God created the world in play
Personal
Personal.
Poem – Bloodline
Aug 17th
my genes are the memories
of my many ancestors
asking me to place a spear point
between the eyes of my enemies
be they devils, animals or other men
i am strangely compelled and can cleverly rationalize
my newly remembered plans to harm them
*
my paleolithic ancestry asks me
as politely as it can primitively articulate
and explains in clear terms how to weaponize a nearby mop
i recall how in great detail the easiest way to sharpen and crop
the back into an edge ( i throw away the head)
and now to grinding deadly devices from shards of flint
my speartip waits unfashioned in the driveway
..i’m now completely convinced.
*
and my limbric brain wont refrain from trying to convince me of
all the pleasures to be gained from dealing out pain.
the vikings in my past have convinced me
that all i need is a battle-axe
for the little tasks
they later add that chain-mail never really went out of fashion.
and that i’m in dire need of bacon and a beer flagon!
*
i find that on impulse
i might drop kick a dinosaur
into the path of a meteor
throw rocks at the head of a sabtretooth tiger
i got love for chicxulub
my character amplified a thousand million times
in the cacaphony of my bloodline
and today,
with deadly broom in hand
i will do away with my civility
and in spite of my humanity
i am defined by what i was.
Image Credit: SKI tripper
Poem – New Grounds
Aug 14th
first you start to understand the works of man
the city plans
the geometry and
later you may start to learn
how we overturn new grounds and why buildings burn
and over time you may come to see
patterns in the madness, the harmony
the fractals built upon the black profound
and feel a little sadness
that in understanding
all the wonders have gone away
but i’ll tell you man
you will never understand
why the magic must decay
Image Credit: Subterranean Tourist Board
Poem – When The Sun Is Gone
Aug 12th
centenary sun
another century comes
and cemetery sun
turns a radiant back
on a planet aged
the terminator draws a divide between days
with light and the shadow that splits the sea
and world turning black
away it goes
and sinks below the horizon
now alone and exposed
to the darkness
and before the sun comes back
the moon will drive us mad
Image Credit: *L*u*z*A*
Poem – Facing The Crowd
Aug 11th
I, the face in the crowd behind the floodlights
amongst torments, charged in silent mouths
steeped in shadows and hostile matters
on hard, neglective ground
a thousand switchblades held in covered hands,
waiting to come out..
Ω
two thousand hooded eyes fixated
on the awning stands
an everpresent silence, listening,
the emptiness, breathing
cimmerian shades, flowing
judging, yet bereft of speaking…
and the orator is facing the crowd.
Poem – Chav
Aug 10th
When I look upon another
I must curb my judgements
and inspite of what I think I see
Embrace a little inquiry
there’s something nature’s telling me
I should choose to question myself
as this person knows
something I don’t
They and I are not so distant
Things are not as they appear
and people are not too different
Despite what I may hear…
could be a very nice person
Poem – Cosmic Tricks
Aug 9th
i have appointed myself
king of the world
regent of the physical
and god of the ethereal
you are invited to take part in the decline
the universe once had it’s uses
but now it is dying
*
this ephermal mix of cosmic tricks
it has fallen in esteem
down to the level of human abuses
and now the diety dares to dream..
you’ll wonder what is and whats yet to be
but i give you my cosmic guarantee
it will be remade
to return
an improved and upgraded eternity
Image Credit: Mendhak
Poem – Waveless Sea
Aug 9th
we are the sons
and the daughters
the ocean orphans
wondering who it
who birthed us
yet who would leave us
upon the cerulean expanses
adrift on open waters
*
the tides are slow but they run deep
and the dreams of the motherless
are dashed unseen
upon sightless rocks
in a waveless sea
Poem – The Beaten Path
Aug 9th
the world waits for the abyss
i wait for something else
down the path i walk in bliss
which just one thing tonight amiss
..I find someone to help
*
i am forward motion and absent talk
and counting every wasted breath
considering decisions and certain death
as i hasten the metre of my designless walk
*
why, life’s so long..
i couldn’t stand a suicide
so i’m wasting time
today i should borrow another’s life
tomorrow, philosophise in a meadow,
with a kitchen knife
*
so well made
the blade glints
with icy insights
and a thousand words
it told me last night
it knows truth from lies
and every other wrong from right
it can learn
and provide
slices of life
judges and proofs
the bloody truths of life
it rewards the good man with friendly cuts
and him who’d make mischief, it guts.
