In a Row

In a row
a single science whispers
but speaks stories screaming bold
breathless as sunlight gleams
on the stones leaving shadows
staring tales and traditions.

In a row
standing naked over teeming streets
proud looking at God's sanctuary
there, a presence, a footprint
on a scarred beautiful battleground
owing to no-one, but to all shared.

In a row
an inward growing tree struggles
sprouting sour nectar whilst small
single noises weigh heavy on terra starved
pointing strokes of stemmed mistakes
on a canvas of best laid intentions.

In a row
bitter cold these seeds we sow
future sons and saints will smile and stand
with gifts and germs in either hand
forgotten souls lie in tombs we know
Familar failures of loved land we plough.

Happy?

An empty thought
A niggle but a hole
A tarnish on a perfect weekend
I am rich in so many ways
But not enough to fill the void
A CD rack in A to Z
A pointy finger
A drop in the ocean
A toy camel made in Africa
Nestles proudly on my desk
Like my own plastic Arabia.
But I had to have it
Camels are essential
They enrich the soul
Make me culturally aware
And looks nice next to the phone
It makes me happy.
But I need another one
Cos Arabia never stood still
And accepted grey sand.
If we all accepted sand, maybe, just maybe
There would be no reason to fill,
To Spill,
To Kill.
We'd all be happy.

Mr Dresden

Laden with pomp,
Mr Dresden is on a mission in Aisle Five.
He asks not of trifled affairs,
mindless piffle
or prattling gossip.

The weekly shop isn't the time for such cares,
as loaves aren't as cheap when he was a lad.
Mr Dresden speaks not of the weather,
he 'glides' past the macs and hats like he 'always' had
soon in awe of the rain as an art form.

Trilby-topped lies? Perhaps
Mr Dresden is no Mr Jones
But his mishaps in petty consumerism
thrusting broadsheets in tabloid faces
and calling red apples scarlet cherubs
Wins no friends in high or low places.

Mr Dresden, in his tattered Saville Row
Let down his basket like banking accounts
Worldly capital feeds itself another day
now he eats corn flakes in plastic dishes
Declares the world is most beautiful
and wishes it wasn't any other way.

The Dystopian

We should want More.

One, Two, Three...

Home is a cardboard box

Littered with holes, both pried and tired

Cowering behind transparent locks

Our pathetic banal bovines graze

Pitter-patter tapping rhythm

Perpetual petty things amaze

Four, Five, Six...

Party to humble vermin and bashful worms

Sitting in happy filth and colourful dust

The helping hands on cunning clocks

Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.

Do you need colours with 101 shades of grey?

Our bulimic lies washed in chloroform

Saturated satanic libido in every way

A gram of butter keeps me slim

Their eyes only glisten on fool’s gold

Gluttons perish on wasted curds away

End transmission.

I scream inside to avoid the finger I eat books of dead authors and try to absolve madness with contraband I dream, I feel, I reach, I touch, I die a death each time I run home and I bathe in sewage to feel so wrong I make love to the world through my hands and catch the 9:07 to make myself smile.

Absolution is a clergyman's folly and I look for Him within

when the clock says 26:01

seas part

miracles made

as I gaze

into the light green sky

I cleanse my sin.

The Knave

A poem that I wrote a while ago, one that I am quite happy with. Enjoy.

The Knave

The knave, who finds himself at the edge of a sword,
Finds relief in profusely pleading for his life.
His desperate lies, his empty promises,
Each word of weakness measures the sweat on his brow.
His face, a glowing shade of yellow,
The man's next of kin, irrelevant in his mind
Those cowardly eyes speak of incompetance
Foolish ways, a stolen valour of man once slain.
This pauper was in haste to murder another,
Now he lies in wait at the iron grip of justice.
In this man's world, everything has a price
Pride is a mere shilling or too, power proves costly
But honour is to be taken from a broken man.
A naked throat exposed to a cold, metallic consequence
With the a sheath of dirty honour to save his life.
No matter how many men slain, the caged bird always sings
Mercy is the only avenue for those of inferior cloth.
A rogue proclaims his freedom from the knife
A life on rent from the righteous,
But borrowed honour will enslave this man forever.
If only he could accept death like he could accept life,
He could be free and have honour for himself.

I have very little time to blog this evening, in between writing the match reports for the TTFE league team and finding time to sleep. I have however found time to jott down some lines I wrote on the train the other day. The world can sometimes seem so different on a train and I guess thats where this came from. Enjoy.

Petty/Beautiful

This dream; mysterious and vain, echoes beauty in bouncing tones.
Each tapping the real and entrapping the mind
A glorious green which I had never seen before
With a herd of glowing sheep all fleeing and being so kind.
This beauty does not strike one in the face
It is a silent spectacle - the dormant damsel;
Taken away from your grasp at the first sign of rapture
Stripped, broke down, evaporated even
into a jar to sell.
Back and forth, to and fro, stolen and giveth again
Like the hot potato of horticulture in my hands.
Yet, Tall trees tell tales of age and wonder
But they are lost in the forest of their own making
Their own beauty, the ripe red and free fruit
And it all makes sense in the event of my waking.
These elegant lies sent to sky before your puzzled eyes
The dark clouds of day, the busy sounds of microwaves and motorways;
They've no place in a one second sequila paradise
And the images we see are only ours to give away.

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Now playing: David Bowie - Life on Mars?
via FoxyTunes