Indifference Blues.

If I could have my way within the prison of my mind
I would appoint you as guard to keep my sentiments in line.
You could seal my untamed adoration for you in a white chamber;
a clean, secure place where my doubts couldn’t get to her.

With my anger draped in chains, you could lead him to the chair
and with that action you’d ensure for us a worry-free future
because no matter how I try he seems impossible to supress.
So as my contentment yanks the lever could we quickly share a kiss?

I can hear the mournful wails of the convicts on the wing
as they rattle on the cages while my anger’s giving in.
His cleansing screams are echoed by my pride and vanity,
but in the true picture, the lever’s manned by my complacency

because not every breath is meant to be a sigh.
We should yell and howl and cry and sing and be silent when we die.
There's so much time spent waiting and wasted words said to the sky
that it’d be criminal to stay silent
when my words might act as treatment
and help dispel all those demons
that are a bane upon our lives,

so if you could leave the cell doors open, I think that’d be preferred.
You could help to quell the riots with some smiles and soft words
and my anger can run wild at the injustices that occur
‘cause in some ironic way I think that makes me happier.

Weeds.

Listen up good, kid, ‘cause it’s vital to see -
you may be a coin fresh from the mint to me
but in this garden you’re just another scattered seed;
of no exceptional value nor above decree.

And your mother and your father are no towering trees
despite what your admissible awe leads you to believe.
Like most of us they’ve accepted that they’re more like weeds,

so it’s about time you embraced humility
and recognised you’re just a puzzle piece;
a servant to sunlight and gravity;
a grain of sand at the will of the sea.


First post in a long time. Writers block is an anus.

Homes.

Your home is like your first love – you're sure they’re your only one.
And when you pack up and leave you’ll miss them to death
no matter how far you run.

In time you'll come to consider there are others out there for you
and while the search can be tiring, testing and telling
it's foolish to think that untrue.

And while the roads are endless, there are plenty of places to stop
and maybe when you do you can resubmerge your roots
yeah, you flower, you might open right up.

‘Cause soil is sundry and tailored, and though rainfall can cause you to wilt
some flowers will float on the water
and some plants, they grow down in the silt.

So don’t anchor yourself in one place and don’t let your roots shoot down too deep
unless you’re sure that you’re outgrowing everyone else
and I assure you that’s a misbelief.

Genovese Syndrome.

I saw a car crash not too long ago -
it lay upturned and burnt out, at the side of the road -
and most people driving by had slowed;
a stalling parade of spectators.

Safe in their shells they crept on by
with slackened jaws and peeled eyes,
wondering how many had died
and whether it’d be in the papers.

There's alien children drinking dirt
and an alien man with a bullet in his heart
and your love for them should be absolute
but you're fretting over your hair.

This life has left us broken or bent
and we ignore the reminders of the consequence
but know that we all make the conscious assessment
of how far we extend our cares.

The Purest Ecstacy.

Within a strictly private chamber
we entertain trite conversation,
assured that others speak critically of us
in other rooms
that lack the dancing drapes and lavish adornments.
I have overheard their misconceptions;
I do not care for their opinions.
In attendance are four guests and I,
but the centrepieces of this room;
this house; this street; this town
are the two women who sprawl themselves
invitingly upon purple cushions
and whisper, ‘play my games.’
These two are rare breeds.

One with skin as polished as frost,
crystal kaleidoscope eyes
locked fervently on my own:
Madame Desideria Madeleine Achard;
a mystery of exquisite tastes; between thirty and forty,
though it differs every time I inquire.
Her lip twitches into a smirk on one side,
until she cannot control herself
and beams a telling smile.
Too much of this temptress will ruin a man.
Though now she is on her pedestal, soon
I will consume her - crush her -
and forget altogether
why I forbade myself from indulging.

On the other side sits a contrasting luxury,
a budding flower, innocent
yet often misunderstood.
She calls herself simply Mary,
though I have heard she goes by other names.
We have met many times before,
in dim lighting or at gatherings
where her presence slows time.
The scent of her perfume sedates me
and awakens a rapture
that I feel only in her company.
She caresses my shoulders;
my mind; my spirit with sensitive touches
of her ashen flowing hands.

When I awake Desideria will be gone
and I will be glad of it,
and though Mary remains
her alluring facets will have burned away.
I will draw the curtains,
each hour hand and first digit will go unnoticed,
and we will appreciate her company
until well after she has gone;
until the last trace of her scent has dissolved.
I will hear often of Desideria’s frolics,
but I will avoid her confrontations
because I know what is good for me.
Mary, on the other hand,
is always welcome in my home.

I Don't Speak Newspeak.

I can get the bigger picture from the window seat of an aeroplane,
and I could fly around the world with all the ideas I’d entertain,
but it’s normal to feel pressure with the buildings rising tall
and forget what you can see is hardly anything at all.
The artificial lights obscure the stars,
but who’s trying to see that far?
When we’re judging our happiness on what other people earn
or listening to anchormen as they raise new concerns -
it’s poison and we’re hooked on it;
we’re settled; this is home.

I dreamed a slick man in a well-pressed suit who thought that he was free
but after years of bending his back and the truth he had an epiphany.
He removed his tie - it always seemed too tight around his neck -
then walked home and burrowed through heaps of cash to find his self respect.
He replaced his black ink pens
with sets of coloured crayons.
But I’m not doing myself favours with these promising pipe dreams
‘cause I had another where that miserable man was letting off some steam
in an alley with a young girl,
indifferent to her screams.

So I try to do my best but I don’t do all I can do.
Our one hope is that these rotten apples’ seeds yield finer fruit;
that each soldier sees his brother's face no matter where he points his gun
and the children abandon our trite pursuits in search of real freedom.
We should clear the path of our debris
to make their passage easy
‘cause right now the future isn’t looking so good for the kids
they’re cherry cheeked and doe eyed or living spoilt on benefits
and when half the world’s on fire
they will cheer and wave their flags.

It’s just a natural reaction; if I’m frightened I will run
and I’ll embrace the dangers that await over the horizon.
And perhaps no matter how far we go the borders will subside
but we’ll have lived without our fetters and be contented when we die.
So baby let’s go right away
‘cause I know that if we choose to stay
our futures will be typed out for us up on PC screens.
The countless flashing cursors cause me great unease,
and there’s no way of slowing it,
this cannon ball rolls on.

The Process of Learning.

I’m not as quaint as Joanna
or as loud as when the bomb went off.
That’s the shovel in my hands;
that’s acknowledgement I’ve said enough
before I have spoken.

I’m not the voice from the gutter
or the minister, but when I see others
with their hands in their pockets,
kickin’ and whistlin’ some carefree tune…
I often wonder what songs they sing.

But these verses aren’t pictures of me -
I’ve no idea what the words to that song would be.
It’s admittance that I need to speak,
and speak loudly, not mumble as I have been.

So I plead, turn off your TV
and drag yourself outside to steal some peace.
You might choke on what you breathe.
You might realise you’re not complete
and move on.

There’s a dog digging for a bone
and elsewhere there’s treats of a grander size,
it’s everything his owner’s let him know
and in those piles of dirt is where he’ll find his prize.

* A work in progress. Not entirely happy with this.