Peter Lilly: Poems

Corpses march in my footprints on the other side of this glass floor, and the decay is grotesque victory. They whisper my words back to me, and fashion them as poison fangs that threaten downcast eyes. Who ever hears intentions without the crossed wires of a philanderer's scrutiny? Not these six hundred titanium selves, with their unchaste resolve to procure and squander, and be praised for it! Yet I should not be blind to the shards of transparency that keep me buoyant in life, for corpses march in my footprints on the other side of this glass floor, and I am no titanium self. I am one, learning that honest vulnerability can step without smashing. I am one, thankful for this tier of existence that I do not control. Written mid August 2012.

Evidence questions your significance, even in that small room where you touch all the walls at once, suffocating in your own breath. Congestion compacts larynx walls to spring an accordion cough, trying to prove a point. But sickness is an introspective threat, boring to observe yet infections and addictive. Self interest is a comfortable way to die, the world stays small. Written mid August 2012.

Her wounds will never heal if she's always dragged back to those magnet claws. Desires grown from violently rocky soil foments this nauseous addiction to cologne that deliberately induces asthma. This despair of morning light, of realisation and a choice: to run in isolation is to go back to the start and face the bruises again. And to be unshackled from those magnet claws is to step into the terrifying unknown, of hope. Written on 15/08/12, reflecting on the situations of some of the women who have come through the night-shelter who spend their lives going from one violent and abusive relationships to another and how difficult a cycle it must be to break.

Tall figures cast shadows beyond the ocean, and ominously darken paradise islands in hurricane hell. Poseidon coughs and we all get wet. Why turn to so much blood in your search for meaning, let your blades blunt with the rust of time and think upon those patterns of a healthier decay. Thor is bored of death. Messages don't fly they flash through fibre optics, wings are obsolete feathers are decorative and paper is collectable; a salute to inefficient communication. Hermes is fat  and prostrate, without purpose. We all play Zeus, sick with arrogance, yet ashamed we cannot touch lightening.  Written early June 2012,  The poem uses ancient mythological gods to personify the natural world, warring humanity, technological development and individualistic, self-centred autonomy.