Peter Lilly: Poems

Crayon fingers clasp at the pictures of another's mind. Leaving you to salivate over silhouettes of broken pieces of conversation: chiming a random anthem as they settle in the sad lifelessness of silent fragments, and I want to hide from the ocean beneath the sand of the coastline you fashioned with those crayon fingers. Rain peppered beaches sigh moments of fresh water at the salt of the inhalation waves. It waves me farewell to your listening. So make a water world of your speaking and dream the abyss of walls away. Contact your forgotten ambition in the misassembled shapes of frozen water and draw what you see in your own contrition taste the flavours that your art tried to achieve and feel  the purity  of all dimensions  of this creation as it awaits the artist's  restoration: injecting pure colour into the hearts of each willing figure of this moving canvas ...

Compare this visible noise with colour. Something for to make your eyes shudder. Something that poisons your ears in creeping tension, it traps the mind in this transport flask. Capturing concentration From the nature that usually consumes and soothes all tired thoughts in breezy escape. Written in June 2013

There's creatures on this concrete, soaking up the rain in their shivers. They wrap themselves in clown masks to warm their faces, and we all become our covers. We build walls of collectives classes and criminalisation, which are polite dehumanisation, to ease the mass's conscience. The ambition of self-preservation is prescribed by the ignorant to those who want to stay breathing, and on their plastic pedestals. Desperation is manufactured to perpetuate egoism, for that is the structure of our shield from the wind. Still, You can get frost bitten or feel the warmth of freshly spilt blood through the latex gloves of your spending. All these ambitions: our fabricated atmosphere, are prescribed by the ignorant to those who want to survive the recession, they safeguard from thought, and personhood, for particularity is not found in consumption. *** Written during the last week of May and th...

I chase blue breath, grinding teeth on the brickwork of now. Bury your computer in the soft rubble of churned nature. Which secrets do you want to dwell inside, Those of copper or chlorophyl? I chase the sweet misery of warm rain; more fruitful for sentience than dry buildings. Insipid barricades shelter infant nerves from all feeling and thus from growth. A Poem about why I like to be outside. Written March 2013.

Time occasionally escapes its narrow tube of transport in waves of influence. There is one event so significant it feels like it is ever repeating because it's always unfolding in freshly realised implications, new dimensions of completion and pristine epochs of accomplishment. It is an event of bloody terror, an event of merciful healing. It is an event of violent killing, and event of peaceful giving. It is an event of overwhelming sorrow, an even of heart-deep joy. It is an event of whips and nails, an event of captives freed. It is an event of a cry forsaken, an event comfort for the isolated. It is an event of naked humiliation, an event of shame concealed. It is an event of goodness silenced, an event of amplified perfection. It is an event of blind condemnation, an event of liberating conviction. It is an event of ultimate death, an event of unquenchable life. Time did escape its narrow ...

This is the celebration of: the hinge of history; the spine of the book of the universe; the apex of the temple of the presence of God. Throughout history Humanity has been lost, we have been known by our selfishness, and by our cruelty to humanity. The myth of progress only serves to make one culture feel superior. But this is where things change. The thick skin  of calloused sin is broken and dissolved by the creator; redeeming  filthy flesh  by becoming  what we can now become through him. This is where things change. His un-stainable surface sticks out from within the landfill of sin in every uncompromising step he communicated: God's love; The personality of the creator; Freedom from judgement; Emancipation from slavery of selfishness; Humanities' purpose; And healing from pain. This is where things ch...

It could be you: Emptying hands search brickwork for the blood of these consumerist streets. This town is pebble-dashed with lies of promise, bookies thriving on children's food with whispers of a code to be cracked and pour out coin solutions. It could be me: No choice went into forging the memories of abuse that desperate lips try to suffocate with smoke from a thousand fully laden gauzes. That poison hardens arteries and blocks tear ducts. The survival mechanism of bolting emotions inside fallout shelter skull is slowly decomposing the mind beneath, which was nurtured by bloody knuckles and angry lust. So don't be so surprised that it’s all suppressed. It could be me, you, anyone: Every tragic death thrust upon juvenile memories, the guilt and anger of every heartbreak, all leaves open wounds and bleeding people without loving medicine of embrace can only douse the traumas in numbing spirits. ...