Peter Lilly: Poems

Packed in, suspicious but unsure: the smasher and sweepers; the igniters and dousers; the displacers and displaced, all confused about the week of unbounded greed and how the familiarity of commute dulls emotion from the memory of raging riotous streets. Back to the amnesia 'normality' of bubbling oils waiting for another spark. Where the proletariate subconscious philosophy is that satisfaction is both a basic human right and completely unattainable and contentment in now is an abhorrent insult, and all ambition is filling the gaps in the mirror's foreground with empty plastic. 'Normality' of incubation of a bacteria that eats foresight and excretes lack upon lack, and the kinetic chaos was this; merely the poorer outliving the conclusion of opportunistic capitalism blatant, because it is more obvious and less dignified than the thievery of the wealthy. After lust of nothing-things and the violence of attempted justifications no hungry now has food, no depriv...

One day I will find, my love, the walls that throw my voice back at me in angry echoes, and I'll understand. One day I will find, my love, those twisted bones that splinter as they bend in reaching for sustain and I'll feel nothing. One day I will find, my love, the shards of words you coughed from behind frosted glass, wrongly convinced of your naked solitude and I will know you. One day I will find, my love, a voice that bleeds and forces take from the hands of the thick-necked sighing affluents and I'll never want again. One day I will find, my love, the foresight that grasps the profound linguistics of sorrow before it incapacitates all movement and I'll smile as I write. One day I will find, my love, the ability to access every shadowed corner, damp and destitute in bourgeois denial of the existence of thirst. I'll  breathe slowly, the warm smell of death and lying elixirs and...