Peter Lilly: Poems

Winter night cold waits on the borders of each settlement; Frosting the grass with delicate threats of treacherous beauty. Breath-mist is proof of life. Foxes scamper where sight meets shadow, litter is discarded chaos theory. Trying to prove its point, it argues with landfills and origami. But the pattern is gravity Garish lights from shops cause one to look away and thus annul their purpose of brightness and pavement catches. The road is the noble choice. Wide windows reveal masses, their uniform silhouettes are attempts to disguise varied faces, dancing without rhythm. Collective consciousness is an idiot. Contented, outside. November 2010

Yesterday, Ambition stopped watching traffic Brushed the breadcrumbs from its shirt And stayed in the same place -But everything has changed. Last week, Strong jaws and sharp teeth Gripped the heel of dormant future And woke it up in strange surroundings -It closed its eyes to think. Patience can be part of the proceeding, Stillness part of the stepping. Tomorrow, Ambition in the same place, will cast a different shadow Breathing in the eyes that witness blood, Storing up the giving -Because everything is changing. Next week, The sting in each step should still be there Keeping future awake to the present Because they will meet -Like flame and gun powder. But there is patience in the proceeding, And stillness in the stepping forward. October 2010

Grace stands above A city of caricatures, She is proud of her skin, -Not despite, but because of her scars She looks down and sees distortion. Grace waits alone next to the rails For unspecified trains And unsuspecting breath, -Steady and comfortable She will make them gasp when she is recognised. Grace lies and listens to her name, The way it is flung around Is corrosive to her motivation, -She is already spent Still willing to lay down more. Grace stands aghast and horrified Unable to break through sediment layers Of expected ease, because -She has been so misunderstood, Slandered by those that claim her. Grace sits, tired and grey Exhausted by rumours of her impertinent relations. ‘Lies’ she whispers like heavy water; -Destruction for those who assume To have found a cheep way out of it all. Grace calls follow. You can’t have her if you watch her leave. Written September 2010

I can see these needles; They look like extravagant splinters, And they consume as they expel. Something worth saying got stuck At the clouded window, And the possibility of change Just rebounds off the padded walls Of a comfort cell. All the best efforts Mean nothing without success I can see determination, It’s as clear as it is difficult to maintain. Elegance, cleanliness and articulated feelings, All contained in his shattered reflection. Dragging his feet in the need of rest; Swimming beneath the surface is almost As tiring as climbing out, And waiting to dry. Scrapping every week the cycle ends in relapse. All is nihilism unless you achieve. No more can he believe himself That the ashes between his toes are white sands. Somatic expulsion leaves Stains of everything promised, again. In the week, his thoughts mimic hope, Yet everyday, he knows he’s soon to loose it. Time moves on but man’s state stays the same. The wisdom of the aged is only amassed By those who can remember their ...

Same poison; Ever present in his veins, His eyes are concentric circles of pain and confusion, Splintered with red cracks of excess and exhaustion. Bipolar; Vomit and diarrhoea, Between the manic anti-establishment, And the depressed reality, that this establishment exists to serve. Shattered ice; Lacerating the throat of some that cure And melting into nothing of any substance, But his scrawlings have more impact than his breath. An insight; Into the flesh bravado Genuine sociology meets conspiracy theory, Paranoid maybe, but silently honest about it. He is more than uncooperative; Elegantly pitiful and endearingly anti-social, Could he be, a Bukowski? Written September 2010

Snakes inhale clouds of incongruous trade An elegant contrast Made available by the finger tips Of latex gloves in the stomachs Of the desperate. And they have the stomach to make decisions That affect other people? Lean against an exposed nerve And the pain is masked by pleas of ignorance, But there is one revealing question, Will this blinding ignition influence decision? Will revelation cause change? Will, as good as dead serpents sprout legs And breathe life, And exchange poison for water? Written September 2010. This was written while reflecting on people I know who by fair trade, are vegans, but also use cocaine. There is no such thing as fair trade cocaine! It was probably harvested under terrible conditions and almost definitely smuggled into the country, in a pouch made from the fingertip of a latex glove, or a condom, in the stomach of a poor and desperate drug mule. That just seemed a little incongruous to me.

There are new scars this morning. All on the soles of your feet. Hazy steps, shrouded in dream Leave discomfort for the walking Darkness stings your eyes like citrus Premature expectation of light. Open your window and cold breathe blows over your shoulders Like a restful lover Gloating in your loneliness There are new scars this morning, And the world has learnt to hate them. The marks of beautiful healing Blemishes blank canvas. Experience screams at sound proof glass. It’s easier this way There are broken shells outside, Broken shells and lost keys. You; alone, gloating from inside. Written late July 2010.