*
i’ve pissed away every day
being brave
and preparing graves
for the day..
i began to stage
religious games
but god complains
yet again
when i say
i did it for me
i lived life my way
i’ve find somewhere conscience cant follow me
and laugh in my delirium and at the futility
life is either dying or being eclipsed by brutality.
*
How long must I wait for hindsight to kick in?
as guilt is the product of the idle mind
but it was never a problem for me
as i found other ways to spend my time
and maybe they’ll remember, if i should
fulfil the peculiar propeties
and commit all of the atrocities
of which i have been assigned.
*
success is being remembered
and to do something you are good at
if you do it right.
i’ll do it and they’ll all remember
i dont like where my talents lie
but who am i to deny them?
i see you looking lost..
in an inevitable life of peculiar dross
i can help you with your golden fetters
or your loss
somebody stop me
cos it’s just another homicidal fender bender
a power binge
and i remember how it is to dismember..
dividing children from December
going to lose control this time
off the straight and narrow, there i go
and on the beaten path we wind
far away from humankind
maybe one day someone will find you
but from now, your dreams are ashes
come and die.
***
Image Credit: Noah Bulgaria
Poem – Cubicle
Aug 9th
i recount the times i became a drone
before circuitboards, i had a home
the data clouds remind me now of
cumulus sheets, drooped low
over the garden
where i can still recall
cawing crows, the touch of snow
detergent smells on the washing line
weighted, swaying
the days come late
as i revelled, gleeful
all tangled up in drying clothes
*
i recount before i forget
what i remember of days
so far gone
and as i sit and tap away
coding redundencies in the cubicle
that has conquered today
i look backwards and again recount
the times i walked alone
barefoot on the village grass
or drew shapes on the condensation
on icy mornings before i left for school
and from where i sit today
as a worthless piece of the value chain
an extension of the keyboard
with an expendable brain
i’ve cut away those memories
i can’t afford the luxury
all they give me now is pain.
*
today’s world is coloured by the reflected glare
of a moon that is no longer there
a planet tinted gutless in halogen
and solar powered nights
when work ends i can make out neptune’s towers
in the dirty yellow light.
my day’s done and i intend to regenerate, dumb
head buried in a pillow, high on opiates
numb to the world
i’ll imbibe oxygenated, sterile air
aware of the faint taste of the binary lies
and finery they’re force feeding me
but far too fucking stoned to care.
and maybe one day indignation will cut
through the apathetic fog
and it will all come back
the burning wells, the contempt,
the need to rebel, punk rock tracks
i’ll remember how easy it is not to care of
infaturated cameras that fix unblinking
the chrome cyclopses
and the cybernetic stares
*
so, record this for posterity..
i’m done with the cubicle
i’m not a machine
i once was a person
and if you look you can tell
cos you aren’t really human
until you rebel
Image Credit: cwbuecheler
Poem – My verses versus poetry as whole
Aug 17th
Posted by admin in Personal
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so you dont like my verses?
well aint that a shame
cos imma keep writing poetry
exactly the same
i dont want constructive criticism
i want goddamn acolades
to be told constantly that my work is so great
as to have keats, austen, frost, shelley and all those gays
turning madly like gyrostats in unmarked graves
and i keep entering free competitions
cos i will not be paying
entry fees
to be told by some hardline
“oh pu-lease..”
and that before i publish
perhaps i should wait
or i’m not emotive enough
and my work reads the same
cos if one person reads it
and finds something to like
then i’ve done just enough with the writing
and you can swallow your own critique
disarm your delight
muzzle yourself and that spittle that’s dripping with spite
bite hard down on your schadenfreude
and get off of my website
be afraid. be very afraid