Woke I from an abstract dream of childhood
As I watched her fall asleep.
There is no pain like a silent lullaby
And God works in mysterious ways.
The Compassionate Adulterer to His LoveCome live with me and let us prove
What pleasured springs eruct with love,
In thorn and furze, the bracken dew
Can wait an age; it waits on you.
But ours is terse, its timely birth,
Whelped by the sorrows of the Earth
That girdled skin round workday bones
To slight our kinship with flagstones,
Can broach the deserts of decline
And palliate this sin of mine:
Oh let the nymphs and dryads be
What touches thee, tastes poetry.
So let us lie, the sheets are strewn
In purple riot, the heart of June
Seeps softly in sumac and myrrh
Embedded with a scent of her.
If she sleeps, knowing all, she sails
Adrift a sea of stars; the tales
That serenade the thirst unseen
Are ghosts of garbles—never been.
And though our twine is verboten,
And dawn will cite this fear of men,
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
The Old WaysThe old are always protecting themselves
in the way they speak, shouldering words
as they soldiered on through pink and pittances,
buffeted by diminution. They dice their words,
dealing only as little as it takes to enamel flavour,
retiring the rest into Tupperware paraphernalia, repairing
to the bedroom, inaudibly behind a hardcover, which bides its while
where the wind blows, bartered by borrowed air.
Always the unheeded precautions: the seasonal stew
may babble with solicitude, never gusto
while the julienned aubergines justify every austerity measure
- each a testament to the Great War -
the quiet war of animation and attrition
as winter finds a comfortless corner to die.
Each a Diogenes to his own cause, saving scraps
of dignity in misplaced parables and promises of bequeathal:
the old play the precarious sport of procrastination.
Enumerating the fears of the same dogeared journey,
the prognosis of the situation is hardly original:
'When I was your age' - begins the fated period d
Connecting the DotsI've dealt in death with you. We knew the bill,
and going Dutch seemed okay. Colouring in the spaces
perhaps resolved the stasis of these outlines,
but now this painted portrait subtly repines
for life, for what small art is born of drowning faces.
Submerged beneath your throes I held a beacon,
ambling between your toes I worshipped Eve,
so saturnine, whose lips of time could not preclude
this fruit of mine. Alone at last, the senses brood
on rectitude, while nameless lovers leave.
Would you care for a lie? An explanation?
You must have your own, mine are gormless -
it was not passion, merely impassioned:
irrationally cherished, rightly rationed.
When did our days perceive this lacking
rousing spore on spore, spire and steeple?
Evoking the strange and sublime to embrace
the earliest preserver of people.
We’ve dueled with death and dice. But who can blame
the shamefully bored of rolling one too many times?
I knew the rules as they were spoken
and you let them be, bare, unbroken.
Death of a YearWe stand on the footstools of yesterday’s promises,
peering into the blue harmony of a timeless aubade:
the new year separates us from the old;
their rustic charms and world wise baubles
are fading, falling, kissing white December’s brow -
the magic is in wane, the Wicca in the wine
offers little relief in way of innocence;
instead the remembrance alleviates the holidays:
what a time it was, what a place it was –
what paradise it was - that spectre of Insouciance.
Last night’s basting, Jacobi’s painting, the real thing -
sooner or later everyone becomes a thing:
objects remind us of piecemeal courtships,
passion in a pendrive portends the minimalism of the soul
once feather driven by the heart dregs of Tasso – Toulmin
explains the six elements fundamental to each argument
with little claim to why we’re arguing and
even lesser qualification of why conflict needs a structure.
Structure, edifice, complex, fabric, battery cages
The Cycle of PassionNever knowing eyes never did haunt us
’Tis our own ditty which fails to daunt us;
The amorous rose or the lovebird’s lustre
Leaves but two shades for a season’s fluster,
Yet the poet’s pen is perchance guided
With rabid romance, nature unprovided -
For summer songs are bare conversation
Betwixt life and long winter’s predation:
Pale thirst for passion or higher power
Quenches its quaff in the quiet hour,
The soul’s tragedy is in demanding
Liberty lost from body remanding
Creation’s cold woes and callous joys, cannot grace
Vanity’s visage or the selfsame face,
In vain, we swallow the daily smother
To love ourselves, we love another.
Sleep Well, My SoulSleep well, my soul, the light has passed
’Tis dark, this closing hour,
Rest in peace, sweet life, at last
Let your toils awake a flower.
Dream deep, asleep, of each roving wraith
Which sought a home in thee
And sigh a little, for the wasted faith
Which were born of you and me.
And smile beneath the mourning ground
As the world clasps morning’s glory,
For the moon still dotes the earth around
And the sun gilds another story.
And then, in a squall of rain and rue
Lament life’s sole severance;
For god and men, we wept them true,
Slighting our Reverence.
ChangeMy very worst enemy
Is that girl I used to be,
And she visits me at night
But I am stronger now,
And I will fight;
I will never be her again.
