Yeah, right….

I try to clear my mind before I leave for my walk. The walk doesn’t clear it either.

I’m wearing a black shirt and the heat beats down on me insufferably, this must be what it’s like?

So I take it off. My white skin will pay it’s retribution to the sun later.

My black shirt was protecting my body from flies that begin to become a problem in the spring.

So I put it back on, thank god I’m allowed to choose whether to wear it or not.

That’s one of our greatest shames.

My black shirt doesn’t protect me from cynicism.

My black shirt doesn’t protect me from tribalistic generalisations.

My black shirt doesn’t stop harmful messages from creating harmful messages that beat down on my skin.

I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.

Lucky I’m a thinker & not a stinker & literalism isn’t in my blood.

We all know where the problem stems from, how do we stop society from using that path?

It doesn’t stop the kookaburra taking the piss.

Is a concern, that generalisations are harmful really that awful?

Is the white man who was raped as a child, or a teen, or beaten or abused mentally and physically really not a victim?

Where is his space to be able to feel and talk?

Why do you say white men can’t be victims?

What about him?

It just makes it harder for white boys to speak out against misogyny.

Do we really want to fight this battle alone?

I can’t be responsible for the entirety of my gender or the entirety of my ethnicity and I don’t want to be and neither should you.

I can’t be responsible for the upbringings of monsters and I don’t want to be and I don’t want women to be either and it is awful that women are still bearing this heavy seemingly unyielding weight of this ongoing tragedy that is inherent in our culture.

I’m racist because I’m white and I suppose it’s right for me to burn for it later.

Shower Poetry

So there they are!
My cards fall gracelessly on the table.
To be read by all.
I’m not worried, I’m just well fed.
If I was worried, I’d be crying or dead.

My eyes betray my secrets.
That I never had.
Or that I wish I believe I didn’t.
What’s the difference? Tell me quickly.
Believing you don’t have any secrets or…
knowing you don’t have any secrets.

But cards are more boring
and bloodsport’s exciting!
This heart has been open
Like an operating table with spectators like a sport.
Openness is the best policy for a boxer who can move.
But the ones who can’t dodge,
They tend to block.

It’s all history…

And time just stopped,
a moment you can grasp
finally an inch of a clock
that you can almost get your hands on.

Built from the ground up
The clock tower will always boom
It’s salutation to time
and it’s non-essence.

For there is no else
but yourself’s self
as the minute hands continue
Encroaching on your damn goals.

There is still more to do
always more to do, always
unflinching in the way
life isn’t sometimes.

But for time to beat
its waves to create
A steely past
That we can mould like plasticine
That’s all we do.

No title

Shivering with anticipation I fear,
I might do something I regret.
Pain on my hand that eeks
down my wrist.
So I’ll chop it off.
Amputate before infection
Spreads.

If I let it,                       If I let it.
God Forbid,
I might die                      I might die.
God Forbid,

But time moves faster than infection and we all need to make a move.
maybe, not all, but I do, I need to make a move soon, but not far and I think I’ve gone and done it anyway.

I’ve shouted a big old get on with it as I leave it up to the old gods of my hometown and find some NEW gods in a far away city.
The furthest I could go without a passport.

I start to thrive, I starved never.
I starved never.
I starved never.

I move with so much gratitude it’s leaking out of my self-inflicted sores.
and melding into the drinking water of my new city…
that doesn’t need a lesson like my old as it seems to get on with it faster
and whether I like it or not,
far beyond my control,
easier to get a grip on and let myself drift on,
and let myself drift on and let myself drift on and let myself drift on
down the river of insolence as I have never starved in my life but wish to wither and hope I don’t die but love the thought of the romanticism of aching
melancholy.

So I commit myself to life and its finer things when I can afford them
&
Let that misery and those regrets ebb and flow with the tide.
As my soul grows into something pure and real which I strive to own
Wholly one day and make it mine
like a selfish hoarder with nothing better to do than to collect
&
steal trinkets.

Candle and Coal

Candle and Coal

Into blackness these souls drift

you see them and they are so real

you think you can save them but it is impossible

that’s final.

Resonating only with pain and sorrow; it won’t continue.

Our love was a bold statement

it’s now seemingly burning down into a stub like a candle stuck on a table that has only ever been scratched and graffitied on.
Becoming nothingness, meaninglessness.

It is subtle and it creeps and it lets you know it’s there and it’s going to wear you down till you’re fresh again and nothing about it is sudden except the initial shock, accept the initial shock, every day because the shock wears down and eventually you are left with the numbness.

As you know and feel your heart it is continuously colluding with the souls that are drifting, that have fled, that have moved into darkness.

And you are left with your little soul that thrived off the love of a few big souls but now has no fuel to burn its flame and you cry out for something to burn but you are left with a little piece of coal and no hope.

