Poetry

The Struggle of Acceptance

His dreams were chaos, the ground maggots

eating one another snap after snap after snap.

A vacuum pulled them in, and he with them,

squashing their soft, wriggling bodies against his skin

until they were pressed together into one.

Discord plucked on a silver harp, played

by her, who he’d never know again.

There was no telling what he was now,

crawling, belly low, through the neatly trimmed grass

attempting to exit the maze of cropped box.

Everywhere were deadlines, corpses of the past

left to rot against them. And he drinks from

the sullied stream where they lie.

Poetry

Sugar Coated

Behind that sweet exterior,

painted, crafted, structured:

a persona loud and clear.

 

I can see you.

See how your eyes do not reflect your

bright-red grin,

see how your long sleeves lift

to reveal silver filigree

around your wrists.

 

But whenever anyone asks

how you are,

you tell them you couldn’t be more fulfilled.

Everyone’s social media blares out their happiness –

so you have to keep up,

don’t you?

Poetry

Nice Trip

I’ve been known to trip on air.

And not merely stumble,

but fall headfirst into

 

a tree, lamppost, grass, concrete.

 

Some times are more painful than others.

 

People tell me it’s lack of attention,

that my head

is so far in the clouds

I can’t see what’s right in front of me.

But I promise you,

it’s just air.

 

How can I avoid air?

 

Now don’t be silly, even if

I hold my breath,

it’ll still be around me.

 

My theory is a little different.

I think I get drunk

on the vibrancy in my head

and the earth gets jealous.

It believes it can never

live up

to such standards,

and so seeks to jog them

from my mind.

 

What it forgets

is that in order to think

such wonderful, impossible things,

I must first learn to appreciate

the real, the possible.

 

Otherwise, there is no foundation

for me to then sculpt with.

Poetry

The Unknown

They polished the scaled armour with orange peel every evening. The citrus scent repelling the taste of blood and earth residing in each crease. The overlapping plates fish-like, never one colour for more than a moment. Inside, the body was still human. Just. It preferred oranges to iron, whatever its brain might say.

Poetry

Up to those eyes

In them we see

sugar and spices,

an apple pie baked full of ideas

all original.

Of course they’re original,

they made them,

enveloped them in tangy sauce

sprinkled with cinnamon

we find out is actually chilli.

Oh, and the homemade pastry?

That came from a shop.

Poetry

Evaporate

Engines chug away

propelling the clouds into new positions

that people read

as sacred teachings.

Oblivious

to the mechanics behind their prophets.

Those maintaining the perpetual motion

no longer speak or hear

in a common tongue.

Language

is lost to them now.

Poetry

King Mold

Among the breeding rot – whispers.

I hear them stretching through arthritic

tongues. Knife to bone,

crown to head, head of the table

where judgement resides on platters of

purple skinned grapes already coated

with penicillin.

Yes, the medicine, I’ve taken it,

drip feed from a babe.

Things that are not normal

flag as normal.

Things that are. Obviously insane.

Poetry

Here or there

We were, as always, running

down to the spring lake,

splashing in the clear water

and watching the drops

as if they were mirror glass

ready to tell us our fortunes.

You said you saw a figure

in blue

gliding across vast plains

on a hand-held sail

of cloth and wood.

You said you wished

you were that free.

I asked you how you were sure

that the figure was free.

If they were to see you

through a droplet of mirror-glass

splashing around as you do

would they not think

you were free, too?

Even though you claim you aren’t.

You had no answer,

but to turn to another

and try to see something there.

Poetry

Know, friend.

The sofa in your attic room

is a long slab of dough;

I sink into it every time

I visit.

 

I melt into the fibers

and hide there

until the storm

has passed over our heads –

 

the rage of alcohol

infects the whole street,

though the radiation-green trail

is a red-handed print from my house.

 

You tell me I can’t stay here

forever.

They’ll find me anyway,

better to turn myself in.

 

Part of me thinks you’re right.

Maybe my years of hiding

are over.

I’m supposed to be an adult soon, anyway.

 

Do adults really run

from their family?

You say you don’t know;

you’ve never had one.

 

I look at you, confused.

An empty room

stares back.