Poetry

Peacefully Counting Sheep

Fossilised in a petrified heap,
The body branded by a certified sleep,
Eyes are sanded by slumber counting sheep,
And the drenched weep,
A tides motion of white water creep with the sub conscious afloat,
And the mind adrift upon the rift that reaps havoc on that battered searching boat,
Till the anchor finds hold in those dreams so deep,
It is old,
And frozen in a thought cold,
A glacier,
Hands in amazement lose grasp of holds and fold upon the faces fascia,
A mask for beneath,
Clenched teeth under the smile,
It is the sad wallpaper underneath the new tile,
It still weeps with stains from it’s past,
A tarnished piece of a termite feast that breaches the staple spine of the boats mast,
Silence bounds with leaps to gain but not to guile,
To sneak low as not to show a shadow cast,
“I’m not angry today,”
Constrained bile and decay vile spewed upon the deck of this dream dinghy boat,
“The first time in long time,” I gloat,
Where the thirst for outrage is contained in resonance of a knell chime,
A bell that has the power to detain and reform,
To take the billow out of a storm,
The silhouette of hate culled,
The clouds and the night curtains pulled,
A scent of sugared lime sneaks through the shutters as they close,
Rosemary and thyme squeezed over the trotters of a lamb,
More damn dead sheep to count,
More cramped sleep,
And a boat that is moored on coral and thrashed about.
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The Pyre Tracker’s Plight

There was once birthed a firecracker that grew to explode and cause a nirvana flare,
Shards of its fluorescence hung at a height and procured quite a glare,
Bright electric veins were skewed straight then lured by the Earth's stare,
Permeated sometime in-between midday and the night, but the exact time was never clear.

Lightning speckles magnetised by the outer atmosphere,
They’ve forfeited their fight for life and slowly they disappear,
The night was again dark with spite and ruins of rancour loud,
It was October and the mood was sombre and socked with turmoil proud,
And if I was a pyre tracker I might just have tracked the firecracker shear into an embossed cloud,
Tracked the remnants of the night’s footsteps when their imprint were no longer aloud,
Pursued through the motions sheen if I was brave and keen,
Through a hole in-between the backwash lost and forgot,
Searched the pyre cloud for an illuminate frost cold or a hell hot,
But I lurched with convulsions by a stomach that was afraid and tied by a frayed knot,
For all the things I am, a pyre tracker, I am not.

I am lethargic,
I am fatigued,
Filled with spite, but lack intrigue,
And most of all full of fear,
So I did not disappear through that slit of light lean,
Did not search for loss even though it vanished when I was near and it was seen,
Did not follow into death.

A flutter of leaved green by my side was cleft,
Whispered with a gale like motion of breath,
Swept up behind me with a hiss gentle, clean and fresh,
It was, a pyre tracker, keen and brave, and flesh,
He followed death into it’s grave,
He jumped brave into lightening torn,
In a flash he was gone,
The pyre tracker was lost in the seam of dawn,
The clouds drawn,
And he was stuck in that dark forlorn,
The gleam starts to shimmer as if the beam had never been,
Like a dark swirling blur from before we were born or from the time that he was weaned.

I’m listening for quiet, for that's the way I feel,
My hands cradle my eyes and my legs collapse to a kneel,
I memorise memories,
Thoughts of the past year grow in size,
Arise October,
Dejavu in a Siamese guise,
I can’t turn my head for the connection pains my minds eyes,
The anguish covers me with brine,
A waterfall of emotion showers me in placental shine,
I sign a cross for sins new that I saw,
They start to draw blood across my sinew that is raw,
Scab over as if a cold sore,
More hurt released in the month of October I bear and bore,
Slowed slurred memories, to escape being sober once more.

I wait for my mate, the pyre tracker like I was a pyre tracker nark,
A spy who spies alone now that it is dark,
A shark submerged in blood to subterfuge the kill,
Day still, although the light leaves no mark or shrill,
Curtains of recollect I pull, like the sky did the cloud’s cotton outer bark,
Where is that brave pyre tracker,
Why dose he not return from the journey he did embark,
The firecracker that the pyre tracker tracked again cracked,
Light turned to sound blaring and stark,
Thunder startles this shark from it’s thoughts unclear,
Where are the dolphins,
They have the same fins,
Hark me, they could be twins,
If it wasn’t for their markings and snout,
The shout and the whisper,
Their ice and fire sear,
They are of a different bread and notion,
Nothing is the same in this ocean,
Drift with eyes shielded for it's October that I fear.

