Poetry Writing
christopher godber  

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




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