Broken.

Broken pavement doesn't lead to
where I should be going to.
Yes, in vain, but I still dream of
one day waking next to You.

Who are you, my dream or nightmare?
Pretty poison, friend or foe?
Rest your head upon my shoulder,
my apprehension starts to grow.

Broken lights cast twisted shadows,
why can't they just let me be?
Tell me, baby, are you drowning
in the same dark sea as me?

Broken pavement leads me to the
place I know I've been before,
where scarlet teardrops on the ground
mark the trail up to the door.

Black Forest

Silence rings out across the moor; fear

Biting wind cuts ears and waters eyes

Black forest waits, inexplicable and unsolved

Intimidating, it waits; open but closed

Dangerous but tempting; dark smoke

Step, step, step, step

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch

Marks left in frost; exposed

Step, stop

The edge

Go back or go forth

Point of no return

Leap of faith

Cold eyes closed

Jump

Plunged; engulfed

Organs drop

Deep iced breath

Step, step, step, step

Murmurs, whispers, hushed hints

Deep iced breath

Single word with trepidation,

Tremor of unease

“Hello?”

Echoes.

Listen for change,

Nothing but myself

Alone

Waiting

The Second Magpie

Whistling wind effortlessly passes through the crack in the a-jar door, it finds a young man and stops.

The man, so alone, is comforted by the invisible limb of nature, with it comes company, knowledge that he is not the only thing in the universe.

With it comes hope, the single feather of a bird of grace and strength, for this belongs to another.

He is not the only magpie, there is another, amongst the trivial there is a second magpie.

Yesterday's Child

Yesterday's child, you were fair of face,
tomorrow came and wiped off your smile.
Nobody knows about all your sins,
sit next to me, we'll talk for a while.

Yesterday's child, you had love in your eyes
but now you're looking for somewhere to hide.
Yours was the hand you were happy to lend
but nobody dried the tears you've cried.

Yesterday's child, are you searching for something
shaped in the form of the hole in your head?
Yesterday's child, are you looking for answers
from strangers you find asleep in your bed?

Yesterday's child, your path's laid with embers,
burning your feet through the holes in your shoes.
You've lost your direction but yet you keep walking,
there's little to feel when you've nothing to lose.

For the Good, the Bad and the Insane

Under the smoky exterior of this creation

Lies the silent victims caused not only by nature

But the tragic necessity of scale weight;

Where one rises the other must fall,

Engulfed by fear; an anxious ghost

Of the lonely past, cornered by circumstance.

Floating over the grassy road lain down by the sky

His dextrous limbs in continuous flow

The cat wonders toward the moon.

Adrift from his past,

Obedient to the whistling song of the air,

Comfort from clouds that stroke his sides

The last swirls of provocative colour conjure his final dream

Uniton

A dark silhouette drags toward the next orange mist, scraping unrhythmicly over the neglected past. Camel’s back groans with discontempt for moonlight, bending under cruel weight of half lit candles. Mr Figure passes to his inevitable destination as he passes by whispering brick and sly grass, turning left at the y and not moaning but quietly huffing. No thought creeps, just blank. Shoulders waning and feet lead-like he proceeds without comfort or tactless counting. Cranking chains move forcefully within his knees, stumbling on the last stretch, aching neck and crisp joints.

Vultures

Tonight we're vultures, birds of prey,
dogs with rabies on the stray.
Hunting for an easy meal,
searching for someone to kneel.

A hungry glint in our predatory eyes.
Our brains adept at making up lies
because we know that truth is a sin.
Say anything to get our teeth on the skin.

Always the same sordid plan on our minds:
to feast, and then leave the carcass behind.
Our trade's akin to witchcraft and sleight,
we look our best under the cover of night.

It's not our fault, it's just the way that we're made,
our tongues weren't made to sing serenades.
Our nimble hands are Lucifer's toys,
We're animals with human-like poise.

A father's tale

I made this child but he's not mine

His breeding a consequence of wine

I do my best to make amends

For which each month a check I send

I've taken him to zoos and parks

In hopes of father-son themed larks

But when I look into his eyes

I see a woman I despise

Although the boy resents me deeply

I give my all to treat him sweetly

We do what we can and continue to err

To create the fathers we never were

What Would Bowie Do?

In my days of turmoil,
when I feel confused and blue
I ask myself a question:
"What would Bowie do?"

How would the Starman handle
this situation quite mundane?
Will I get an answer
from the old Aladdin Sane?

I was playing Ziggy
for the millionth time,
when the sky had turned
a shade of rosé wine.

In his shiny tin can
crashing from the stars,
He landed in my kitchen
all the way from Mars.

Pinching myself silly,
distrusting what I see:
Thin White Duke in person
came down to speak to me!

Brushing off the star dust,
He stepped out of his ship.
Grabbed me by the collar
with a snow white grip.

"Here is the answer,
I'm tired of your crap:
wear red disco pants,
and shut your bloody trap."

