My poetry never gets read

My poetry never gets read

it hides in street corners instead

it lurks in the shadows of grey days

and seeps like a Smokey cigar out the window in a haze

It gathers at poetry recitals

where it splutters and mumbles

into action

my poetry is just a distraction

an interaction between a mad man and an audience

an ordinate scream

like pissing in a stream

and wondering what it smelt like

starving poets told to go on hikes

My poetry never gets read

it feeds the angels instead

but they don’t share

or care

enough to tell

what poetry of mine is from heaven and what is from hell.

I just like writing

poetry which is like lyrics without musical interlude

I know it’s rude but never mind you won’t read it anyway

and if you do have nice day…

The woman with many faces

In the darkness and light of a daydream from a distant heaven. The woman with many faces but one soul. I have looked at legends and myths. She is a gift. To live many lives and still remember some of them is her curse.

I remember she woke my kaleidoscopic mind like in the song porcelain by Moby. A conversation between the two of us. Her timelines spread across mine. Her heart and soul a beacon for mine.

Giving me a reason for life and seeing beyond the illusion of separation. She has been living all the lives I see through the collective unconscious the Holy Spirit is a girl a woman a mother a sister a friend a lover and so much more. Life would be a mistake without her music. She speaks through the crowd words of wisdom that guide me.

I have been labelled schizophrenic but I can see her spirit in all things. The way the wind moves the trees leaves she is one who guides us all. Oneness is what I have found I am her protector I love her darkness her light some may say I have lost my mind. And all the unkind things but those people are blind.

Book of shadows

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.

Memories and the hooks of the mind

The hooks of the mind

can be unkind

they get caught in the past

in happy go lucky memories cast

in fires of joy

or they get caught in the skin

of the unkind memories we keep deep within

sometimes I want to fish with those hooks

catch memories where I want to look

nostalgic daydreams

but the present is all we really have

when we realise that memories are trying for a land grab

the fish like memories we have stored

need a sea

but between you and me and I just want to be…

There’s a cat made of light on my window

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 believe in peaceful protest…

The fists in the street rise

in solidarity

just a symbol

but the beat down is quick and sick

blood spills down the street like cans of red paint

police on horses with their batons

create bruises and scar tissue patterns

are we scared to rise up against are so called masters?

or will it be a disaster

maybe our upper lips are too stiff

or the memes and distractions too much of a gift?

Spiralling costs

are we lost?

in profit driven madness companies gains

the stains of the poor are blood sweat and tears

is humanity only governed by their fears

Are we too afraid or too tough

to say enough is enough.

Paper bomb

If we could read all the love letters

the poetry projected over the years

the ink would form the night

the words stars

the sun our intention to love

Would rise every time we wrote the words

the sky and birds

would scream we are alive

I would use the paper and poems we wrote

to drop from the sky

letters and prayers from us to god

to breach the void between us

The elation of creation

within our United Nations.