Saturday 31 July 2010

Start Again

Another hot and sweltered white light night.

Ideas stifled like the air that clamours.

Thoughts and the world are silent together.

Dreams overtake and leave solitary confinement.

Eyes and ears hold out intently and wait.

Nothing passes or speaks and patience is only left to wain.

Tiredness doesn't always mean sleep, only leaving.

Remained restless exhaustion, cracked covered serendipity.

Nights used to be filled with unruled thoughts and dreams.

Now an only friend has gone, no understanding is left here.

In a shrinking space, every soul has gone.

Drowning in dreams and the journey towards tomorrow.

Trapped in today as it fades, stuck between the two and exhasparated.

Random images pass and fleet, memories of yesterday.

Childhood and climbing trees, tightly wound roundabouts and playgrounds of the free.

Secret clubhouses and the top of the world, forests of secrets for intrepid souls.

Lazy days under marshmallowed skies, then and now.

Ultimately the prettiest things converge into indecipherable mess.

Never yet learned to untangle, to grab the fly on the fence, nor to understand.

The walking asleep and the unaccepted shrunk downs.

Future dreams that remain in the past.

Every moment unrealised waiting for discovery and elusive enlightenment.

Down in the basement, the gutter and the mud.

Heads are tilted upwards to castles in the sky.

Tuesday 20 July 2010

Night Work

these are the building blues,
punk purples and the raving reds
that pulsate the beat, 
through aqueous break smoke glides
the surface, spilling out
the all-dancing, drinking, drug-fuelled
high tops and roll ups.

optics amplify and beats equalize,
sonic cartwheels burn,
a travelling beat train 
of instruments, driving progression,
halcyon haze leads clamour and
glamour through concrete arteries,
sweat and smoke, catcalls and yells.

garage tab pick up, black cab drop
to approaching crecendo and euphoric
rapture, intoxication ceaseless,
something worthy to believe in,
one night only and tonight, 
the visionaries are cued to play,
the children's song drums out.

I : Darkness Falls

Candle crows black to the welcomed downpours
where upward fulmination does hurtle the torrents' reign,
the voices of choirs and their chimera fall through gales
hoisted from pale horses that hurtle, for the bearers of light
to which huddled are vampyres of the pysche shadowed out
by nightsticks made of false light, dwelling in swollen mud swathing.

Wednesday 14 July 2010

Negative

I just discovered this whilst flicking through an old blog, it's a more recent piece (about two years old) and therefore probably a bit better than the stuff I was writing on there before.


Golden filament entwines
over buried crucibles
always unpenetrated.
Unmarred Spode
blots out marked reflection
incessantly malignant.
Deceptive gleams dim reason and
the empty cup distracts
with its fallacious utterances.
The sublime flash encloses
a nonsensical facade
all jubilant rememberance aborted.


Tuesday 13 July 2010

Polaroid #1

do you remember
the fleeting cries
and the taste
of burning candles
burrowing through
the senses and
the pills in your hand
like jelly beans
lying on top of
a sleeping city laughing
and the rats
scurrying below?

Monday 12 July 2010

The Ballroom Dance

Smiles that are extended from across of this here
Are what leave tightening air between the two
Of you.  Smiles left wondering what to think when
they look to you and find nothing but love that is spent.


Effected outsiders are what leave the insides destroyed
The further you pull away and behind the laughter
Of the boys and the girls who spend the whole day annoyed
Inside their heads, they hold the leftovers of what they are.


Encoldened touches and dying intentions of anything asked like
Beats that are dropping out of rhythm and are just noises now
As footsteps carry you away across the ballroom floor
Crowds are what swallow them whole, nothing to anyone, anymore and somehow.


Without the hope that was once around what is there left to expect?
To live without the necessary quintessentials and absolutes,
The selfish nature of those from which our nature vicarious
Sparks have all but left us starved and babbling, incapable and uncomprehending.

Passing Time

Look inside
Those cracked glass frames,
Full of water stained meaning
Through moonful glare, playful words.

Fast asleep,
The others play away in carnivals,
Run for miles amongst elongated blades
With hiding messages toy, still born fancy.

Placed palms
Grasp for more uncertainty,
Numbers slide through blackened sand.
Exchanges thrown, playtime's over, and time for home.

Insipid idylls
Stained alongside yesterday's photos,
That only 'retro' cameras can make
Nostalga's young dreamers have fallen away from this.

Thursday 8 July 2010

What's Left Behind

dirty bowls 

strewn on
letters unopened, insides untold
with crumbs on matresses
and sheets 

discarded

artifacts left untouched
glisten on sheets
black where celestial
bodies would above 

travel

faint ceilings with whisper,
heed rasping angels
breezing song call past
exposed limbs, blood 

colden

shadows of apparitions, 
an overexposed negative,
the photonic residue strains
an echo that 

penetrates

wind chimes playful and
cloudbroken, sun shimmers
hope in between eyes closed that
are missing the warm breath beside.

Wednesday 7 July 2010

Mythonies

Waves of sound strung up, wrestled and tangled
Tendrils rising out, distressed and grasping
Oncoming traffic driving forward, colliding
High top balloons crashing, ripping through air to the ground.

Light fluctuating, sharp and distilled
Shoot through dialated passages, never unseen
Caught and trapped travelling messages
Streaming golden roads outward.

Clench palms with fists of fury
Bound with coloured string, suspended stacks
Inside negative whites that take up room,
this space is not empty, cluttered only.

Headshaped blurs, over sensed realities
filling to the brim with misunderstood focus,
Noises of crescending drums and crashing symbols'
Senseless ramble, glass to the wall and the fly uncaptured.

Red check that block on black
Pukka Pads on which scattered ideas are spent,
like woken from dreams of love and loss, of anger and loathing,
and of empty wanks left lost behind.