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...

My Poetry: I Took My Heart Out

I Took My Heart Out

---

I took my heart out for a walk
We wandered through the pines
Along the river banks lined
With weeping willow
And all the time
We confessed to each other
Without confessing anything at all.

I took my heart out for a dance
We dressed in matching shades
Of dark and painted
the town red to match her lips
and all the time
we held each other
without promising anything at all.

I took my heart out for a drink
We chased pints and shots
ran around like hail on plant pots
I spilt my secrets on the bar
She laughed and ordered more
And all the while
We held on to each other
Without holding on to anything at all.

My Poetry: It's My Fault

It's My Fault

---

It’s my own fault
for thinking,
then as I grew weak
believing.
I cannot blame you,
from the start
you told me
the way it would end

But I begun to believe
when we kissed
and held hands on a date
when your pyjamas
got sexier
and you’d texted me
for no reason.

I began to believe
when you made me
forget
the red head
and all the other beds
as we shared in jokes
like best friends.

I began to believe
when you brought
back the smile
missing from my lips
for so long
it felt forever…

It’s my fault,
I fell for you,
I cannot blame you.

My Poetry: What Future Outside Your Arms

What Future Outside Your Arms

---

What future this man
with no desire
outside your arms;
as the summer
of our courtship
turns to autumn
the fresh crimson shoots
of passion
fade
to ruddy orange browns
and the songs
the morning lark
sung for us
disappear under
the cuckoos call.

What future this man
with no clear skies
outside your blue eyed gaze;
the last fractals
of our summer daze -
where we shed
our cocooned selves
and flew
through the scarlet dawn -
now fade to grey
with the clouds,
and my heart
and old pictures
become the only reminder
of your smile and grace.

What future this man,
with no desire
outside your arms…

My Poetry: Even Now (at arms length)

Even Now (at arms length)

---

Your words cursed
as you held on to
fragmented freedom
and now,
even now,
as your head
rests on my chest
I hold you at arms length.

City street lights
cast orange shadows
your fingers twitch
but now,
even now,
with sleep’s breath
on my neck
I hold you at arms length.

Love’s irony
warns me your touch is not
a place to grow
comfortable
and now,
even now
as we spoon
I hold you at arms length

As you wake
kisses lead to bruises

as sin grows darker
and now,
even now
while I'm inside you
I keep you at arms length.

 

Pic: Stella Murray Whatley 

My Poetry: Suburban Dusk Falls

Suburban Dusk Falls

---

Suburban dusk falls,
illuminating the sitting room
sanctuaries of the Saturday night
stay-ins;
I watch the tv
through the couples window
wonder why they sit
on opposite sides
of the couch,
if they still kiss
an electric glow thrown
from brushed cotton lap top
highlights the lines
on her sallow face,
her partner starts
to channel hop
so bored
I turn my feet
head to the end
of the street,
past pairs of friends
past half empty pubs
past orange lamps
to an empty couch
and ask myself
if given the choice
would I swap my lifestyle
with those strangers
and I know...
half of me would.

My poetry: As Rusting Cogs Turn

As Rusting Cogs Turn

---

The streets are littered
With broken hearts and glass
And the shattered dreams
Of the many,
Repressed and depressed by the few
Who demand more numbers for their time
So they down tools
And watch with glee
As the pavement’s become scattered with
The flotsam and jettisoned
Ideology from a supermarket nation –
Streets stacked high, getting higher
With old trikes, knotted condoms and
Premium brand packaging from bourgeois kitchens
Litter blows on the easterly
Through the overcast streets
Because some men believe in bank statements
And virtual money
Hoarded for higher purchase big screen TVs
And cars they’ll never own out right.

Kept fat with desire
By a consumer fed mentality
For the things the adverts
And celeb shows tell them they need.
More, always more
Numbers to feed the machine
To pay the desk bondaged
So fatter cats can take their kittens to Disneyland
In lieu of love, cuddles and bedtime stories
From a cartoon character
Falsified land, where dreams come true
But only for the suited monsters
With Mickey Mouse morals
Who mock the celeb drunk prolatariate
Brainwashed by their 52 inch screens
While their kids play in the streets
Littered with refuse they refuse to pick up
Because the union big wigs
Say down tools till city bosses
Pay,pay, pay
More,more,more…

But the black girls
And eastern Europeans -
Who take care of parents
Whose kids don’t care -
Don’t care for numbers
When they pull on trainers
And crusty smiles to walk to work
Over broken glass
As the funk of shit sits over the city
Like acid rain clouds or a drunk uncle
At the Christmas table
Meanwhile…
The cogs on a rusting machine turn
And ten days later protest strikers
Return to work and overtime
Florescent jackets
Sweep, sweep, sweep
And the machine is oiled with numbers
And everyone is happy, again
Pretending the rubbish
Has disappeared or been gobbled
By a Disney monster
Which it has – eventually…

check this for context: The Fresh Stink of Sea Air - M.C. Freshness

My Poetry: Goodbye

Goodbye

---

I saw stars,
when the news arrived,
a sucker punch

disguised in
bitter words

rained down

like glass.

