Peter Lilly: Poems

Some of these questions break apart on impact, and some penetrate; hollowed darts injecting deathly poison, injecting rescuing medicine. Life-saving doubt defibrillates with pulses of reality from a zealous coma, so one can grow. Do not fear the weight or the stone will have already crushed you. Lift it and proceed, grow strong. Questions scaffold the steps of covenant and it all makes sense. Talk across the whispered answers to find yourself alone, there's not even sand in this desert. Sedative nerves trap stimulated eyes which dart from vacuum to abyss. There's no progress for content in monologue; Only for presentation. Listen to the answers, explore the essential taboo of questions until, apprehension no longer cracks your voice with conditioned guilt and it becomes, merely the way you live, and love. Grow with questions. Written 05/04/11.

Twisted rails, flying sparks, flying soil, spilt whiskey strips the varnish from the bar, smiles cause wrinkles. Temporarily buried in the chaos of questions all options eat either your flesh, your bones, or your skin. I cant shut myself in this chest if I'm not sure if it's made of wood, or card. Twisted rails, an unexpected, completely foreseeable collision with consciousness, for the want of a solid conscience. So you have a theory? Unfounded and shallow, like my empire! It is merely me. Twisted rails, what? Room for improvement, swing at me with your circumcision; a mole hill in a garden. Occam's razor led me here and it sends me away, disproving itself, still correct. Flying sparks of friction, not attraction. Of collision, not excitement. Flying soil, disturbed surface; not from raising the dead but from burying the living. Spilt whiskey strips my skin if i'm not careful. And I'd rather age from smiling because it is not me in the chest, it is the body, and ...

Do you really know yourself what to expect? Curses run dirty veins from your mouth and blisters ambition with indecency, and the heat of incompetence. Cauterize your severed fingers. You can stand the smell of burning flesh but not the sight of blood, and you love the inconsistency. Listen for these special whispers breathing gold-dust glitter into open ears; muffled instructions; cancerous elation. Zeal for the self bleeds dry as death is always impatient. Ignorance helps, like a sedative; masking the terrible symptoms of consciousness. You transcend the self by pushing it lower, not by raising above in ecstatic meditation. Burning bridges of foresight, painting individual hindsights, kiss the sand that will bury you. Your words are temporary like sleep temporary like life temporary like death. And wait for no external approval. Written 30/03/11.