Peter Lilly: Poems

All discontent is worn and weighed with miry attraction for the other and the other. That is something I have never understood. It's all spilling from vagrant's gutters, simultaneously infiltrating homes with nomad and emptying tents of move . Your properties may just be heavy earrings, but they could house a desperate man without the luxury of time to spare on discontent. Written late August 2013. An observation that feelings of material discontentment are usually had by those with enough to not be completely preoccupied with survival. I was reading Steinbeck's 'Winter of our Discontent' when I wrote this, which is a tragic masterpiece and you should read it. Also this is a song by Listener, which is expressing something similar, I think...  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f25CEMbHrqM

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...