In the cupboard of lost purposeful poetry

In the yellowed worn out dusty pages

the poetry that had a purpose is not lost

no matter how much the ideas cost

In this cupboard space

like the recesses of my minds eye

Ideas on the page never die

the reader if they thumbed through my poetry

would likely gain a paper cut or two

red ink another happening

mapping the page

the poetic wars we wage

on this desperate stage

between poet and reader

In this cupboard hidden away

will these poems ever see the light of day

like the dead poet lost in time

his reasons and rhymes

still unearth histories

and mysteries of life and of the earth

from birth to the finish

these ideas won’t diminish!

Maybe behind the library rooms and shelves

the poet unpublished poet finds themselves

and their voice

And these poems and half finished ideas

give a voice to voiceless after all these years

will be found and treasured and made into books

that people will treasure read and look

after finding this lost cupboard.

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.

Love music and wealth

In the space that moves in our hearts

in the words that rule them

a fools language called love

sent to quell.

A heart is made in heaven

doused in the lustful flames of hell

In the dawn the morning star

in the night sky the sun

if you chose the right beat

we’d all be one!

but the drumbeat has a silence

and an off beat out of kilter vibe

The scribe is not a musician

but he is at least alive

the changing of the patterns

the flow of electrons

introspection of personality

the tonal chords of brains with clarity

We dance to words without reasons

we give chords bass and beats flow

the movements we know grow into routines

routines that we form and sow

We drift into daydreams

sing of far off lands we yet to visit

and we gather the images we envisage

We look for our dreams

and measure them in gold

and diamonds sold

yet they are our wealth even in cold

wintery days where love is the only language

it maybe a fools language

but that’s all we have

don’t let our innocence be nabbed.

A different operating system

My iOS

is analytical

my circular thinking sometimes is an ellipses

my blacklight is the moon

I sometimes feel a sense of doom

pessimistic gloom

whether I am apple, android or Linux driving this computers machine

I laugh until I scream

My search bar is Firefox

not Google

It’s has an interesting internet history

why is a mystery!

special interests

religion

Science

and philosophy

A cacophony of voices

and anxiety about choices

My App Store has flaws

is yet to be developed

my operating system

has ghost code

I sometimes have to try to avoid goblin mode

I find social stuff hard

Autism spectrum disorder

It’s hard to understand

even with AI

I know I am wired differently

I just don’t know why?

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.

Is anything really new anyway?

Beat box

Sounds the same

dubstep bass sound gains

the themes of songs will they run out

recycled like words of revolution

films and their titles

characters and dance recitals

books and villains

psychosis and chilling vendettas

is anything really new?

colours and musical spectrums

songs on the radio, a selection

the human condition and reality

dragging out themes

daydreams scream

they generate our generations dreams

can we be different

can we be new

can ideas be lost

can they grow inside of you?

Peter Pan as a Man

Drifting from day dream dramas

Karma an unhinged beast

feasting on imagination

His righteous indignation

blushing red against his skin

but chained against his respectable aura

he didn’t want to grow up

He’d rather blow up

like a bomb

Songs gather enemies embolden

the golden days are over

fairies watch dying in the distance

His shadow takes over leading him on

Peter Pan as a man

He’s forgotten to dream

to feed the crocodile of time

these are the days that loose their shine

corporate suits kill

never land roots lost

We all grow up he’ll never settle down

lost in psychosis

waiting for cleansing osmosis

telling tales no one believes…