are held by tides,
Crashing or pulling,
High or low,
On the shore it’s an assault,
In flow like a sault upon gorged cliffs,
Where anger consumes rocks and rips at it with rifts,
Pulling at the skin,
Devouring,
Maybe even the Earth has bedlam within,
And there are too many layers in its sum and substance for me to even begin.

[Back to Top]

Incubus Cloud

My soul windless,
Breathless,
Dead,
Red splashed coffin lead,
And sinking,
I’m thinking,
No thought just memories passed,
Cordate box glassed,
Lets others see into this pain,
Let them touch it,
The sharp edges cut,
My face nailed shut,
Filling with salt water,
My dirty knees washed,
my face in hands lost,
And in a cube I sit,
With hands to ears, and trance to eyes,
And heart pieces spat on the walls,
That leak with the water rise,
An ice cube in boiling water melting,
My temper angered heat,
My feet now wet, I’m drowning,
Frowning mind filled with incubus cloud,
My peace is loud, My pieces fouled,
My box shrinking and my head nearly bursts,
With out walls I’m bad,
But in Cubes I’m worse.
[Back to Top]

Cinnamon Senses

All the blossom blooms in resplendence,
Perfumed fragrance and colour rendered in silk and firmament,
They dance drunk in tunes made by wind instruments,
A cello shallows its sound to a hum less dense then milk,
Red wine sunshine,
The flowers drink it in lush gulps to line their stems with sugar and spice,
Only night will bring sobriety but now ecstasy will suffice,
One pill popped twice,
Jesus Christ didn’t sweat this much when he posed on his last podium,
Beats now like pendulum,
Greatly empowered preternatural sensorium,
Transferring phlegm with sexually sensuous beings of glamour,
The lavender sway in soft melody over the field floor like pulsating seaweed,
Shaking seeds in beads of sweat,
I am slowed by their motion and concede to their sway and their wet,
My mind travels with the wave into each bulb,
I’m pnematic,
Nomadic,
Stoic,
And electric,
Peace,
A bomb,
Pour more neurons over me and cover me with cinnamon.


[Back to Top]

Effervescence Collapse

My to carbonated soul,
Leaking a mucus secretion,
Bubbles seeking reaction,
And soda water unclean although a translucent sheen,
Bubbles fart to surface risen,
The two me’s in collision in this cup,
And I meet myself half way up,
One lost and one found,
Carbonated, saturated, drowned,
Infatuated bubble round,
Free to rise but not to grow,
So push me low,
Push me back inside the traps,
Push me back into an effervescence collapse,
Still water dense as mat blacked.
That bubble dance now flat and trouble racked.
[Back to Top]

Witnessing extinction

Palpitating palm fans spread their large split hands in a pounding pulse,
It’s a choked canopy struggling to let moist rays of hope fall in a light waltz,
They’re shading deficient floor flora from the phosphorescence for which it begs,
Aloft monotones of protuberant stones that mould contours in the waters dregs,

Nearby, silence is being repulsed by a haunting cry of a songbirds sorrow,
And so the rapids escape these screams like silk over a cascading nirvana furrow,
In water swirls the untamed ripples eddy around suicided leaves,
While vines coyly tempt this stream with nooses wound in loose knit weaves,

There is a strangler fig in an embrace of germination from above,
And a tree dieing within, from the vines melodramatic love,
And an ancient fern attached to a mouldy rock also in a lust conjunction,
While in front of me on a flaking log sat a green frog, waiting for extinction.

[Back to Top]

God Sack Your Corporal

My Earth,
My sad dieing mother,
Agnate undercover,
Emancipate the lover or another,
She’s shivering cold,
Vibrating slower,
Thank God for global warming,
Looming legends of evil descend on me,
Battered temple roof,
And the rich live a life aloof,
Devoid of any vow or proof of substance proud,
Skin bleeding scoured,
How many times do I have to find myself in the middle of this cloud,
I can’t touch the soft capillary of aqueous of the mother’s bower,
A floating tower where poets write of but are never aloud,
Fly at great speeds and yet find no place other then my own Prozac parallel hell and bind,
Why is my opportunity and path so difficult to find.
God sack your corporal, and sell that adviser blind.

[Back to Top]

Graham Brett

Recollect breaks away like paper photos wet,
In a water drain,
Pictures old, filled with scratches and grain,
Speckles of black,
Add more coal to fuel the sane’s regret.

A train track hacks through theories conjured,
Of outbursts pondered,
Through the dark tunnels goes this neuron train,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickity, Clang.

Warped visions flicker the tunnels of the sane and brain,
Try to remember,
Try to forget are all in vein,
Abstain past thoughts throbbing,
Strobing,
Memories and theories subconscious lain.

Go this steam combustion from the soul,
The vapour stream creeps and crawls up air duct mains,
And blacked by the coal,
Go the steam train,
Rise, rise, and steam those eyes.

Release more mind controls,
And fill those dark holes,
A dot at a glance,
Iris,
I rust the robust powders to dust,
In an instance inside the eye that I blink.

Bullshit and genius congeal on the floor until they sync,
It creates a link to November,
I remember one night before even one drink,
One of those stories did burst the brink,
The barrier where we congregated, waited, safe then the stink.

Elated,
A view created,
Then interrogated,
Interrelated,
Bang,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,
Go that neuron train,

Collecting passengers of that night,
The tunnel and the light,
Contrite memories traded,
There was a view not right but heated debated,
Slowly the drinks sedated,
I sat talking with my close friend,
My view I gave him to interpret, but also to lend,
It was hated,
I tried to defend,
To mend,
Nothing was penned, just stated,
And to him over rated.

What I meant,
And I’ll make the statement free,
“If there was a GOD, a celestial being almighty”,
“What if he was, was the person sitting beside me”,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,

The whistles screamed not sang,
Tunnels through the flesh terrain,
It was as though the train crashed,
Smashed head on into the fable hashed,
All cards on the table,
Bashed as my friend screamed,
“NONSENSE”
But I had said the words with saliva rain and nimbostratus sense.

At a glance it seemed like some simple contrivance,
And yet I still burst it with a verbal lance,
Even GOD would have an ego, surly,
Me, me, and I created me,
And all that you see,
And all below,
“Wait Jim go slow”,

He still must have the created experience,
Be what he made, live that mortal existence,
Create himself with no memory of a before enigama or being,
Earth smells,
Go through human life with their touch, hearing, and seeing,
Taste. hihs and hells,

And what if when the end of his time came, the dieing frees his real name,
All is revealed once more,
And then he would sit his rightful throne as he had once before,
Surprise grips my friends features in shock from the light travelling down the tunnel,
Bang,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,

A mass into a funnel.
That night after the thoughts loaned,
Graham died,
Maybe God’s cover was blown,
Bang,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,

Bang!

[back to top]