The Flatshare

Saturdays are for extra slumber
and maybe some chores in the 'noon,
Those extra few hours are sacred to some
After the long, winding working week

is done. Incessent high volumed chatter
quickly comes tiresome, the laughter from a can
tedious and distracting, it penetrates
the mind and disturbs the thoughts in hand.

Night time for the owls of the world
is their own, precious to them, sacred.
The squeaking and the croaking and the groaning
steals away the quiet magic, whispers go unheard.

The mind can become cluttered and full,
like dishes and plates in a dirty sink,
things become lazy and more nasty things
take hold, a simple germ leads to more.

Something so simple as a stick of cancer
with its leaves and paper burning cooly
has such tranquil feeling. The smokey drifts
bring too retches of distaste, throats burning.

Little lined boxes make more boxes lined little,
the nature of the beast one fears. To take over
and consume, awareness just a word that exists
somewhere only known to the few.

Switch. The Light. Off.

The Point

And so to the life wonder spent
Where time too much has now gone
Days and weeks that are now months and years
lost to Mind's endless conception, but no

Pen has touched paper for some time,
The words that rushed round are silent
And the pictures of the mind disappear,
Instead filled with things and stuff

like appointments and schedules and
important things to do,
silly things and pointless activity
passing time passes, unproductive.

Only for the split second that spares
from the whirlwind of everything/nothing
comes regret and wistfulness
before another reminder of something

more important/not important at all,
Mind leads meaningless questions, no,
meaning to the tracks that are tread
and to the point if there is one to be had at all.

Atticus

Drunken hearts scribble words of cold breath while water still
Lies next to you, the beating drown amongst flattened pulse;
Risked chants backwards (stnahc deksir) and still
Long dog days are what trip onwards, a riot to live and learn
And swim past the cruel guards, strum the blues;
Big calm on strings tagged crimson, our private interlude
Where we stayed together on devil's spoke, rise and fall
Of compassion, full of distractions on the waiting line.
Take a trip out of town, to my old skin
And once your heart stops beating, a beautiful lie broken,
Only the simple things can give away the things that I have seen.

While He Sleeps

While he sleeps lightly,
eyes roll and flash,
stars that burn through night
like an idea, planted in grey
floods and flashes,
subtle explosions twitch the eye
and hand jerks, body can't contain,
heavy breath takes over
bed bodyweight, shift and sigh
the day done and old now new
not forgotten but placed away.

By home, by the sea.

I was once propped up against a wall,
watching the wind rough up the sea.
Quietly puffing at a cigarette,
contemplating gulls circling downward.

Old man approaches, wind battered drunk;
flatcap askew and squinted glare.
Red faced, a coastal living story:
days of work, whisky and violence.

Sandpaper hands rub together, he
removes his cap, crunches between
hands; when he speaks, voice of a thousand
cigarettes and yells from football stands.

Offers a greeting, "Hello son, fit
is it yer dein oot ere, on
a day like 'is?"  A harsh whisper soft
behind roaring skies, gunkit mettle.

I tell him; "Simply I'm passing time,
watching sky and sea in skermish,
patiently waiting for some
resolution to come between them."

He laughs: a hearty sound full of joy,
unexpected beside grimaced
facade.  He sees the shock I hide.
Try to hide.  He sits against grout and stone.

Together we watch outward for a
time, held in quiet reflection;
angry sea tumoulous, throws his weight
around, spoilt child temper tantrum.

Boats and birds scurry round him, attempt
to calm him, they look to me like
toys and rubber ducks splashed round
merrily Baby Jesus' bathtub.

A timeless moment between us both,
inside a still split second, shared
by between tick and tock, where unmade
thoughts fade and newborn choices replace.

Broken by a thing so soft as the
blink of an eye, frozen intro-
spection to fraught extrovertion,
and the strangers beside one another.

Cigarette passed, hands sheltered flame
and the clouds of our smoke sail up.
Slowly, then faster, caught up by the
rush of the howl, torn inwards and apart.

Two silhouettes in the fading glow,
the watching parent has changed;
Never another word spoken til the
last puff of smoke; simple nods exchanged.

And off he wanders down the path, with
warm glow of the booze and the salt
of the air inside him, and outside
I stand, gaze fixed firmly on the shore.

