Category: Poetry

He Said, She Said

He Said, She Said

My name is Chris
I avoid obvious rhymes
and give you just the rancid;

‘We feel you have not been communicating
effectively as an employee’
poet.

So to you I said ‘I’m ill’
‘Care to spill?’ she hisses.
‘Yes’ I said

My names the one burning brightly up there in the corner of the room,
‘Prince and King Godber’
bearing wooden sign carved by the passion of a Norse god,
a bearded  dwarf on a throne.

She responds;
simple, penile, surreal metaphors notwithstanding I ain’t slept…
Small cock? Na cock, but let’s not go into it tonight,
naked.

In her dreams he’s laid with a woman, wept weeping eyes, distant stare, destroyer of hope, Eastern European,a broken painter cheating,
but he didn’t know till it was too late.

The Sun became black
The full moon became blood
the great mountain ran with fire

Pain. Passion, Nighttime.

‘Do what thou Wilt’ says the bald man and shrugs, setting a bomb off in the 20th century.

I did, I do, I do – boom boom. no one laughs.

She shouts angrily Fool, Coward, Prince
Why don’t you just come dance outside
stroke away those cobwebs in your hair

so I did, ripped the cobwebs out
screamed outside, bashed my head
on concrete, tried to kill myself
once, maybe twice,
contemplated more.

Like Virginia my hidden idol. My sister in censured pain.

Knees bashed, half-cut in dead of night screaming fuck this
provincial slaughterhouse, this cherryhouse
of the half dead / half pissed,
merry go round and round, like Kereouc,
but twice as merry, and that’s saying something.

Come and bathe yourself in my immortal quim, she bleats
‘look it up in your encyclopedia of shames’
you’ll just find a picture of a woman.

It’s intoned meaning
It’s poems,
lips tell tales,
tell them then. I dare yer to tell em.
Scream them from rooftops.

screaming eyes aglow, burning Blake fire
poet looks down with lizard eyes
you remind me of me Mum naked.
Puke. Puke, vomit on the doormat.

Violence in words,
this language is obscene
and that is why
he said she said
is gonna kill us.

Already has.

Fuck it, fancy overdosing yourself on abilify tonight poet?
Not a plan. Not a plan. Don’t go out drowning
yourself in alcohol or life, not tonight, not tonight.
Just never.

Love and silence.

Love and silence.

Just you and me and the silence in between things
hello cruel world, once more Venus in pearls
hollow echo:
the only way to conquer your fears is to face them,

to splinter a beady eye with glowing heart
first explode out your heart and intellect
combined in a style not
unlike Omega man.

to
ritualise the intent
to
combine the helix
to
hypothesise the meaningful
to
to forge cast irons in the realms of
the imagination

Fky high Omega, manufactured man
manufacture ideals
create new deals
and fielding questions from
professors draped in death black cloth;

Try and just lie back and relax
lie back and relax
relax,
relax.

It’s worth not thinking too hard,
being silent in your  backyard
it’s worth keeping that silence
as it’s golden, yes
sometimes it is golden,
always it is golden.

sometimes the silence is all we have
and all we should have,
it’s the unsaid things that hit you most
on dark nights, unsettled in a house that
shall not breed indifference
this poet writes in the third person.

In a forth wave of inspiration
something emerges which
seemed previously impossible;

Happiness, contentment
a form of therapy, a method
that does not breed indifference

These words are my fire
these words are my soul
please take my words
and burn them
into yourselves

cage your skin, and enjoy the silence because it’s
where we all will one day return to globe of
warmth, death, a deep slumber, an afternoon spent napping
by a fire.

An ambience of merry mourning. Sunlight drapes in through window
reminding me of her. Ethereal glow, sheltered presence.
Who is she? And who am I,
really?

the silence ringing
Ringing, ringing
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing

language is a power
unlock yours
and smile.
Smile wider than the sun
knowing all will be well
and all is.

the silence ringing ringing, ringing,
soul singing, singing
words collapsing
worlds collapsing
worlds collapsing

Melting Mask

Melting Mask

It’s late but still I am awake
slithering soul, tears in a city of angels
hidden and alone, mourning day.

A sheltered concave anonymous cackle mires behind,
I look for something in this finality
and find nothing, I always could before.

My mask falls late at night and early morning,
in a moment with my back turned to the world,
I let my mask slip, and all I find is raw –
the visions seep, all that I saw and see.

A final moment I can never undo, even though I want to
I wish I could save you, I know I can’t now, time
machine come, a chance to say a proper goodbye, why
has this happened to you, in your hour of need
I was not there, I remember the way you laughed despite it all,
and smiled.

