I have been occupied
Like the sign on a toilet cubicle
I have been subjected to your ridicule
Your voice comes and goes
like the wind that blows
Maybe my heart was hollow
and needed to be possessed
but now I cannot rest.
I have been occupied
Like the sign on a toilet cubicle
I have been subjected to your ridicule
Your voice comes and goes
like the wind that blows
Maybe my heart was hollow
and needed to be possessed
but now I cannot rest.
Right left we bleed the same
can we forgive
live
better lives
Cancel culture the cancer of the left
Bitter resentment fills out our hearts
no love either side
thought police divide us all
right authority with no escape
raid the poor
but the poor hate the rich for having more
is there an answer
or only more hate.
People don’t want truth
delusions and illusions
are more loved
more accepted
more respected
Honesty, a fools game
people douse you in shame
a repulsive mix
stick and stones
may break my bones
but words will dethrone
a king from his own throne
and people will turn away
and leave him alone
the mirror of truth is always distorted
we want to keep it that way
we aren’t objective
we want to be respected
but our public relations feed on Facebook
would bleed away if ever we showed who really are
Our fragility and our fragile ego
Break like a dropped model of Lego.
Magic can be drawn from
the spaces under your bed
where there are night and shadows
there’s magic instead
like the stars that burn
dark energy forms
we are the universe born
scribbled chaos in ink
sinking into depths of imagination
and sensations
magic that is a promise
yet to be made
An obsidian blade
that protects us from harm
cuts through curses and dark arms
unseen
we need the shadows as much as the stars
for contrast is what we are.
In my wondering
pondering
desolation
I am an imp
an upstart crow
with a limp
a little bit more
than your average trickster
but a little bit less
than my average best
a sour tongue lemon zest
a speaker
drinking from a plastic beaker.
There is a cat made of light
On my window
watch them sun glow
sometimes they wake me up in the morning
There’s sometimes a cat made of shadow
it hides from the rain
and my worrying mind’s brain
There is a cat made of stars
blinking and meowing
purring and scratching
latching onto the window with its claws
There is a white cat it’ll find me death
it’s name it’s Azrael
and when it’s on my shoulder
I will walk into the life beyond skin
and never get any older.
I am a prison of puppets
muppets who can’t free themselves
Supermarket shelves bare
I am cursed
empty pursed.
lips dry and empty
swept under the Carpet of artificial grass
I can’t be arsed
freedom is too hard a task
I am can’t save myself
for all grasping
rearrange the letters in my name
it spells denial
I can smile
but happiness won’t change a thing
I can’t stop dreaming
scheming
a way out of dread
but pestilence fills my head…
I was wild and free once upon a time
a child with time and rhymes
but my parents can’t listen
just thought of me being bad
curbing my behaviour
they couldn’t be my saviours
I went quiet wanting to start a riot
It could have gone two different ways
but life strays on to one path
the aftermath of which
made me a background poet
my poetry is the ink I bleed
from wounds I don’t need
My parents need me to be their counsellor
but I can’t
I just can’t…
cycles can be broken
when loves awoken
but sometimes I want to fight back
to see the crack
of light through the walls.
Waking up on a cold brown leather sofa
Not knowing who I am
a man and women ask me how I am?
I ask them if they have any children?
they say no
then a child comes in from the voids light
it’s her birthday
she says I will never drive as knight rider plays on tv
then she asks for a sister and two appear
more birthday girls although one older and one younger
Years on I went to that house
a girl not the same one says something terrible happened here to you
because of you
I hear it in the whispers on the telephone
I see visions of the man being arrested
how did I get home?
memories fragmented
this waking dream won’t relent
I am prevented from seeing what happened
In the days when the exception they say
doesn’t need correction.
we are all creative
but some have it beaten out of us
at some stage
the war the exceptional person rages
is either to have their words heard
or to keep their creative side alive
and not have it brutalised or strangled
an Angel or messenger of light
has to fight to maintain their angle of light
and their perspective and sight.