Showing posts from March, 2010

Cold Hard Lips of Hatred

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

Until the Cling-film is Empty

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,

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 can’t hear,

And he won’t until the cli…


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-lines of absent undergarments outli…