How does it change

I've forgotten the moment when I chose
When it was moulded into the shape it currently holds

What does it take? A car, a clot, a lump, a knife:
This is how we lose our shapes, how they cease to be

How many choices remain to change it
The way it looks, the way it feels
Before it sets
Immalleable

Another shape in an arrangement no one chose

Untitled (May Fair 2012)

Lost in a field of hedonistic wet dreams,
I'm perpetually stuck in sepia.
I could not care for the scum that surrounds me.
Who are they?
Why are they here?
Who am I?
Why am I here?

Serenity is nigh,
your hand in mine.
A troubled minstrel sang our serenade.
Lost in a sea of self-loathing
we found each other,
two souls that sailed adrift.
Lost and never to be found.
Mannequins of human beings.

(Untitled)

There's blood around your ankles from the hearts you break
There's a ringing in your head from the pills you take
There's liquor on your shoes and it tastes so sweet
Add me to the list of the fools at your feet

Cicatrice Kisses.

Your history of scars paints a sordid picture,
don't want to be just another scratch.
The burns I got from playing with fire
taught me that flames must not be touched.

Yes, you burn bright and quite alluring,
my room is dark, could use your light.
But I can tell that by the morning
you will be long gone out of sight.

Nulla Lux In Tenebris

Never content with the way life was
but kept repeating it was going well.
Always painted yourself with a halo
but you longed for the flames of Hell.

Lied to the ones who cared to care
but worst of all - even lied to yourself.
Pretending to be something you're not,
wasted your youth and lost your health.

And the stranger you see in the mirror -
fading reflection of the person you were.
Despair is a comforting sister,
your memories been replaced by a blur.

My Plan

Tomorrow is the day I start running
The next day I'll apply for a job
This week I will call my mother
Next week I'll open a savings account and finally finish that thing I started writing
Next Wednesday I'll visit the dentist, then it's off to my psycho-analyst and I'll finally get that prostate exam
Next month I will start reading the classics
In a fortnight I will have contacted 10 people on my match making website
By the end of the year, I will finally be happy
This is my plan
The plan is called "getting my shit together"
I'll write it down tomorrow

The Poet

The poet looms large over those who would call themselves his peers

He has no equals; he is an envoy of his own philosophy

His days are spent in perpetual hypnagogia

His nights are spent in labours unworthy of his time, following in the tradition of Bukowski

The poet is not quiet and he refuses to be ignored

His message is the bitter pill his oath is to administer it frequently and without regard for demand

The poet's death is his final victory

To have been overlooked in his own time only makes his point and to be lost to history only strengthens its meaning

=

My brother in the same skin as me
is telling me how I should be.
But who is he to decide for me?
After all, he's just like me.

My sister says I don't treat her right
and it's enough to make her fight.
And who am I to say she's not right?
So I will join her in her fight.

Our father says that we're all bad
but I think that he's gone mad.
Wasn't he once just as bad?
But he forgot once he went mad.

TVhead.

You are a child of TV's lies
with pound sterlings in your eyes.
Your instant coffee gets you wired,
you are a slave to your desires.

Corrupted by your sense of greed
you pile up shit that you don't need.
Consume your way to fill the void,
replace the values life destroyed.

Fake tan, fake smile, and your fake friends -
don't you just love the modern trends?
Salvation comes in powdered form:
another line and you're reborn.

Your brand new skin's designer chic.
Your top is bright, your eyes are bleak.
Your hollow neon backdropped dreams
will set the scene for midnight screams.

x

We marched through the streets,
with nothing but our shame.
We prayed to a god
but we didn't even know his name.

It's time to disappear
into the morning rain.
It's time to start looking
for our inner selves again.

Erasure

Our band could be your life
My daughter could be your wife
Enlist now to receive marvelous savings
The salesman's trousers are undulating

All through the night we dance our dance
Hoping this holy union will last

This poem is dedicated to my wife, Allison, who I am yet to meet

Colchester Misogynist Poets Association Manifesto

The text below is the manifesto of the Colchester Misogynist Poets Association; a sacred code devised out of frustration (both sexual and intellectual) and the desire to break down the narrow boundaries and false ideals constructed by the modern pseudo-intellectuals. 

All those wishing to belong to this budding organisation must abide by our tenets.

I. This organization is founded on the belief that all arses are nice arses. This will be stated at the beginning of all meetings and is a non-negotiable condition of membership.

II. If someone says "stop" or goes limp, taps out the fight is over.

III. No shirts, no shoes.

IV. Poetry submitted to the Association becomes property of the Association, who retains the right to publish it on public forums, crediting the author(s).

V. All appearances before parliament (British or otherwise) will be carried out by the president of the organization. If for whatever reason the president is not available to attend, a delegate will be appointed by the members of the society to take on this duty.

VI. Adjectives are for pussies.

VII. Freedom of speech comes before political correctness.

VIII. Any attempt to silence the views of others will be taken as a violation of the Association's charter and will be punishable by forceful expulsion through the use of gravel.

IX. Never judge a book by its cover, unless there are tits on it.

X. Colchester Misogynist Poets Association has no room for misogyny. Any members found to be openly misogynist will be banished from the Association forever.

XI. No racial impairment will be discriminated against, no matter how comical.

XII. Intolerance will not be tolerated.