Disappear,
Appear,
Continuously vesiculating,
But it just pleats the existentialism of my brain and heart,
It creases my existence with folds of repeated pain,
Mental anguish escaping like rain from those clouds to the earth,
Is it some metaphor to leave the cursed,
Friends leave selfishly as if friendship has no worth,
In a shroud as though it protects through the choice of mother earth,
More death in this month then there was any birth,
More hurt released in the month of October,
Bang,
A glimpse of the pyre tracker tasting blood,
A lot of blood,
Fingers dipping into black then to his lips,
Slurred memories to escape being sober,
Another crack of lightning like cracks from the pyre trackers whip.

Fingers rip at stalactites of fire that strip the night,
Anguish cries defy lightening wire that grip and gyre the sky at a height,
A sigh,
The pyre trackers face contorts by a gnarled force rort with preternatural law,
Although mine are closed, I see the eyes of those before,
Smiling selfish at me through him with prior primordial thoughts they tore,
And adore,
Somehow they all enjoy this month of pain,
A none existent month in their season chain,
Why and how I wish I knew,
Because then too I could find 2 things without a clue,
The first thing, the courage the pyre tracker possessed,
And the second thing would be that pyre tracker, the one now possessed.
But there are no clues leading to peace.

A piece of my peace now is decay,
Like a thick mist of thirty-one days in a day.
Of lies leased to repay lies on lay away,
It’s denial of partners unmasked to become vile,
Bleeding heart seeps my skin then released into that month of October,
Slurred memories to escape my denial,
And to escape being sober.

Looking back so one day I may track forward,
I remember the pyre trackers face,
It was hacked with a luminescent scratch and tacked to the skies black board,
It was a night scored with a grey you can’t wash off,
Red chalk thickly ground around him,
I saw my friend as though I stood aloft,
Tormenting thoughts lewd were screwed in a tight incubus hymn,
With thunder as cymbals,
And rhythm drums rumble dim,
I glimpse him once more, for only a few seconds,
His face grim,
He beckons me to follow,
But I cower into callow,
And he vanishes for ever into the pyre glare,
Leaving me to remember things that grab, ripping me to a tear,
Whether they were friends who did or lovers who didn't care,
From a precursor I endued, to whom the body I now wear,
And although maligned peace feeds upon the ruins of my thought,
It is the Pyre-trackers memory that contorts and torments me with it’s intrusion,
I wonder if the sad surprise expression on his face was just an illusion,
A death guise and he still lives tracking the pyre and life, sprinting free,
But until my next death I know that all I shall see,
Is more pain released in the month of October,
Slurred memories to escape being sober.

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An Upheave Brings Karma

An upheave brings Karma upon those that selfish gleam,
It will weave things calmer and leave community without a cause to redeem,
It will lose faith in celebrity and their false profits of fame,
Then it will stain our skin red with its past atrocities of shame,
And cast an ochre radiance over us in a kind of society sinopia,
And then finally we will bask not burnt in the light of that utopia,
Where the world appears as lovely as a romantic’s dulcinea,
Where its inhabitants are compassioned and their hearts are all sincere,
And where they’re on longer faced with constant battles, or a humanity we must fear,
A world not foreseen by a sear, or dreamt in a dream,
But one where our populace is cleansed of dregs and left now only with it’s cream.

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Pathetic Pseudo Repartee

Inside the skin is where I will open this conversational folder,
It will begin to unwrap from around my skull and shoulder,
And then unfold the hull that encases the faces of my ancestral kin,
The solid Timbre of my being not soaked will float if it’s not attached to the boat while mentally traversing.

Unravelling,
Travelling,
Revealing my unhindered essence foaming,
Until like a homeless older roaming, I am the basic sin of a complete nonsensical thing,
A ring ringing, a whistle stinging, or a numbing disclaimer,
And penetrating and grating on the cerebellum chamber,
Till I remember the mumbling and thrumming that cushioned me in the womb wall from the stomach rumbling,
It’ll just be noise,
And like that homeless beggar that we ignored,
He somehow still annoys,
Till the silence and the poise is void of any joys,
Muffled, like you were drowning,

The sound sing compressed as though you were downing a shout or a stiff stare,
I doubt if there will be quiet when I'm gone, and then again I don’t even care,
For my vortex will vex past the cortex into the next,
But what if there isn’t,
What if my death and stillness mean there’s nothing left,
For how will I know that the Earth’s cancer will live on in a Gia glow,
Rotational in gravitational defiance,
And the silence may or may not exist, be it in eddy or in flow,
But at least for me all the pathetic pseudo repartee will have ceased,
Hopefully at the very least decreased,
Dissolved like melting snow, then evaporated,
Or shaved like fleece from a dear doe, then incinerated.