Candles Of Death

Something a little light hearted and surreal:


candles are burning a little too quick for my liking;
from the shop for only one pound,
what more can one expect?

apart from, dwindling light and wax only serves to remind
how quickly days, weeks diminish
before years have passed.

but it's too early for one to think of mortality,
but then there are always those gone
so young and so fast.  then gone.

but i am young so my thoughts are always fleeting, aren't they?
always so quick to move on to new things
shiny and fresh, cat with a toy.

corner catches me again, i watch the wick burn further
and my mind trips back and the clock ticks
a chorus to bring forth death.

A Moment Of Your Time

Just give me one moment, of this time,
To ask some questions that trifle my mind,
To what you say and how you do, all of
it contrieved, thoughtless, confused.

If it wouldn't bother you so, could you
Explain to me where it is that you're at?
Coming here with statements pure mad folly,
senseless patter, misunderstood chat.

What's missing in your mind, soul or heart?
Words jaded, muddled and falling apart.
Confusion and questions drive us all,
steering to me seems to be way off mark.

Is it strange to miss part of this world
out of your picture, in blinkered vision?
To throw something out into darkened cold,
A place you avoid, where you subtract addition.

My sense cannot make of who you are,
That cannot feel warmth to one other the same,
Your mechanics so broken and reason
so fallic, recycled words ingrained.

What will it take to make you see, this
life is waste, filled with misguided notion?
Happiness is key, and it won't be found
with your eyes and heart kept firmly apart.

Question living, an answer simple,
All the pieces laid out in solution.
No mystery lies, shrouded round in cloud,
Just let go, to take heed your world

And let enemies that seem like close friends,
Fall away and disperse, so that distraction
can find his purpose, and clarity will follow
to you: see the world, see me, see you.

No need to be on outer quays, let
loose without restraint, and heart a heavy let
go: of bitter days, strange ways of insane.
Find clear concience and faith, change this place,

Escape.

Ode To You

give merriment and give joy,
silky contours that trace the light
delicately curved, ready to hand.

the centerpiece of the social,
the years have waited for this;
liquid enriched, bring walls down.

a figure of cheeried times,
afterwards reside in life renewed
waxed stalk burn, satisfied brand.

a simple significance,
light reflect in corner stood
your own society, vicarious to ours.

I Am #1

I am new in baby blue,
shrink wrap just removed.
Colours twinkle round me.

Zemblem

Wake up from this dream:
stuck down space bar keys
and childhood songs in head,
frantically looping.

Clocks tick by in silence,
filling rooms with purpose
that drives us forward,
answers not yet found.

Turning blades bring power,
igniting bulbs inside,
bringing wisdom to task,
keeping country's form.

Flashing images haunt
the heart's desire,
kept unwrapped, silenced;
never accordingly used.

If glass were to smash,
would it ever be known
by eyes unseeing,
or heart unfeeling?

Fond reverie remains,
by all maintained, and
empty gazes are met
by the purveyors of

zemblanity.

Eleven

Poets scream out for the missing letters
from society that just doesn't care anymore,
the classic circle peg and square hole
of the disaffected youth that no longer cares.

From out the shadow of children comes forth
adult shells dispossessed with no meaning
and at a loss to speak forth the words untold,
playground dreams traded for a world spiteful.

Unwelcomed and unwanted, nothing left here for
the ones pulled through these gates thrown open,
left no choice nor any feeling, to be amongst
angels fallen, minds distracted from what should be.

Resented and torn, time can only steal souls away,
bodies wither away with minds and dreams long ago,
forgotten ideals long gone along with them,
only bones remain and dust, and words tell everything lost.

Empty Verse

here in vain, standing in rain
here in jest, revered at best
here in lies, a truth I cry
here in now, keep me proud.

never am gone, speak strong
never falter, keep it for
never guessing, keep asking
never trusted, concience fled.

i always ask, questions pass
i daren't dream, mind stays clean
i lose myself, heart of stealth
i forth weary, eyes are bleary.

love is here? never i feel
love is false, simply a choice
love is changing, identity misfitting
love is bleeding, take my leaving.

Shutterblinds

Shutterblinds close,
And I can't see you.
Hidden and unheld beneath.

Darkened smoke,
All that captures my eye.
Painted radiators glisten.

Hold your breath,
Let silence penetrate.
Leave behind now, shout and glare.

Pull away now,
Leave me be at peace.
Solitary pleasure now wanted.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.