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. 

The silent congregation of decimated graves surround an ancient building that remains unweathered though emptied of purpose, like a drained chalice; interesting to look at, yet merely a container without contents. But it is ok, don't weep for the building, there's people outside this church yard. Written 13th July 2012. 

Tell me. What thoughts are these? Endless circles like your footprints through this town. A philosophy of dots has strung you out and convinced you of your own profundity, because one or other of them touch on truth that is irrefutable. Your intonation speaks confident riddles but your sentences are missing words, so no one tries to argue against your incomplete scraps of thought claiming to be certainty too soon. Yet in your rambles you speak more sense than money lovers and materialists and the Christmas shoppers who only ask real questions when the stress of pointless gain has almost killed them, you speak more sense than the normal in your mumbled chatter from alcohol breath and tired homeless mind. Though like the normal you have your indulgences, you have your compromise and you cannot live up to your own principles and you know it, and, above all, you need the gospel. Written in December 2011 after long philosophical...

'...We have done wrong, been treacherous, despite Your promises that endure beyond human memory and the memory of our books we have turned and turned: repelled by truth and pursuing degradation, we have shed our identity like unwanted skin and left our sinews exposed to be pierced by the sharp edges of our own broken choices. But You are, and have been, and will always be faithful to your promises... this exile, this physical dislocation, is a demonstration of your truth and your love and your staunch commitment for we put ourselves here, and nothing happens that you have not ordained but we chose the curses and we chose exile and we still have not faced you in the honesty of our filthy garments, To be transparent, and stripped of all we are better off without...' On Sunday 8th July I preached on Daniel 9:1-19. I wrote this as I was preparing. The poem focusses on the confession of Daniels prayer verses 5-14.