Peter Lilly: Poems

Open. Glancing in toxic, hated and simmering shadows. Scolding these curious claws, clattering tarmac in retreat. Always open. Fixated onto logical arguments of crescendo victory. Volume defeats thought with every drop of poison. Still open. In determination, just if I can taste another day of this dirt, but delay is denial of the basics and death becomes you whilst you're still warm. Forced open. Fear of being in truce with your unwanted images, illuminated eyelids never stop with those twisted faces. Half open. Well, come in to my chasing exhaustion. Movement should be left to the animals that pursue me. Wide open. Start yelling suspected memories at my silhouette my spine bends with the slats of this palate that is my solace. Perpetually open. I may jinx my survival with hoping for harbour But this ocean has been licking at my soars for three etern...

Litter grew around us, teeth gritted in impatience for the filthy fruit of our consumption, that is transported from beyond the individualist's horizon. Your universe hates you when the lights are off, shutting its eyes to your waking, and all those words you bring to life as you read from pages that appear as you turn them. Anaesthesia dissolves the teeth leaving you with mysterious bite marks and bitter amnesia, it clouds the resolve of your blinkers and your mirrored walls. Echoes of outside draw its fingernails across chalk boards of yet to learn lessons, coughing up childhood traumas of empathy. They drain opaque from your worldview and leave you with the monsters, and the monstrous landfill skyline that scowls at your children's future. Yet beyond that refuse view there are leaves with the colours of depth. There is living matter never to be synthesised, and mass produced. There is an oceans of faces, ev...

I am disappearing, down into the linen that caresses my body as my mind criss-crosses, chasing through meandering crises of nocturnal fabrication. I am full of hope, and dread... and whispers. Soft chalk runs out before the lesson is learnt. I was truant anyway, day dreaming of summer. I am disappearing into something, yet I still see my shuffling footprints, scoring a perforation through this continuum; a seam to tear and a void to feel expanding. Fields of livestock and houses of television faces, all lost in the gap that is left. It is potential hidden in false humility. I am disappearing, if I fight it I sever the umbilical cord that attaches me to my Father. It is an artery, with flow too fast to cauterise. I would disappear in the dirty needles and forgotten-butt fires. Lucid, as I feel my significance hang its head from my skin in shame...

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...