I can’t look at machines anymore, it’s a reminder of that.
That final tragic moment that I can’t wash now from memory
as much as I wish to, weeping willow tree, alive
with the memory of a man I once knew, living and free.
Your face frozen in my minds eye, why?

I think my mask must fall, and let you in,
a way to grant you access to this world again
for fleeting moments, from the beyond.
Goodbye my blood. Double eyes, seen.

An Island sits in ruin

An Island sits in ruin

This Island sits in ruin
split down the middle, ruined
tune of the howling dog
lost in the fog, black
and brazen beast, hair.

I walk down sunlit streets,
immersed in the solemnity
that is my want. I reverse, rewind
and play it all back, the screams,
the endless chasm of the undertow
lying on the other side of the street.

All God and no religion, all zest without
meaning, It’s enough to drive one mad –
it has.

Tracing back memory to find the skin
all I find is a wolf staring back
with hollow hungry eyes, the beast that feasts
at cock of dawn, day by day, inside.

The Island is split down the middle.

The Dog lays leaden over a hung court,
we want a world that makes more sense
but we can’t really see it, albeit in
distance, no it’s not here.

Yet, the Island is split down the middle.

What’s here is the sound of dizzying cries,
the flesh of the innocent burnt for Mamon
the burnt umber of the spirit, it provides no comfort,
none.

I dream of someone or something to pull me out of this
perfect calamity, peace is a world I can scarcely remember –
such pain, such leaden cliches.

Nothing is ever perfect, the Tertiary turning of the screw
the wolf howls and paddles in his boat towards a fresh death.
Whimpering soul of me, drowning in a cup of coffee, lost, afraid
and lacking faith. I swim. Drown sometimes, then resurrect, unfortunate and unwilling Lazerus. Blinking into mortal light.

Each day is another trial, the end seems far away, and close at the same time.
I don’t think this one has a happy ending.

Divide by 2, create 1.

Ivory Tower Dream Tome

Ivory Tower Dream Tome

Ivory Tower Dream Tome is a series of poetry soundscapes I wrote a few years ago on a variety of subjects – science, religion, the cosmos, human nature and set to some imagery I found from the Internet Archive .

All music and poetry made by me , video is public domain

This Modern Age of Man

This Modern Age of Man

You put your heart on the page, they don’t read or hear it beat,
you put your naked heart blood pumping ache on canvas –
nobody looks;

Repetitions from a diseased mind, a morbid obsession with pain
they pre-judge and juggle your desires
cackling with wine stained lips, cultural elites.
Billionaires sleep on steeds of black in high rise buildings
whilst we scrimp and fight for air in a densely choking concrete,
in a sky bled with treason, the choking night, bleeding.

You pull your bleeding heart from your chest, wrenched as
gift of poet from cavities – they demand a price and chortle
‘this romanticism cannot last, how long before he loses an ear’
chortle chortle

Every inch of me burns bright light in an endless spiritual pain
nobody looks, nobody wants to any more;
the death of the world continues with a newscast at 6pm on the dot.

Crucify yourself to your visions;
Nail yourself to your own weakness you placid creature
slave to your desire, Jew alone in a desert, burning and alone.

Weeping. Tearing at one’s own skin and bone, this prison of flesh.
Burnt and infinite howl.

The modern age of man – uniform acceptance of mediocrity
that burning in the brain is not needed, we want daytime telly
and plenty of it. Oil refinery dreams gleamed from desert shores
easy answers, plenty of war please and 24/7 coverage.

I judge you man, and my judgement is final;
silence that leads to rebirth -screaming and spluttering
from fresh cosmic womb a holy scream that will shake the mountains
and empty silence into it’s hiding place, grace.
A Utopian paradise of soul.

Hmm, The ending is surprising –
water.

Concrete Dream Poem

Concrete Dream Poem

We Tear chunks out of each other to find the light at the end of the tunnel but does the tunnel stand still? The question.

Loaded illusionary force, romance is dead in the sea of thieves drowning in night fright and it should-be such?

The black pope stands and cackles silently in a broken city-

Satan roots his kingdom here;
Lost and silent souls spluttering in half-light millennium,
For food, for shelter

We give a few quid –
Feel better about our hopelessness
And wither quietly pre-midlife
Disaster, write.

The poetry is in the walls here, man
The poetry seeps from corners,
The poetry causes me pain.

Not like the pain you get from needles pricking into skin –

More deeper than that, physic and real, the pain that burns raw umber under the nerve, the pain of blood and knowing nothing, for now at least can be done.

I give a few quid though I own none, it calms the nerves, silences the pain for one glittering second, equality seems like it could become real not transitory.

