Peter Lilly: Poems

Control. It wastes not like the lust that chases tides, then tries to take solace in dryness. But it is lost. Control believes in itself, despite stacks of books with the irrefutable weight of a million combined pages. It is fundamentalism. Control, draws on its own skin. It is an artist that neither acknowledges the canvas, nor the fingers he uses to paint. It is ignorant. Control: A safe delusion and distraction in the ocean of death and birth where we are given and taken. Control: A grasping at status beyond man. Control: A rejection of intuitive breathing, and a swallowing of cloud that would have one day dispersed in the revealing of beautiful truth, but Control: Impatience. Written at the beginning of October 2012.

So the rungs of your ladder  became blades. But you would never chase your fingerprints as they fall, and a rumour of identity will lie on the blood-stained birthing floor, along with your name and your first pair of tiny shoes. All waiting for the teeth of scavengers. The metallic surface up here has been weathered rough like your face you have forgotten; another discarded picture, ruined by blind obsession. The wind from above whispers only despair as the portraits on currency are merely official black-ink-pop-art. Those notes of paper  take up no space, they communicate nothing, but  flitter a mocking snicker in the blustering; worthless as leaves. Echoes screech for answers in the frustrated perpetual motion of a monologue that wishes for conversation, because all your companion s took their own tributaries and disappeared in distance. With hindsight we can see that they took with them all the scraps of meaning...