Everyone can change;
'We shed as we pick up' -
Shed the bad
And pick up the good
To be the best you could
Can you cry in space?Once you venture into the jar
there's no place left.
Light years close in on me.
Each vein restricts, the heart
beats backwards, hair snaking;
gasping, tears like glass beads
quivering in the void
around me and within,
feeling my eyes bulge and bleed,
turning to ruby gems
with sharp angles,
threading with my tears,
coiling around my neck and hands,
trying to fend them off.
Am I in a clinical waitingroom
in a hell afloat, which has already
seen and been the death of me.
Through a portal, solar flare
rotating as the capsule
The only sound left:
the broken static from Houston.
Rusted CrownI wish they could know
how you are inside.
How you love to bait people
How you love to hide behind a
a face of ugly, disgusting lies.
You're like their rusted King,
or should I call you a queen?
(Would I offend you,
if I considered misgendering?)
They'll follow you faithfully,
despite the despair you bring.
And your followers, oh they're
all fools too!
Anyone who likes, or reblogs
the art that you do.
You're falling apart,
hiding behind a personality
that doesn't exists.
You're an embarrassment to suffers
of actual mental illnesses.
You make it a fad, like some treasure
you can proclaim on your dash.
like a once golden crown,
you're now rusting.
And I was privileged enough to see who you really are,
so in the future, i”ll laugh
when you collapse like an aching star.
But for now, they love you,
a lie in disguise.
I'll have to wait until they discover
But until then,
I'll leave you with this.
How To Not Be Hated By Society: A Foolproof Guide1. Don't be anything but white.
When you're black, people will hate you,
because you look ghetto, and uneducated.
But when you're white, people will hate you,
because you look racist, and stuck up, and unapproachable.
And when you're anything in between, people will hate you,
because you're different, but not different enough, and there's no one to stand up for you.
So actually, don't have skin.
2. Let other people decide who you spend the rest of your life with.
When you're gay, people will hate you,
because it's unnatural. You should have control over your mindset, and so should total strangers.
When you're transgender, people will hate you,
because you challenge their religion and deities don't make mistakes, so obviously you did.
Do I even have to explain this? It obviously shouldn't be your own decision who you fall in love with.
Your emotional compatibility and well being doesn't matter at all.
You'd clearly ge
The Girl Who Was Afraid To BeShe speaks to me fondly
of passions and talents,
of guitars and stars,
with such breathless intensity
then stops short and
for speaking at all.
All because somewhere in her life,
someone she loved broke her heart
her beautiful words
and telling her to
keep it down,
People aren’t born sad.
We make them that way.
It Was Never You...It really wasn't...
And I know that I can twist this truth as much as I want...
Whenever I'm sober, when I know I can put up that fake plastic smile;
Just a few formal words that burn like acid from a liar's lips!
"Differences in personality, a divergence in ideals..."
Please, fucking, SPARE ME!
Because when I look in this mirror, I know.
When I see myself looking back at me, I know.
Right here, right in front of my own blackened self;
Those eyes that both reflect and stare into my dingy soul.
I was the problem.
I was the instigator.
I was the perpetrator.
And when I had broken every last bit of her,
I was the one, who let it all fall to pieces.
So please, you don't have to feel sorry for me,
I am a bastard and I've got a very special place in hell waiting for me...
- Word of Chen, Darkest Hour, 16th February 2015
Soldier BoyOne day he came home,
A man given freedom.
He looked in the mirror,
And liked what he saw...
The days wore on,
And he lived his life.
Morning PT was a distant memory,
So too were the shouts of a Sergeant.
Training came thrice at first,
Then twice, then once,
The days wore on...
And life became harder,
Sacrifices were made.
He looked in the mirror one day,
And didn't like what he saw.
Not the pot-bellied man working for a few scraps.
Nor the slovenly fellow who'd forgotten how to clean his kit.
He earned his freedom, but he had lost what he respected...
And the days wore on...
And so he went out running, one fateful day,
His lungs burning with every breath.
Yet despite the pain inside his chest,
He resolved the soldier, would return to his best.
"You've been gone a long time Corporal Chen, what say we go once more around
-Word of Chen, One-shot, 24 February
A Sky Full of WordsA million different worlds
In black print
For my mind to sprint
A million escape doors
For me to
Perhaps I'll fall down a rabbit hole,
Or glide through Gion;
Smoke some metaphors,
Or wonder where She has gone.
I might ride on a dragon,
Or explore the thoughts of a dying man;
Maybe I'll meet Mr Darcy,
Or fly with Peter Pan.
I could have a chat with Morrie,
Or wander through Mansfield Park;
I could fight vampires,
Or make a revolution spark.
I might rock out with Lestat
Or philosophise with Louis;
Or maybe I'll go green,
Or hang out with Harry.
Sometimes I feel lost,
And that's okay;
Stories of a million lives
Remind me that
I will be just a story