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.
Knowledge is carnage it kills lies
Those pretty liars don’t like it!
Knowledge is power
it hurts you want it
more
it opens doors that you shouldn’t want to open
it plays on repeat in hidden escape rooms
with the truth
that pisses you off
it makes you want die
cry open up and ask why?
but it’s scientifically proven
so there’s no getting around it
confound it!
But knowledge is like a clever serial killer you have to look in the right places to find it
and most people unfortunately are blind to it.
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.
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.
From Cinematic skies
to the cemeteries where they lay us to rest.
From the hovels of the poor
to the grand entrances of lords.
From ladies who go out on ladies nights
to men beaten by many fights
the stories we tell ourselves
not sold on supermarket shelves.
From the desperate love in ashes
to tattoos of hearts set like gashes
from the schools classes
through to the waiting rooms of life
from the mother cradling her daughter
to the Dad fighting his way through wars and slaughter
to the conventions of gay and straight
the way we breathe in life and wait
or wipe the slate
and find foundations and roots in identity
and eventually bridge the gaps
born into this life our mothers and fathers telling us stories for maps.
Themes of life and love
the great adventures there of.
Under a sign of neon loneliness
We are all drifting
shifting uncertainty.
If you don’t say what you mean clearly
it falls apart!
Like the shifting sands of a man’s heart.
I love yous repeated like rhetorical questions
a quest never to be won
a word we lean upon
but who really knows what it means
we can only dream
of being narcissistic kings or Queens
with enough love for ourselves
the magazines sit on the shop shelves
Do they dream of being read?
Loneliness the killer of lives
love the flip side of the coin
but they join…
They call me the bravest man in the world
but I just want to be held
and kept in her cage
admired at her whim.
Alienated alone
Friendless in the friendzone
No forks to give in a world of spoons
A real world character in a world of toons
a goon army
that want to harm me
I must be barmy
An only child to a wild man
a Stan to other people
imposter syndrome makes me feel unequal
the film I wrote won’t be a prequel
it’ll be where I stand
to where I finish as a man
This life is bitter
a litter of ironies
this life is a cycle
but the spokes won’t break on this bicycle
I am a nutter
with clutter in my head
I am smart but not book smart
I am art
but in chaos
I am the freedom you find in loss
I am joy but the heartache it cost
I am the I am and I am god
I am the I am but I am a little sod
I am the odd
one out
I am you and your every doubt
the beating second
the way it beckoned
I am reckoning
I reckon
When I reach the end
send
for help
I know I am freedom
this is where I gulp
for air…
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
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.