Poetry


The girl queen of the purple children

Crowned with the hesitation

Of a whole forgotten generation

Contributing to the passed-on efforts

From a sofa lime green

Violently marked as the throne of guilt

So cunning, deep

A lingering wave of rescued solitude

Sleeping on a black cat so ruined

And ages old cutting marks

In her shivering ghostly arms

Fragile

From inside out so vaguely

Hanging wired from the threads

To the outside world

The true meaning of Dreams

Is not to be an awesome song about mourning

But to break free from scars so deep


To be useful

A fully anchored functional act

In an era of traders

Finders keepers

Bounders kneelers

All kinds of beggars so desperate

Mad!

In the world of shuttering

In its ups

and downs

This is a firm bid

For the bad!


IN THIS UNIVERSE

The true meaning of laptop is

The endless works of happiness

Portable work space

An office always in hand

Clean in the absence of ink, dust

Old golden rust

Reachable, manifestable, indestructible

A flow of never ending portraits

Delivered straight to your doors

Depiction of the entities so sad

Today can be found

The missing link

Between machine and the man


In the evenings there was finally time

For Patty to come out and play in the wilds

A special song played by the fire

The fall song

Floundering into the deep middle air

Patty tangling himself into

An orange chiffon scarf so wide

Finding the sorrows old

Fading away with the back seat yeah

Way back when flannelled yet untangled

Strictly forbidding me to listening to the howls

Said the others could not move the soul of ours

The evaluators of this divine comedy who are they?

Powerful spells and wisdoms

So carelessly thrown

Poured from a mason jar to another

Specialization

Doesn’t really matter no more

How could someone

With as powerful voice as his’

Be so uncertain about herself?


The upward trajectory of the unwashed hair

Lies in the middle of this November fair

Treated like a thief in the cold autumn air

Inspectors as cold as the right-wing ice

Wants you to ban the basic human rights


Walking past a man

Selling on top of some old hatches

Just there, down the road

Selling old verses down the road

Black hat covered in smoke of the notorious street

“Hard times, eh?” he asks

And out of pure sympathy for me

Reveals his teeth rotten into gold

Somewhere in the South Pole

Lonely times ago

So I sit down near the winds

On the rooftop where the past generations were bought

As happy as into silent

But what it comes to us

Being sold as the new born generation X of Anti-Christs

Feeding our parent’s peer-intensified musings of superiority

Conspiring in their office dens

Like men rather not the mice

The only question left is

“How much does it cost

To keep one generation of slaves alive?”


THE THINGS MY BOYFRIEND ONCE SAID

Just a day after me

Being dug up again

From those god damn wedding dreams

Sat on an orange sofa peel

My boyfriend went on and said

As if being in a dream;

Imagine if Jim Morrison

Was the one after a party to never leave

Just sitting there

In the living room floor

So cosy (and almost neat)

Eating your only cereal bowl clean

Explaining the dwell away

With a nightly encounter in a cave

High off at the back of an eagle

So desperate on black magic

(And occasional joints of weed)


CAMP DELICIOUS

On the year

The notorious Trump won

My dad taught me

To take pictures of the soul of the time

With a 1970’s version of Polaroid

Soon we moved on, though

On a smaller flat containing more serious matters

Of film and lightning

Capturing the moments

Of the neighbouring back door darlings

Just moments before leaving

Mom said

That it had inevitably turned

Our small worlds upside down

When all we really did was

Transform the toilet

From a pink oasis to darkroom

Now negatives are constantly flying around

In the company of neatly rinsed clothes

All hanging from one unit of washing line

When they were handing down the award

I thought; wow

I must have inherited something more powerful

Than just curly hair

That looks like after a very lucky run

From the claws of a whole Jurassic Park


THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE CLEANER AND THE COOK

It was a rather unfortunate bean;

The one that happened to slip

And drip

From a toast onto Jim’s floor

Usually so neat

Missing his toe with an inch

Staining his old silk carpet

Brought to England

By the waves of post-colonialism;

King and the Queen

But this was a trickier ordeal

A battle of the tricky bean

And the lady of the house

Not taking any order’s from

Her husband

Being so keen

On the orange breakfast bean

That happily sat on the toast of the Master chef

(And not the person who actually cleans…)