Two poem: one old, one new

Days Gone By

A meeting at the pier;
she is beautiful and bitter
with footsteps, counting and counting. Too many.
Dead lovers guard the edge,
packed like sardines
solemn and protective. Harshly beaten by nature.
They are etched.
for our memory sake.

The writer scribes the city's heart,
a visionary sense of time and space,
defined by memory
and memory defined.
Souls that float like islands
to connect.
A sigh, a kiss, a moment.
To wait.

27/3/10


Identity, Identity

Iconic cool status;
that's my aim in life.
Screw the police; their masters too.
Nausea creeps in and I reek,
counter moving the consumer economy
-they advertise ideological normality-
I bought mine for a tenner.

Nice poem. Great response,
hardly politicized at all.
Provoke me and i'll ask you why
we don't like reading.
Tough nosed, hard edged
identity poets.
Let's construct
our own society- patriarch;
a snapshot of the contemporary.

That's different to your PM.
This is crucial... PM is just a period,
its just a time. Engaging.
Engage my deconstruction
of meta narratives.
You have to debate. Ask me.
There are arches, they create our beliefs.

We lost faith in God,
cultural enlightenment. Logic and reason.
Civilisation is under threat.
Truth is not in laws.

We will get rid of I:
-ego consciousness-
Realism is rooted in
reinforcement.
When we remove
omniscience
God is gone.
Fractured voices emerge
-polyphony-
We will navigate seamlessly.

7/2/06

Old Soul Song.

I possess an old soul

of sorts.

Captured in this form;

concrete and mortar. impotence.

of sorts.

This venture finds no remorse.

Heart and soul

a cavernous dwelling

grating and grating.

I read the masters;

all their divine wisdom in verse

in verse. I read.

of sorts.

Hughes- your Sylvia sweetens

me. Your iron tombs fail. So empty.

I search lyrical freedom:

that meaning in words.

I lust your lead soul.

Your mercy is sweetness to me.

of sorts.

The Beach (Part 1)

Written in 2004, when I was 18. The language is a little juvenile and the symmetry jerky, but I am still proud of some of the imagery.

We are here,

Our little corner of paradise,

Just You and I.

We can see,

The sun slowly sinking. Casting shades

Of gentle warmth.

We can feel,

The wind pushing from all directions,

Against our embrace.

We both know,

This moment of strength and serenity,

Will too soon pass.

We are one,

Hands locked, rosé cheeks softly touching,

Our cold lips soften.

We are here.

Together. This moment is all ours.

Just You and I.

Assimilated Learning

Don't leave.

He wailed.

At me.

Don't leave.

She's living with a broken man.

A broken man like me, not me.

You just do it to yourself.

Yourself.

Yourself.

Yourself.

Just to yourself.

Though I have tried to save you

I cannot save myself.

Myself.

Myself.

I Am Born Of Charm

She is like frostbite.
To me. Burning, then freezing.

That. I am.
I give to her, for tomorrow
forever
forgotten.

She seems like an angel
glass skin over steel bones.
Hardened soul beneath tender frame.

Put your arms around me
that I may know who thou art.
Tragically tempting
subtley sweet.
Forever breaking.

In a dream you died.
Fear shakes my spine
bring sweats of hot
and cold. Night after
night.
I am born of charm.

Ryan, you were right

I have been cast out, a dead space, onto
this fearsome and bloodied deck;
with all these words clutched close to my chest, in
a bundle of fears and tears.
I grasp for air and struggle, as I am
pounded and thrown of my feet.
This then, I realise, as I catch your
eyes, amongst the shadows, fleetingly as
the cold water drowns: I see monsters
and I am very afraid.

In Prague (Wendy Cope)

You went, searching
for the lost to comfort

viewed many big cities-
sixteen in all.

Settled alone, but content
in Prague, city of hope.

I still dog behind you-
a wet and smelly ghost.