Not my King!

Not my king

Not my government

not my establishment.

I resent you all

who can stand tall

and not be beaten

or arrested in protests

who can stand tall?

when people are so restless?

who can stress less

when all around suffer

where is the buffer

for the cost of living

where is freedom of speech

replaced by law and order unforgiving

us.

We may all curse and cuss under our breath

no freedom to protest cause we might cause a nuisance

law and order just an excuse

to beat down on us through and through

no freedom

when we just accept

that this law and order just crept into view

grew out of our fears through and through

they’ll come for us and they’ll come for you

they’ll lock up our children too in this state wide prison.

No money for services or the epidemics of mental illnesses

as they cause us will full distress

and keep the peace through an iron fist

like the fascists we were told to hate and malign

written underneath law and order wins

fists of the police hit our chins

meanwhile the prime minister grins

as his profits hit the roof

the truth is lost under parliaments roof.

The history of words

Words have a history

it’s not a mystery

If you do the research

from racist toys

for girls and boys

we have to respect

words have a history

and so do objects

so please have some respect

and acknowledge the implications

we all want to be loved above stereotypes

and life is cannot be lived in present only;

history matters

and leaves us sometimes in tatters

words will often leave us broken

hurting us more than sticks and stones

and broken bones.

Simp-pathetic ?

I love you like you are my light and my life

wanted you to be my wife

loved you like a fetish

black like a rubber skirt

the words you say hurt

you cut my heart to ribbons

and still I am giving

my all

in your dominance I fall

I hit the wall

but I drill through

I love you I still do

but I am ruled by you

the wisest thing to do is to walk away

but I can’t eat or breathe without you

I love you I know I am no wimp

maybe I am a simp

but I love you all the same

in our deranged game.

Prison of loneliness

From the lake of fire

to the snake of desire

I am lonely.

Hell is carrying around loneliness with you

it grows out of all perspective

it grows with you

it starts with a child’s heart

of wanting acceptance and love

people’s love

then it turns into anger and rage

that you cannot have those connections you yearn for

that you burn for

in later life

a maddened heart torn apart of the fear

that you will never see one person from one day to next to make meaningful conversation

that ache in your heart becomes more than a sensation

You learn that your needs won’t ever be met

that life has caught you in its net

But you are forever alone.

No one knows what you go through

in truth even if they saw your entire life

their perspective wouldn’t change

or see yours, isn’t it strange?

to be cast adrift in world that promises much

and delivers very little

hearts grow cold and brittle

and they break in many ways

Not just in half in the centre

you may plan your ventures

you may look for adventure

but your only friend is you

and love is only love if that’s the truth

The devil on a cross

The whisper of a shadow song

Morning star no glory

just a story

I am just lived backwards

hidden track words

scars like lines across paper

can I save her?

I am not what you think

drinking from a cup of agony

no God can save me

but death won’t enslave me

I am midnight verse

nails won’t surrender to my skin

the truth they told you the lies worn thin.

We are gathered here today

We are gathered here today

To bear witness

to pray for the best of ourselves

we buried

so we could fill our food shelves

and work jobs we hate

but not abbreviate

our own sadness

madness caves us in

we are lost

in depraved cravings

as another migrants ship sinks

where is our humanity

we are on the brink

of degrading and hating our own species

or has that ship sailed on its own sea of faeces

I don’t know so say a prayer

for the people we could have been

if life wasn’t so mean

and we hadn’t of adopted

and been co-opted

into ideologies of hate

as we masterbate

over our own tribal race

and forget that we supposed to love every face.

This wasn’t the life that was advertised

I am surprised

and yet lies

are a belief of some kind

they advertised this life but it has been unkind.

They teased social mobility

the agility to move into the middle class

but aspirations

fall short

they distort

where realised truths stands the door

to the psychiatric ward

where holidays abroad

stand a benefits trap

a DWP map

with no way out

I doubt

I will find a way

into a future a brighter day.

This life isn’t as advertised

through google goggles

through YouTube models

I don’t have a car

three kids and a wife

I have pain and strife

Pessimism is my crutch

no offers or as much

No one gives me a chance at a job

they just call me a benefits slob

I look after my Dad as carer

they swear yeah

even when diagnosed with a serious mental health problem

they think I robbing

tax payers

and no amount of praying

will solve

when the life as advertised dissolves.

Honesty

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.

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…