The Infection

It is the pain
the tongue reminds itself
when probing again,
a duty, which it knows is wrong
but it is compelled

The pain makes
a cycle of a drug
infused mist over
wakefulness

Better to be doped
than aware of the acute
nature of brokenness

draining sleep
face like a Elvis
version of itself
10lbs illusion of gain
Still waiting
then a jump as a
rubber clad hand
presses the part
the tongue know

Well at least my language stayed un blue
even if the colour on my
inner skull

being codeine doped
is a lesson
for later

Damn the tongue that
never will be taught

 

———————————————-

 

Sorry peeps been dazed and resting on a gum infection fulled codeine zombie session. 😦

On the plus side if there was ever one been catching up on netflix movies 🙂

 

Potential

I stood on the metal bridge
watching boats and yachts
in the harbor
all with their potential
shackled and tied to the shore
the lights of building and masts
reflecting in the calm
the sound of lapping and the smell of salt
a choir of gentle actions against
this grief of bondage
I felt my potential shackled too

I felt choices had been removed
and the pound in my pocket
too precious to pout
no longer disposable
—————————–
unfinished
—————————–

Rip 2004 – 2012 the bewildered years
where food became less, beer became more
guilt grew as a sunflower
whiskey in my pocket ciggy in my mouth
and the final rehab was a move to wales
where the inner spirit heals
still I look for Gabriel in the specks of dust
all a parting gift from a star

Our Cat

 
Our cat
is lazy and black
a little bit grumpy
a little bit fat
he sits by the backdoor
looking to the flap
gets ticked off
when you push him through that
expects you to open the door
never coming to your beck and call
 
 
A cat is a cat
it’s a matter of fact
 
 

It was that simple

It was that simple
like the sheen on a pond
where my sky is in the sea
the sea is in the sky

but not that simple
the cold in my liver
shells telling me about noise
my head un-preened and tufted

it was cold on the sands
a grey yellow warning
weeds and wood scattered
some burnt

it was that simple
a walk to clear webs
where sense should be

Bones

My primal bones feel it
my nostrils consume
it’s a throw back from
the animal, the scavenger
the hunter
the sun knows its history
my bones stretch

Longing to throw off
the modern contamination

you call it spring
I call it

Annual hope

Letters

These are the days
When letters cut
And bore you
They don’t post
Butterflies any more
But send you crocodiles

Through the door
Traps to knee jerk
Your hands in panic
Of past lives, thought forgotten

The envelope brown and innocent
Plain elephant skin to remind
The imperfection will cut
You, tiny paper cut reasons
They don’t send butterflies anymore
But deliver crocodiles to the door

Sharks in charge of devil telephones
To collect your soul should it be proven, they will lay claim to owning
That too, my eyes hold black shoes
Double exposed tread still new
Not yet worn from pacing

May be I will confuse these wolves
And backward kettle men

Maybe I will post them
Butterflies

Partner

She was swayed
not side to side
but from her mind

as the moon fell
to the kitchen floor

her partner
temporarily extinguished
her sun

wanting to put the news
in a bird cage
and forget its
mere existence

some letters
burn the retina

Social conscience

Social conscience
A well tied oxymoron

Putting the pee
Into
Pollution

Phone

                   Sometimes
 
        The mobile is like
a friend nudging you
     with a wet sponge
 
              and two metal clips

Free will?

Sometimes I feel it in my DNA
All country’s we’re conformed
By killers and contortionists
Before the good law
But yet the good law had its fill
Of killers some of them we call Hero’s
Even angels slay their kin
With their perfect excuses
Of the perfect authority
Where all atrocities
Are in the question of the right
To govern and yet there is

The perfect confusion
In our history of freewill

Is it truly even free