Once I stop, then I hope to will all prevarication,
For when I am dead I want hear the equivocation,
The sensation in complete saturation of a nation and planet,
From the top of Tasmania to the toe of the Thanet,
From a false lovers maternal net, to a layman's intellectual regret,
Personal conversation, to the laymen of the internet,
Verbal intercourse ejaculating disease over peoples faces,
Abdicating their soul for a big screen television and a segregation of the races,
Destroy, consume, abuse, annoy, doom, use this Earth,
To deploy a plume of crews missiles at targets valued in human worth,
Like little boys whose only joy is to be the first,
Number one of everything, when everything is none,
Fuck the virgin, create faults in perfect versions,
King pin of power, and death,
The desecration of the Earth and her breath.

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Magenta

My centre not middled,
Dwindled low, beneath, below,
A belittled cordate soul,
Just a box lying in a hated hold,
Folded corners tight,
And my sight blocked by boards across condemned windows,
Lost eyes are hollows,
With pools suck down these holes in which nimbostratus follows,
Clouds of tears flow, outside and in,
And I begin to choke on evaporation,
My condensated lungs are compensated with nothing,
So I breathe less and cry more,
I am foetal, slowly drowning,
The sound, drip, drip, dripping salt water,
The rise socking the tapestries that hangs on my inside,
Around the walls wide,
And the wise weaved memories of my past are the twine now loose, and pulled,
Fraying ends are my mind slowly loosing, the colours dulled,
I am no longer choosing my form,
Inside, the storm holds my thoughts and the wind violently bashes the windows,
The breeze slows then hardens, quickens, intensifies,
Why this wind blows,
Why my mind the wind chime, and my body held by strings,
The whiplash stings, and the cloud still bleeds,
Feeds weeds now vine around my wings,
I fall like a rock, a stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,
Shakespeare knew me,
Painted these words magenta and spoke them with clenched teeth and a stern fist,
And this leap into sorrow, into anger, ripples the reflection causing sections to disappear,
And so do parts of us, and in fear we watch the recorded film slowly taped over by the eaten past,
Nothing lasts as I turn my head past my shoulder to see the young person killed,
For forward is older,
So I enter it one foot in front of the other with a scream and a shout,
My throat hurts as my mouth fills with muck from my own dug hole,
The dirt is my soul shovelled by myself into a muddied heap that I climb so I can stand on my own pedestal,
I am such a fool,
For my feet sink in the mud, the blood,
My centre a thick cooled pool of Magenta.

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Lustacyst

Lust in gusts of passion,
This heart is in traction,
A fraction away from rest,
Waiting to be cocooned,
Swooned by visions to embalm it,
And to keep it just breaths away from death,
Until a heartbeat is left,

For the constricting black curtain is my burden,
And the two eyes that hang around my neck are just blood shot pearls throwing glances,
Hopping for chances with dancers on dance floors,
For scores, to release my balls,
Fuck!
What the fuck did I just say,
My words maggot decay,
I’m rotting,
I’m rotten,
Disgusting,

My head punches the small head that calls such assertion insulting,
Gestures that fester and eat my heart now rust,
Love dammed by this wall built by this lust,
Revolting,
And yet I would offer my riches, my pearls,
For one night,

Please listen for my list starts:
Honey,
Peaches,
Strawberries,
And cream,
My tongue,
Your belly,
Your nether,
No never,
I dream,
And so it seems,

Then how about just one of your pearls,
A glance for my perils, my troubles,
Give me another one of those doubles to make these feelings slow,
My lust a cyst and it will grow,
Until I’m consumed,

And I resume my rampage of dribble,
To draw I scribble,
And to speak I stutter,
As I try and utter words as a bouquet,
And place those petals and pollen at my lips,
For nectar sips,
and honey butter,

But your beauty walks on these flowers that I offer
this sweet breath,
And it seems that when you leave me,
Only the dirt is left.

