poetry

Street talk

Streets talk,

And corners get rainy.

I hear them gossip

About fire

In alien speak.

They scream at the pavements

For catching weeds,

Yet compliment car crashes

On their kind donations.

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poetry

Turning

Throwing stones at the sky

Hoping they’ll skip across clouds

Turning air into meaning.

We’re definitely turning something into something,

Water into wine, is it?

Miracles!

That’s what I need,

Not careless deeds,

Not random acts of kindness.

Holy prayers

Made by holey hands…

But won’t the words slip right through?

Can we not just turn hate into…

Something clichéd?

Trust,

Love,

There’s lots of words for it,

Take your pick.

Just do it fast,

Do it quick.

We’re soon turning world’s into graveyards.

poetry

Overpowered

”Architects of our own demise”

Architects?

I’d prefer

Engineers,

Mass producers,

Scientists of demise.

It rolls off our production line

Like smoke

And we breath it in like a drug.

It keeps us high,

 

Keeps us sick,

Keeps us in business,

Keeps us warm at night.

Scared of the dark?

Just spend a little time

Designing your own demise.

poetry

Nostalgia

Grasp at lockets of

Headless photographs

Pretending it’s the past.

Try to remember the waves,

The salt air,

The seabirds;

 

Hoist up your memories with fishnets,

And gut them so they become something

They’re not.

So they become

A harbour in which we can settle.

 

 

In thought or in fact

Let’s return to black and white

And walk along beaches

Scattered with empty benches,

Empty conversation and

Empty people.

 

Let’s wind up the gramophone

So songs become a curse in our minds.

 

Lovesick?

Homesick?

Seasick?

Doesn’t matter,

We sail on oceans that do not exist.

poetry

Things

I think there’s something more,
Something you’re not telling me,
A thing you’re not saying…
Or perhaps many things;
Many little things that
Make one big problem.

‘yes, it was I who put the empty carton
Back into the fridge.
I also want a break.’

poetry

Once

Once we shared paradise,
Childlike and wide-eyed,
but your heart paled
and in a hateful fever of lies –
In a storm of sorrow-
You left our love out to
Die-
Dry…
I meant dry.
It’s not dead
Only dormant.
I know because
I still love you.