My Poetry: These Voices Know YOUR Name

These Voices Know YOUR Name

---

The lords prayer

muttered under
shallow breath
stops the pain
digging within

the anger thickening

my veins
but it's in vain

hope ''cus He cannot halt

the Voice

from tellling me
to rip that forked flesh
from between your lips
to silence the screech
once and for all.

I walk to your home
lungs filled with screams

the Voice tells me

to let go the frustration
in the faces of strangers
so they know the pain
which is  forcing

my hand to slice

your windpipe
slow,

to watch the vileness

seep down your neck
like honey
on bleached bones.

You should know the Voice
knows YOUR name
in the whispered evening
as the clock ticks
down your demise
It wonders if

you're sitting pretty
in your malicious throne
unaware that justice
will bleed

your rotten veins dry
and your last words
will be my own
screamed
into your fading conciousness.

My Poetry: Nothing Is Enough for Me

---

I loved you, secretly,
tho I could never
confess with words
those rose thoughts
you despised,
so I held you, instead,
arm’s softened
with false hope,
as we got close
enough to touch,
but not fully embrace

the boy girl paradigm,
while I tried in vain
to paint a primitive
sketch of a heart
on the palm of your hands
with false hope to heal
your imperfect body and mind
so you might fly again,
but like a fool I forgot
what decades of laboured

unrequited love
had proven,
that when someone so wild
and beautiful
enters your life
they are not yours

to hide from the world,
so you paid for my kisses
with the golden pieces

of your broken body and mind
you had left,
which in the end
was nothing,
but it was enough for me
because you see
I was poor
before you came
and I'll be poorer still
before I pay my final bill.

My Poetry: Your beauty was your down fall

Your beauty was your down fall

---

Your beauty, was your down fall.
The dark clouds I hung to, mine.
You were Saturday night
To my Sunday morning,
But the songs we played each other
On drunken Tuesday afternoons
Were for no one
Except us two.

I loved you
I guess I still do,
Though we’ve not swapped words
Since that winter Wednesday
When I moved my notebooks
And old records
Out the cottege,

Hours before your new boy moved  in.

I spoke your best friend,
Last Friday night,
Who warned me not to write
Like she could sense
My cracked heart
Wasn’t quite mended.
I lied it was okay
Your charm forgotten
The rum helping
A simple white lie.

My Poetry: Angels with Dirty Laughs

Angels with Dirty Laughs

---

I watch angels
with dirty laughs,
wings clipped by sin
flirt around the bar
in cheap country
mini-skirts
and Empusa t-shirts,
like paper on the wind,
and the longer I watch
the more I'm convinced
they only dance
to show the white haired drunks
their fate
is incomplete...

But the brunette and me
stay seated
spilling gin and laughing
as I nurse her
from a sadness sickness
consuming her,
coaxing the light
back into her eyes
till we leave the pub
joined at the lip
and with drunk tongues
we vow
that when tomorrow
parts us
the three months
when the future was lost
and we danced
to our own fateful tune
will be ours.

My Poetry: Driftwood

Driftwood

---

Mist falls like bricks
over the rotten city rooftops.
I follow my feet
through the new scenes
thinking of a nameless girl,
her features obscured
as if in a dream;
for a while I called her princess
she was pretty,
full of light and shade,
holding onto my arm
like a sailor
falling overboard.
But tonight, I drift
where the warm summer
breeze pushes me
like a splintered piece
of an old wreck
waiting for shore.

I’m the same
as when we met,
I took nothing
but her body
and time,
I don’t blame her,
it's all she had,
her sail set
against my tide
leaving me with just a
phone snap shot
leaving me a little a sadder
a little older
but just the same.
So I wander, rudderless
through the sea mist
which hangs low
smothering the desolate
city streets
which hangs low,
over the shoulders
of the lost and hunted souls.
But I am neither
tonight,
so I wander.

My Poetry: This Time Last Year

As I laid down beside you,
this time last year,
I dared to believe the war
was over;
The final trumpet
for the casualties of love's doomed youth
played long and low
as i laid to eternal rest
in your hands

But today,
as I pass our old cottage
memories both yours and not yours
exhume the ghosts which cursed our dreams
even though we knew
the lull of war was temporary
just like each time before.

And so this buried man
in heart shaped box
stands tall again
and vows henceforth
to fight the gravity
which dulls my heart.

This time last year
I thought the war was over.
Today, it's a little closer.

My Poetry: Important, If True

Important, If True

---

True love is
important if it's true
or by weight of feeling
you know it's truth.

Or....

By bitter search
via moon or star
you life's bitter journey
is indelibly marked.

Or.....

When in doubt
with no wish to escape
your open heart
accepts its fate.

Or....

By first head then heel
from grace you fall
but unto the One's arms
you're caught.

Or...

By blind faith,
death of reason,
you, at last can see
Love is important...