You want to leave as well, and your soul is screaming to drift into the blackness, it has already moved so far over there that you haven’t one really, and it is waiting for you to make that final move, to embrace the new home of its friends.

Another candle is brought just before your candle was to burn out and leave a scorch mark on your derelict table.
You did not make it in time and foolishly you let it burn out.
You curse yourself and curse the fact that this love is now only a mark that will be there always to remind you of how you lost it.

Your piece of coal isn’t alight anymore and you dig through the ashes to find something hot, something real, because you need something to light your new candle with, you burn your hands and search deep amongst the ash and cinder and find another piece of black coal with speckles of red and you reach for the candle and press it against the red, you are patient and blow, hard, and desperately.

The candle catches alight and you melt its base to the wretched table that mocks your mistakes.

You melt the candles’ base right next to the old scorch mark.

An old friend goes out and fells a tree for your sake,
Another friend chops it up.
A new friend gathers kindling and dried leaves and builds it above your little black coal.

House of Stairs

Houseofstairs_(Sleator)

It is ready for your entry and you are you, ready for a little world of your very own.

Let it suckle on your life force because it is everything you ever dreamed of.

And you are ready and willing and I know you are tougher than you look.

You are going to take on the world for as long as you humanly can because if for not than a moment when you can you will shred the papers and build your brand new world inside four walls a door and a damn tonne of stairs leading to nowhere

The egg was laid in space.

The egg was resolute and wanted to be broken, to spill out its life essence but everybody knew the big egg wasn’t ready.
The big egg was full of life and it wanted to crack and spill and sizzle all over the universe.

People didn’t trust the big egg from space and they locked it up.
Locked it up with life and love and everything else mysterious and burly.
But the egg did not retreat into sadness, it didn’t give up and it gave the world a yelling.
It shook and shouted and pleaded with strength and gave it’s prison a what for.
“What for this and that?”
It shouted it knew all the answers but no one would listen and life would go on.
While the egg sat and festered and rotted from the inside out and eventually the shell began to weaken and the egg started to seep.
It seeped out a stench worse than your nightmares.
The smell was fetid and had a foreboding that could only strike remembrance in the battles of old.
Of trench warfare, where dysentery was not as common as death but it was close.
And men, rather than running to relieve themselves in an obscure crater that an artillery barrage had landscaped would relieve themselves on their iron dinner plates.
And men would cry and lose their minds and die of chemical gas and bullets shrieking through the bones and organs.
And the egg would seep this stench for a millennium and then a millennium more because the egg was forgotten.
And only a large puddle of stench and gusto would reside in it’s place till eventually, the roof split open and the sun would dry it up.
and all we have left is crackled rotten proteins that seemed to mock what could have been.

Beep = F*@k & bop = S*&T

A loss is a loss, no matter how insignificant it may seem.
You can pull the thread, let it rip apart your clothing.
Keep searching for an end but hope to finish dozing.
You can cut the thread, before it tears apart the seam.
because it doesn’t matter how it looks.
You’d rather win than lose, because to lose means loss.
It means you’ve forgotten something, or given into a miserable life.
Given into a life of desperation, dependence and commiseration.

Beep Bop, what damn flop. Give it up, give it down. Don’t give it a lot.
While I sedate the last known ventricles of a dying spider.
Lift yourself up so you don’t let your feet sink in the desperate quagmire.
I’m not here for that or you or diffidence or indifference.
I’m here for it all, accept this belligerence.

Beg me to fall apart, because I will do it in the end.
If you let me I will falter gladly

A little love poem

When you held my hand for the first time…your beauty and innocence reckoned with me.

It showed me the joy and devotion in your heart. An everlasting joy, the be all and end all. You be all of beauty. You be all of dedication. You be all of the wondrousness of you!

No sadness shall end me as I gaze into your meaning and devour any morsel you possess and wish to give me.

We are no more less than

We’re more than a no more bigger than.

If you understand, I could face my views due East towards the sunset.

But it will probably circle right back onto myself, like a dog chewing its tail.

Or a goldfish trapped in a bowl

Or a regular human being working day to day in some shitty dead end job whilst they believe if they probably just had a little more backbone, or motivation, or style they might succeed.

Succeed how? Like get a promotion now? Get a better job now? Go to school right now! Now!

This is boring, but probably correct.

Corrects usually boring, if not satisfying it’s usually boring.

Bad guys finish first because they aren’t correct right?

Why do we know who Capone is? But not the guy that took him down? You know who he was? Some tax man with a penchant for numbers, beautiful.

We care about Capone, not a tax guy and that’s final.

Wrong is right and correct is boring.

So slink around and do something dirty, wash your hands and feel it slide off.

You know what I’m talking about…

That grime, that sludge, that grim grimy grime and that sludgy sludge all over your hopeless hands and there you are, the bad guy, the sinner simply washing off all that muck.