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Jettison the Jetsam

I would stand still if I could,
Be a photograph of this thought,
Photograph this place,
A reminder,
Remember,
A trace,

A memory of a smile lost under a sad grimace of contorted lines,
Overgrown vines strangling shrines,
A forgotten piece of mind in a jungle of people past,
Their insults cast like shadows in afternoon sunshine,
And in the dank grows this vine,
Starting to untwine,
Flotsam and jetsam from the frayed floss of rind,

In the dark is a moss maligned,
Beneath the slime is that smile,
The one that I have lost buried in my mind file,
But in the mean time,
While I try and find my mind and feeling,
My temple has brine reaching it’s ceiling,
Drips overflow eyelid sills parallel to earrings,
Gushes as it fills the drums of hearings,
Makes ripples resonate with beats of light in the souls waters deep,
That sound can’t make me find the slumbers as to sleep,
Or find the sheep to count as did the little girl Bo peep,

My simple reason ate the white purity,
Right into morals I use to keep,
And kept,
Slept with and bore,
Eaten as a worm does till it hits the apple’s core,
A married man fucking a whore,
Diminishing in character and colour to create a hoar,
A rapport I have with the centre of my sphere,
Until I disappear some more,

A saliva swallow as I step back into the photograph,
I laugh as I turn black and white with no grey,
I am a snippet of the array,
A statue in decay,
I try and discard my cheek of its salty drizzle,
Marble lip that’s bit by a faulty chisel,
Teeth stilled in a nervous bite of a fright face frozen,
A desired chip of life I’ve chosen,

Stop this hired ship of life charted to the horizon,
The line crossed between reality and reason,
I am franticly jettisoning my thought from my sinking intellect,
Splatters of slurred words replace my dialect,
Infect,
Inflect,
Like a swarm of killer bees in deflect from a honey specter,
The nectar tar like ambrosial heretic directed from its course,
So much sweetness it’s bitter and quite distant from its source,

My luggage my baggage that I toss to try and keep afloat,
Somewhere someone is trying to save me with bounty or a boat,
With closed eyes I hold the vision so I can gloat,
I am a proud captain on a sinking ship charted for an enlightened latitude,
Where drowning my righteousness will rectify my attitude,
I stand mute meters from the mizzen,
I salute the dissipating horizon,
And the water that it lies on,

Preoccupied prodigy bought up in Marxism,
Photograph this now conceited defeated effigy caught in his own martyrism,
As the water climbs the rails,
And the sails gust with gales,
Then finally in the wake of the sunken,
It is the stillness that prevails.

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Lacking Ceremony

He finally gave into the silence,
And then the silence killed him,
It had snuck up within his enclosure and snuffed him as though the candle wick licked,
The silence stealth and powerful
Then the silence tongue and mouth killed everyone,
The silence was finally quiet,
And the world no longer a riot,
It was peaceful,
And it sat in that reticence, listless and thoughtful,
Bent over as though spineless, writing in a drawing journal,
A catalogue of its convictions,
This encyclopedia of poetry, and predictions,
All of which lacked restrictions of any kind,
Was hand written, ugly but divine,
Divine because it was cataloged in the files in its mind,
A book of disturbing noise but not a racket,
Although at one time was beaten for its sleaves and jacket,
They were shed when the thread of the divine was shred with red wine,
A clarets vapors downing,
It’s papers browning, and in decline,
As though it were spilt and long gone,
Distorting words as though they were spelt wrong,
And an attempt of correction was benign,
The silence went on,
It was some kind of search like an archaeologist find,
But it was a purposeless kind of search,
An exploration of civilisation or treasure,
A hunter killing for pleasure,
Dressed in a style regardless of weather,
Useless hunter was more of a gatherer,
For now this hunter is lost,
And the words are scratches not embossed,
Or mounted on a wall,
The insignificant tracks leading nowhere,
They’re now here,
He’s thirsty,
And at a crawl,
Haggard,
And like him the last page of his journal is tattered
But it keeps the others together,
But what will keep this hunter,
He stand’s mid space in nothing,
So therefore what is up,
What is down,
He stands not knowing his own face,
If only he had enough fortitude to detach himself from the space,
Fill in the hole and stand free and oblivious to ridicule,
But he is too afraid to be perceived the fool,
If we could only offer our heart and hand unblemished by pretence to others,
To escape the cycle,
Live in haikus,
Harmony,
Peace and calamity,
Lacking ceremony,
And loving the land,
But even I am forever trying to convince the people that love me that I'm not wonderful,
And those who don't, that I am,
But I ramble some more and sit under a sky teal,
With all the people like brambles covering a field,
I sit amongst this field,
I am one of them as I yield,
But where in the bush do I fit,
No more than a blueberry picked, and sucked dry,
There is nothing as ugly as being a clone before you die,
Dead flowers were once alive,
And their fruit once carried seeds,
It’s hard to sprout roots when all the land is covered with the same tasteless fruits,
Weeds under the rock of day,
When that rock is lifted and night begins,
Time stops,
Until the rock is replaced crushing the dreams,
How heavy is that rock,
As heavy as the thought that if I didn’t like anyone,
Then I could talk to everyone.


