Archive | November 2018

Because all we hear is Brexit

Oh dear,

We act so surprised

When the shore falls away

Right before our eyes;

This was a mistake

Right from day dot,

But we have to blindly march

Whether we like it or not.

And you won’t listen to half of us

Because you couldn’t care less;

For we all know which suits

Will benefit from this mess.

It’s the men who speak fire,

The ones who sell fear

And won’t feel the pinch

Early next year.

How dare the rich think

they speak for the poor,

Preaching about democracy

And closing the door

On any debate

Which urges to learn more;

“It is Britain, you hate;

It is Britain, I adore.”

So let’s keep floating away

To place lost at sea,

Which fits not our people,

Our cultures, our dreams.

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Fire

Don’t you dare

Hate me;

Loosely moving

Around me

As if I can fucking

Sleep right now?

So stop this,

Because you haven’t

Earned this fire

You hold on me.

Just keep making the problem

a person

Rather than owning it

or opening up what you’ve got –

The cheek of it.

You just try to come

With that face on;

You aren’t even ready

For what I got:

This blood-thunder plague

I can spit

If you bothered to ask.

But no,

You hurt,

So I can’t hurt too.

Like,

Where do I bleed

When I’m healing you?

No, stop.

Just leave this heat here,

It’s making me hide

With each smile you don’t mean,

Staring with rolled eyes.

Sick.

Nights are never quiet

And it’s impossible not to hear

That persistent, rasping cough,

Which burns in the air.

I wish the noise could stop;

For only a little while.

It sounds raw with dried blood;

It sounds wet with bile.

Yet each fleeting silence

Fills me up with fear,

For the audial violence

Lets me know you’re still here.

And I really don’t know

What calms me more:

The life or the death

That exists beyond your door.

Luna, the house rabbit

This little rabbit

Spreads itself –

Fat and long –

Across the frayed edges

Of the Moroccan rug.

Head cocked curiously

And nose wiggling

In the fleeting silence

Around us.

Still,

As prey will

Always remain

In the safest of rooms

On the calmest of days.

And she looks to me,

Like she wants to speak

Something human

For a moment;

Instead,

the little rabbit

Draws herself into

An awful yawn

And hops onto the bed

To keep my feet warm.

The wilderness (part 5)

In this hour,

I spill out into

An old frenzied sea.

And yet why do I

continue to lie

To myself?

You are not lost;

You merely hide within me.

You will remain unfound

Forever.

Unless this heart and mind

Shifts to find

Another set of eyes

To see you with.

Because the way we feel right now,

Will end us.

I searched desperately

For countless days

For you,

Only inches away;

You were hidden beneath

The familiar rage,

A swollen plague

Of stories I wrote

You into.

I had storied you lost,

Our love lost too,

And set the wilderness ablaze

And hoped you’d burn too.

But, in those ashes,

what was left was the problem

And the problem was me;

As the wilderness burnt away,

So did the man I used to be.

Then plates moved around,

Pushing mountains at our feet,

And there we stood together

With another world for us to see.

The wilderness (part4)

Closer to me

And closer still

Are the memories

Which warm and fill

Each icy desert

Of broken words

And untold hurt.

But I feel you –

Nearly –

In this lonely place;

Somewhere unknown,

I am trying to trace.

Yet paradise must exist

Beyond the rain,

Beyond the peaks

Or else this wilderness

Wouldn’t burn so cold

And break my bones

And keep me marching

On and on and on

Into that next step

Either toward

Or away from you.

Please, let this next step

Find you and find us.

Instead of kicking dust

Into clouds

Which confuse

And arouse

Before finally settling

Onto the cold, dead ground.

The wilderness (part3)

Where are you?

She said,

shadow-stepping

Past the dead.

And those mountains

Stand high

In the snow

At every side.

Impossible to traverse;

Dangerous to climb.

And that wind screams;

It howls, it cries.

And, at each summit,

There is nothing more

Than another wilderness

Left to explore.

Peaks apart,

Eyes lock from afar,

But valleys sink deep

Between who we are.

The wilderness (part 2)

Is it late enough

To wake you up?

Your endless sleep

Still worries me.

The rain-wet glass

Looks overcast;

Barely a morning

To greet you with.

The horizon opens out

And stretches wide

Into that dull and cold

unfinished sky.

Does anybody even know

What we’re searching for?

In this wilderness,

We are without rules.

And like aimless rain,

we wash the world

In one fleeting,

half-remembered fall.

The wilderness

Reanimate;

I cannot breathe,

A voice which sounds

So close to me.

She heard her name

In tongue unknown;

Words beckoning

Her far from home.

Her hands in rings,

They carry cold,

Misshapened things

Of dust and mould.

The journey made

Was time in leiu

Because every step

Led back to you

And we stand

Together,

Yet alone,
against that dark old sky.

The death of the poem

Poetry is dead;

It has nothing to say

About the world

We find ourselves in today.

Just seemless words

And relentless pace

Which flutter about

Some unknown place.

For the world in which

We do not live

Yet choose to dwell

Reflects our own darkness –

A lonely hell.

So no, this poem 

Is not for you,

It is not for me;

It is not true.