The city burns in the background
And my heart grows warmer whilst the cities grows colder and frozen silent zenith rises over this slab kingdom.

The infinity repeated silence –
Been here before, further down

Love is the answer and it always has and will be, but the ones who taught us this now lie slab deep in concrete and dust, sculptures of the age of christ, frozen in time like statuettes, forever they mourn by minute by tortured minute,
by minute by minute
by tortured minute.
Metaphysical mourseleum

We should’ve learned by now but we haven’t,

I still want to save the world, but does the world want saving?

Rome burns
We laugh and drink it up,
Guilty heart, Broken head, Shattered dreams.

Tune into evolution and turn the tides inside into
Choruses of bright angels, transforming this abstract pain
into solidity.

A good deed is worth a million pounds karmically, chemically avoiding highs on the streets of Manchester,

one moment can change lifetimes.

‘Burn generation burn’

Light up this city again with the warmth of heart and head united
Become warmth, find solace, find peace

Finally.

Over.

Engaged.

District five knives staved, the burning in the brain subsides –
Sleep. Peace. Poet.
Peace. Poet. Sleep.

Pale Blue Eyes (Renewal)

Pale Blue Eyes (Renewal)

Traces of a diluted former joy, form a pattern across her face.
I can see it, I recognise it in my own face after-all.
Her pale blue eyes glance at me and then skirt away, silently
with a look that says ‘bite’.
‘Powerful Crystalline orbs of light’,
– from lady of the lighthouse.

Yet;
Curled up in spiral spaces, away from the movement of bustling outside.
She sits, attentive, alert, upon her spiral staircase.
Lighthouse stacked with books, her sensitivity marked within surface of page and pen.
She sends out beacons. She reads, She writes, She saves. She cares,
Actually.

Her soul comes rooted from the rings of trees and can be glimpsed
on silent nights to those who have the eyes to see;
Noble, wise, Scholarly, Strong, kind.
Absence- ‘Melancholy Tree’
currently lacking roots?

Now: To pale blue eyes, I say this is where it hurts, and I’m sorry, truly.

Absence is: Room reverberating with loss, memories of a time gone past,
an excavated minute. A man who meant the Earth to her, ‘More than that’
she whispers quietly from the dream, the spiral staircase, the lighthouse
where she still sits shuddering, cold, lonely, still, still.
Sending out beacons, never letting others in.

Her eyes are strong, focused, attentive, she sees each detail yet still she
misses moments of magic, when our two worlds collapse inwards,
and we glimpse a zenlike nothing and everything at once.
Getting lost in that mystery, the cloak of trees, reverberating.
The deep breeze, the ground beneath our feet.
The air, the sea, the wind, the trees.
Freedom, maybe.

Through winds that blow here, now,
Love of the world which chose to bring her in whispers quietly –

Your Future Now:
Peace for pale blue eyes,
No more skirting in concrete corridors of mind.
These are my desires for you –
Resolution, Breathe, Live.
A tactile unfolding.
New Year. New You.

I am the last town anarchist

I am the last town anarchist

If there is any hope it lies in the proles –

living in this town, lives on the dole

me middle class clown

can’t tell it like it is? Challenge accepted.

 

I am the last town anarchist;

stumbling through streets, pissed

and discussing Marx and Mason, desperate for a fix

to the problems facing Earth ,

staring black hole deep into

eyes of demonic Cabal, profit

power hedonists  (Thatcher’s Children).

 

In Congleton I found home aged 11,

a town of love and loathing

Love – The Artists, the Poets, the pubs,

Loathing – Everything else.

Alien still at thirty

not accepted unless amongst friends,

stuttering and stumbling through concrete paved streets

and lighten up the Cathedral of capitalism,

thundering forwards, as we all force a smile

as oils in cylinder mausoleums burn. We forget though

sordid sex and drugs, the pornography of delusions

triple locked in a triangle of treachery (The Tory party defined in a

single line of poetry)

 

(Perevts are fine,

drink you body weight in wine)

 

crush the class system says I

Middle class twit who owns nothing, in debt to

banks and vampires, sucking at skin

burning eyes of greed in a sky of crimson red, bled.

 

I am the last town anarchist ;

So I’m not sure I believe in anything,

especially my words apparent power perceived.

 

Burn all flags,

apart from red and black

split like a thunderous splinter

thoughout history,

the buried –

the endless anachirst graves of

Russia, Germany and Spain,

buried truth.

 

It’s over,

relax.

Build something more than

this, ashes should rise

Phoenix like.

 

It is only proper, it is only power;

dispense with it,

Create a brighter now

kapow! boof boof,

end.