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Gravy Licks

Dave Davies slaves on his guitar melody waves,
Makes his gravy licks slick, with finger pricks and strums,
A rhythm like tribal drums,
Beats,
Taps his feet,
No bums on seats,
Everyone stands,
Clapping hands, in a frantic bashing,

They're thrashing and splashing,
Drowning in the honey that they’re swimming in,
A runny orgasmic kind of sin,
They grin and move to the grove that occupies their skin,
It’s a liquid that soothes and moves through nebulous tubes to infuse within,
From the blues that ooze from sweat head to socked shoes,

Dave chews on the cords to release their flavour,
On tasty sounds that he sucks on to savour,
It’s such a sensual pleasure,
A zest for your listening leisure,
A treasure in your chest to cover the endorphin’s expenses,
Sunken trove into your senses,

Dazed with drunken music booze,
Multi hazes and faceted hues,
Awakening the magic music muse,
She stirs in wisps of mist that contort and concave,
Insights Dave to bend the octaves inside out,
With a bout of euphoric clout,
And the muse floats like rising pollen and music notes,
Resonating off columns in the acoustic's of the rib cage,
Like echoes in archaic caves,
It shakes the architrave,
But still within there’s peace and harmony,

A to Z,
A Zen,
A calmative melody,
It reeks of sexes,
It peeks and vexes,
Becomes internal,
External,
A universal bang,
Yin and Yang,
In the corner somebody sang,

It was the body collective.

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Processed White Fool

Accidental occurrences are all premeditated,
Its in the past eternal,
Where our destiny’s task is to take the writings marked then illustrate them in a life chart,
Those graphs depict a vacuum that we humans call a heart,
But it’s nothing but a dark segment representing cores feral inside the kernel,
And in that voids stark bodice is a knowledge genius but remarked at as if a primitive and primeval,
And now as always the white pigment dictates the class,
A painted skin to stop the radiation of the racist blast,
Akin to liquid-paper covering ink till it’s saturated like a strangler fig fingers grasping at the bark.
Internal mark is dark and grasps the soul determined to smother,
Paint a heart coal to match the world’s last throws upon its infatuated foes of vermin other,
But that was only ceremonial in suffocated dermis like a shaman's sermon wishing for love and enlightenment,
He too paints his skin with white sap to appease the demons terms and atonmenet,
And recite giberish and superfical drawl,
And all that is spit out is another processed white fool.

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Reality Deploys

Contemplation begins where confrontation ends,
For thought has no place, where brawn tends to lend,
And intelligence is wasted, and pointless to defend,
As ignorance is stupid, and stupidity never mends.

So in quiet places grows this noise which drenches as if by torrential showers,
And covers all the little ploys, so you can’t see the beauty for the flowers,
Leaving only towers of strangler figs engulfing,
Extensions imposing over everything until they sting,

They suffocate and cling,
And bring vainglory when the big boys buy unnecessary toys,
Causing natural desire to retire behind synthetic noise,
In a society whose peace is replaced by this consumerism that destroys,
While honesty will cower to make way for the power,
And liars aspire to dupe their employs as to place themselves endower.

So I should leave this zoo of self providing egos,
Its presence a stench which blows, and creates a hate in me that’s wrong,
It rustles the leaves of peace, in the forest in which I belong,
Me the Vagabond, I’ve stayed to long, and became week from strong,
Confused by wants and needs,
But still I don’t claim to be a Martyr, for my body is cut when it bleeds,

Procrastinate no longer, move on, and leave in the in summer before the fall,
Don’t hate the wind for being stronger, be a brave leaf in a soar,
Prepare yourself for this leap, trip or the fall,
Jump deep into the low so as to grow,
Care not that the wind may be long, and your path maybe slow,
And the ground maybe hard, or hard to walk for dificulties, mud or snow,

But descend into the steep hole of winter and its aurora glow,
And know that the last step is bottomless, is endless,
As are the choices that flow threw unvaginated minds when not bounded by other peoples wrong or right,
For people may say words of wisdom, or be filled with blatherskite.

