life

5 A.D.*

My heart is shattered
yet still continues to beat
somehow
even as I trample
over these shards around my feet
somehow
I feel nothing
nothing but peace
nothing but peace
in every single broken piece

 

* 5 days After Dad died.

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Standard
poetry, prosetry

’til Death

1. It looked like the scene of a crime and I suppose it was:
manufactured by a fucked-up mentality and fuelled by pity,
it was a crime against sanity, a crime of stupidity,
and now I’m gonna have to serve my time until one of us dies.

2. I’m stuck to you with claret glue but you are bad bad bad news.
I’m bad news too but you think I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
That’s just one of the reasons why it was a fucking stupid thing to do.

3. Your dark red dabs remain underneath the fresh magnolia paint and I had to throw your jumper and my t-shirt away. It was a good idea at the time: the unification of two bedlamites, the formation of an everlasting alliance between the perpetually misunderstood, but the knife in the drawer and the scar across my palm reminds me that you do me far more harm than good. Blood smeared on our faces like war-paint and Eminem elected as our patron saint, how we laughed and thought we’d finally found our place in the world: together, against it.

4. “Dream Team, baby.” “Nightmare Pair, baby.”

5. Now that we are family, bound by loyalty, I can’t get rid of you. Well, I can. We always said we’d go out on the blades of glory and this is definitely gonna end badly. You think you’re Sid but, trust me, it’s more likely that you’ll end up like Nancy. Ah, God: it would be way too easy.

6. The problem with a blood pact
is that you can’t take it back:
you’ve got me as a friend
’til the bitter, twisted end.

Standard
poetry

Heartlock

my heart: a chunk of amber
an ancient rock
washed up from the baltic
opaquely transparent
like us
our love: the mosquito inside
a moment in time, chaotic
stuck in perpetual flight
frozen in aberrant delight
preserved lust
trapped trust
your smile: fossilised
your lies: petrified
those years spent
were no accident
you’ve still got
my heart in a headlock
my head in a heartlock
unbolt the deadlock
let us see the light
of day
again

 

Standard
poetry

7 Things I Learnt At Uni

  1. Jumping to your death is better than getting eating by your mother
    Re: hamsters
  2. You can obtain a degree in English having studied only 4 hours of Shakespeare over the course of your entire life
  3. Her Majesty The Queen is reet petite
  4. There are kids in the world who are so rich that they don’t do laundry:
    they wear a pair of socks once then throw them in the bin and buy more
  5. You shouldn’t pour boiling water on coffee – it burns it – 85 degrees is optimal
  6. Don’t make somebody your everything because. when they’re gone,
    you are left with nothing
  7. All food looks better when served on a square plate
Standard
poetry, prosetry

A Sorry State Of Affairs

Good morning, London.
If you’re reading this, congratulations!
You’ve lived to see another Friday.
Good morning, London.
If you’re reading this, commiserations.
You’ve lived through 1000 days of Brexit.
Another day, another death by blade,
another hashtag, another have-a-go-hero.
Atrocities peppered with royal babies,
terror on the back burner
to make way for another celebrity suici—
BREAKING NEWS
Reality TV Stars are Humans with Feelings!
(You say ‘stars’, I say ‘participants.’)
Anniversaries and gofundmes,
Westminster and Manchester,
Dunblane and Hillsborough,
Grenfell and 7/7,
stranger murder and internet danger,
lest we forget:
lest we forget that these events are out of our control,
we can only sit back and watch the horror unfold
from the comfort of our council homes
on our fancy new smartphones.
Victims getting younger,
prisons getting softer,
vigilantes getting punished for doing God’s work,
remember when this little island had so much to offer?
Oh my goodness, a D-list celeb has gained weight
“Look at the state of it!”
Religion preaches kindness,
ignorance breeds hatred.
Who’s Afraid Of ISIS State?
Sorry, we’re too busy to deal with
our own homegrown caliphate, sorry,
I’ve got to send Tesco a passive-aggressive tweet
about the absence of tomato in my BLT,
and come up with a witty response to theirs –
sorry. Sorry. I’m so sorry. Sorry.
Ah, our glorious nation,
built on a solid foundation
of queuing and apologising,
of sarcasm and profligation.
You’re blind, you have no legs, and you have 3 months to live?
Sorry, you’re not eligible for the full rate of disability benefit.
But the bloke down the road who is a roofer on the side
and can run up and down stairs?
GIVE HIM ALL THE UNIVERSAL CREDIT!
A sorry state of affairs.
Darling, #woke and #Brexit cannot co-exist:
the two are mutually exclusive.
But London’s burning,
and you can live stream all of it!!!
The newspapers are an endless torrent
of stories of hatching, matching and dispatching,
vile comments, casual racism and mansplaining.
Make sure you Instagram your #prayers
and Tweet your reaction,
live, as it happens
but, other than that,
do NOT take any viable action,
do NOT try to make a change,
do NOT get involved,
just collect your pennies from your plugs
and remember that you are #blessed.
Make sure EVERYBODY knows how much you care.
So I’ll see you for the revolution at dawn?
No, of course not. You wouldn’t dare.
The murder count rises
faster than the cost of cigarettes.
15p added on the price of a pint?
Oi, Hammond, you wankstain, you want a fucking fight?
(Anybody else still wondering how Tony Blair sleeps at night?)
How about we try to Make Britain Great Again?
Because we are actually were Great, once upon a time.
Silver linings, swings and roundabouts,
county lines and Leavers doubts,
4 hour wait for an ambulance,
and votes of No Confidence,
but when times get tough
we can all sigh with relief and say,
“At least we don’t have Trump!
Put the kettle on, love,
we could all do with a cup.”
This isn’t the Wild West.
This is a test.
And we are failing.

Tune in next week to find out
how many people are arrested for no reason at tomorrow’s march,
which members of Pizza Club ordered which toppings,
what Tommy Robinson’s been up to,
which actor has been denied planning permission,
and who has been a very naughty boy!
Don’t forget to like and subscribe! @me!
@mememememeit’sallaboutme
Abusive comments will be [screen-shotted
to be discussed in Daily Mail Online
before being] deleted because
WE DON’T TOLERATE TROLLING.
Stay woke, stay blessed and,
as always, stay safe.

Standard
poetry

Reason

Isn’t it strange that I am your voice of reason
but not my own? And for good reason, too.
Me being your conscience seems so unreasonable:
there are so many reasons why I shouldn’t be,
why you shouldn’t listen to me,
and yet you do.
Words fail me. Reasons fail you.
You are not my reason for being here,
just as I am not the reason that you’re still here too.
There’s no rhyme nor reason to any of this.
No raison d’être to be found in our town.
‘Reasons’ doesn’t look like a real word anymore,
for some reason.
It looks like it should be the season for treason.
No rhyme, no reason.
No rhyme nor reason to be found in our town.

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