Peter Lilly: Poems

Your filthy lips Are too hard to touch. They do not glow Because of beauty within, But reflect light Like dead metal They are cold and piercing. Enticing legitimate concerns With self righteous conclusions And a condemning disposition. Always a default until I don’t have a mouth to speak with, And I put your lips To my own motives And you tear right through my soul. Making love with hatred can only breed one thing. Let it alone. Written Febrauary 2010

There he lies, In his flat with the open door, Beneath the table with the telephone upon it. It is about to ring. There he lies, Head on a cloud pillow Of temporary amnesia and linoleum. He’s about to wake. See his eyes open, Pupils shrink with the Revelation of light. See his eyes open, Pupils then expand With the realisation of plight; It’s all still here. There he lies, Listening to the repetitive ring, Clutching his rock wrapped in cling film. He’s about to open it. There he lies, Using the same pierced drinks container And the same source of flame. He’s about to inhale. See his eyes close, To concerns he disappears Out of confusion he sinks. See his eyes close, As dream and reality swap places There is no need to think, Anymore. There he lies, In his flat with the open door, Beneath the table of the telephone. Waiting for a call. There he lies, Head on the hard floor, Pressuring his temple for change. But he c...

Feet in open toed sandals Point the way to somewhere I really do not want to be. Fake relaxation Of a sand-seeking crowd Desperately trying to grasp at indifference, But like the eyes of bad actors Their middle class needs Are not buried deep enough To convince anyone who is not the same as them That contentment is merely an outlook. Blueprints of progress plans Outline the rooms which I really do not want to find myself. Expansion of boarders and Expensive earnings of Destructive creativity, Wish to own acres as Most people own blades of grass. It must get tiring Living in a paradox where Contentment is always chasing more want. A signet ring on an index finger Bears the name That I never want to be called. The aim of turning all the heads, The most important footprints Depend on the pattern on the sole of the shoe. Variations become imperfections When a face is modelled on plastic Not the other way round Always convincing one’s self That contentment is the very next purchase. Tan-lin...