So sift through all that’s new and old, and that which may be trend,
And look close at all around you, are they enemy or are they friend,
And when deciphering these peers intentions don’t lose yourself as to blend,
For in this world of petty wars, there are little things that only you can defend.

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Bedlam in Your Skin

Time speaks in quiet whispers,
Stirs up wisps of memory crisp and full of neon glisters,
And in them is the mystery of where starts the sin,
Where passivity loses,
And the conflict wins,
It’s the start of the bedlam in our skin,

It’s the dead hem where life begins,
And ends,
Where the epidermis mends,
Embraces and befriends the flesh,
And we now see the million faces mesh,
They’re wrung round our essence,
It places a fallacious presence around our aura-vapour,
And the laces of words and lies are made of burning paper,
It’s a papier-mache guise,
And a body in disguise,

We keep our enemies close enough so we can recognise,
Because with them lies our demise,
Encased in an unfamiliar shell that eats us till it dies,
Tarnished and ill we are released when the body fertilises the land,
Only a passing thought in Earth’s epoch and memory gland,
A piece of sand syphoned through the galactic hourglass,
And the weight that hung on our forefather’s shoulders is now flung with us in the cask,
And made into a mechanism that controls the mechanics of time,
The pendulum is swung,
My eyes are hypnotised,

Arise the prisoner of the flesh,
Arise,
Fill that flesh with light and freedom, answers, quotes and questions,
Reflections, reflecting that light to blind the past and present,
And light that will fill the crescent with a whole,
A full moon lighting a path for my soul to find a future,
A moon which releases my moods that are held by tides,
Crashing or pulling,
High or low,
On the shore it’s an assault,
In flow like a sault upon gorged cliffs,
Where anger consumes rocks and rips at it with rifts,
Pulling at the skin,
Devouring,
Maybe even the Earth has bedlam within,
And there are too many layers in its sum and substance for me to even begin.

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Incubus Cloud

My soul windless,
Breathless,
Dead,
Red splashed coffin lead,
And sinking,
I’m thinking,
No thought just memories passed,
Cordate box glassed,
Lets others see into this pain,
Let them touch it,
The sharp edges cut,
My face nailed shut,
Filling with salt water,
My dirty knees washed,
my face in hands lost,
And in a cube I sit,
With hands to ears, and trance to eyes,
And heart pieces spat on the walls,
That leak with the water rise,
An ice cube in boiling water melting,
My temper angered heat,
My feet now wet, I’m drowning,
Frowning mind filled with incubus cloud,
My peace is loud, My pieces fouled,
My box shrinking and my head nearly bursts,
With out walls I’m bad,
But in Cubes I’m worse.
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Cinnamon Senses

All the blossom blooms in resplendence,
Perfumed fragrance and colour rendered in silk and firmament,
They dance drunk in tunes made by wind instruments,
A cello shallows its sound to a hum less dense then milk,
Red wine sunshine,
The flowers drink it in lush gulps to line their stems with sugar and spice,
Only night will bring sobriety but now ecstasy will suffice,
One pill popped twice,
Jesus Christ didn’t sweat this much when he posed on his last podium,
Beats now like pendulum,
Greatly empowered preternatural sensorium,
Transferring phlegm with sexually sensuous beings of glamour,
The lavender sway in soft melody over the field floor like pulsating seaweed,
Shaking seeds in beads of sweat,
I am slowed by their motion and concede to their sway and their wet,
My mind travels with the wave into each bulb,
I’m pnematic,
Nomadic,
Stoic,
And electric,
Peace,
A bomb,
Pour more neurons over me and cover me with cinnamon.