Tossed aside
like yesterday’s news

fish wrap,

hooked then left gasping

for air.
Years of toil and loyalty
lost to this

last fairly well
but girl please leave

knowing the bad
outnumbered the good
in so many ways.

And know
the sadness
which leaves
stains on my shirt
is not rejection
nor humiliation
or the hypocrisy,
of they way you acted
but for me
and those wasted years.

My Poetry: I'm Free

I'm Free

---

I cried
I slept
alone,
I ate
I slept
I woke
alone.

Goodbyes
were said
I cried
and cried,
but then
one day                                                                 

tears dried.                                                    

Sun shone
I smiled
I'm free
of pain
and hurt
and you
at last.
I'm free
I smile
and joke
again
I'm free.

 

image: Banksy's Brooklyn Heart

My Poetry: One Day My Death...

One Day My Death...

---

One day my death,
Will mean nothing to you,
Just as the death
Of shared dreams
Means nothing to you now.

Cursed from the third date,
pretending it meant nothing,
We lied to ourselves
And to each other
Thinking it meant nothing then.

Dehisced heart in pocket,
means nothing to you,
You threw back the pieces
Like you hated me
And it meant nothing to you then.

You’ve found another hand to hold,
It means nothing to you
When I offer mine
To acknowledge our past,
Which means nothing to you now.

My Poetry: Since There Wasn't You

Since There Wasn't You

---

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since the face in the mirror
was recognisable as mine 
as it walked out the door.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since the sun rose on the day
and the flowers bought for you
stopped showing their beauty.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since the old time records 

my loneliness used in lieu of a lover

lost their charm.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

since each meal became a chore
and the fork in our roads
left me starved of your kiss.

It's been a month or more
since you were here;

now the man you left to rot

 hums a new tune
as a new you beckons him forth.

It's been a month or more
and I'm forgetting you were here.

My Poetry: I think of all the words

I think of all the words

---

I think of all the words,
both those I wished I had
and had not said.
Remember the times
when words were useless
kicking through Autumn leaves,
watching you smile
realising I loved you.
The naivety of asking you
never to leave,
how with a curve of balmed lips
you said, you never would
but you broke
so many things
along with your promise.

My Poetry: The Pianist

The Pianist

---

The wizened pianist plays
old blues standards
beneath a peeling sign
that reads
‘Wonderland Inn’ -
but nobody believes it.
He plays each night
till dawn
for money and company
matching each regret
with whiskey and beer.
He plays soft,
almost silent,
for himself,
and fast

for the hearts
on the dance floor as they
gamble for a kiss,
like broke poker players
who would rather

cheat the dealer
than acknowledge their luck.

A still from Casablanca

My Poetry: Her Hands were Warm

Her Hands were Warm

---

Her hands were warm
where yours were cold.

Love disappeared,
 a stranger to us both.

 

I never meant to let you know
that way, but it happened,

when I wasn’t sure
if purity existed,

so when she pointed to salvation
I took that lethal dose

and now the high is wearing thin
I realise that love is starting again

without prejudice or past
and without believing it will last.

So babs I don’t mind who you wake with tomorrow
just know you’re on my mind right now.

My Poems: I'm An Achiever...

I'm An Achiever...

---

I’m an achiever,
but my achievements
mean nothing to those
who have always achieved.

I’m an achiever,
because I’ve broken
from the chains
that kill dreams.

I’m an achiever,
because now my dreams
are more than hopes
no matter how much I regress.
 

I'm an acheiver

because no matter my regressions

I know the path

needed to to grow.

 

I’m an achiever,
because I grow
with each heart I touch
and each one I lose.

 

I’m an achiever,
but my true achievements
mean nothing to those
who prefer power and money.

My Poetry: A Winter's Kiss

A Winter's Kiss

---

The sun set slow
over slate sea
the wind howled
cold across the beach
you tied a red scarf
tight
round your throat
and buttoned the buttons
on your grey duffle coat
against the winter.
We held hands,
for the first time

that night,
as from a wet bench
we watched
the Christmas lights dance
off the pavement puddles,
like fairies.
We laughed about
our life, our friends 

the drizzle
until our shy hands met
for a second time,
then,

without knowing,
we shared our first kiss.

Still taken from Breakfast at Tiffany's

My Poetry: Waiting for a Train at 7.35

Waiting for a Train at 7.35

---

The dark cold
hugs the strangers
standing around,
motionless,
staring at the tracks
waiting for a thought
waiting for a lover
waiting, just waiting.

I look across
the fading station
at the ugly tranny
holding court
with freeks and geeks
who are all discussing
Shakespeare's poems
that he's translated into German
for the Dada scholars.

When the tannoy lady
says something
about the 7.39
from platform four
to Brighton town.

The train arrives,
and I take a seat
opposite an expensive suit
with shades of grey
in his eyes
and yesterday's paper
on his knee.
And I'm jealous...of his shoes
and he's jealous...of my freedom
and I want to ask him to swap
but he gets off
in Moulscoomb
before I can be bothered.

The train doors slide
and metal rattles
on metal beneath me
lights shimmer across the city
as we glide over the rooftops
I can see through the windows
of homes:
people making tea.

Then that tannoy lady says:
'This station is Brighton,
please leave
for other connections.'