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Effervescence Collapse

My to carbonated soul,
Leaking a mucus secretion,
Bubbles seeking reaction,
And soda water unclean although a translucent sheen,
Bubbles fart to surface risen,
The two me’s in collision in this cup,
And I meet myself half way up,
One lost and one found,
Carbonated, saturated, drowned,
Infatuated bubble round,
Free to rise but not to grow,
So push me low,
Push me back inside the traps,
Push me back into an effervescence collapse,
Still water dense as mat blacked.
That bubble dance now flat and trouble racked.
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Witnessing extinction

Palpitating palm fans spread their large split hands in a pounding pulse,
It’s a choked canopy struggling to let moist rays of hope fall in a light waltz,
They’re shading deficient floor flora from the phosphorescence for which it begs,
Aloft monotones of protuberant stones that mould contours in the waters dregs,

Nearby, silence is being repulsed by a haunting cry of a songbirds sorrow,
And so the rapids escape these screams like silk over a cascading nirvana furrow,
In water swirls the untamed ripples eddy around suicided leaves,
While vines coyly tempt this stream with nooses wound in loose knit weaves,

There is a strangler fig in an embrace of germination from above,
And a tree dieing within, from the vines melodramatic love,
And an ancient fern attached to a mouldy rock also in a lust conjunction,
While in front of me on a flaking log sat a green frog, waiting for extinction.

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God Sack Your Corporal

My Earth,
My sad dieing mother,
Agnate undercover,
Emancipate the lover or another,
She’s shivering cold,
Vibrating slower,
Thank God for global warming,
Looming legends of evil descend on me,
Battered temple roof,
And the rich live a life aloof,
Devoid of any vow or proof of substance proud,
Skin bleeding scoured,
How many times do I have to find myself in the middle of this cloud,
I can’t touch the soft capillary of aqueous of the mother’s bower,
A floating tower where poets write of but are never aloud,
Fly at great speeds and yet find no place other then my own Prozac parallel hell and bind,
Why is my opportunity and path so difficult to find.
God sack your corporal, and sell that adviser blind.

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Graham Brett

Recollect breaks away like paper photos wet,
In a water drain,
Pictures old, filled with scratches and grain,
Speckles of black,
Add more coal to fuel the sane’s regret.

A train track hacks through theories conjured,
Of outbursts pondered,
Through the dark tunnels goes this neuron train,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickity, Clang.

Warped visions flicker the tunnels of the sane and brain,
Try to remember,
Try to forget are all in vein,
Abstain past thoughts throbbing,
Strobing,
Memories and theories subconscious lain.

Go this steam combustion from the soul,
The vapour stream creeps and crawls up air duct mains,
And blacked by the coal,
Go the steam train,
Rise, rise, and steam those eyes.

Release more mind controls,
And fill those dark holes,
A dot at a glance,
Iris,
I rust the robust powders to dust,
In an instance inside the eye that I blink.

Bullshit and genius congeal on the floor until they sync,
It creates a link to November,
I remember one night before even one drink,
One of those stories did burst the brink,
The barrier where we congregated, waited, safe then the stink.

Elated,
A view created,
Then interrogated,
Interrelated,
Bang,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,
Go that neuron train,

Collecting passengers of that night,
The tunnel and the light,
Contrite memories traded,
There was a view not right but heated debated,
Slowly the drinks sedated,
I sat talking with my close friend,
My view I gave him to interpret, but also to lend,
It was hated,
I tried to defend,
To mend,
Nothing was penned, just stated,
And to him over rated.

What I meant,
And I’ll make the statement free,
“If there was a GOD, a celestial being almighty”,
“What if he was, was the person sitting beside me”,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,

The whistles screamed not sang,
Tunnels through the flesh terrain,
It was as though the train crashed,
Smashed head on into the fable hashed,
All cards on the table,
Bashed as my friend screamed,
“NONSENSE”
But I had said the words with saliva rain and nimbostratus sense.

At a glance it seemed like some simple contrivance,
And yet I still burst it with a verbal lance,
Even GOD would have an ego, surly,
Me, me, and I created me,
And all that you see,
And all below,
“Wait Jim go slow”,

He still must have the created experience,
Be what he made, live that mortal existence,
Create himself with no memory of a before enigama or being,
Earth smells,
Go through human life with their touch, hearing, and seeing,
Taste. hihs and hells,

And what if when the end of his time came, the dieing frees his real name,
All is revealed once more,
And then he would sit his rightful throne as he had once before,
Surprise grips my friends features in shock from the light travelling down the tunnel,
Bang,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,

A mass into a funnel.
That night after the thoughts loaned,
Graham died,
Maybe God’s cover was blown,
Bang,
Clang,
Clang,
Clickety, Clang,

Bang!

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