life

HUMAN BOOKENDS

It is here
in this bottle-necked existence, locked
into days captioned by ticks and tocks
where time resides in each of us
until it stops,
rotating the same hands
inside the same third dimensional clock.

It is here
where every breath exhaled is a universal kiss –
it is simply one moment and
the space in between this
that binds together our journeys, which,
as uniquely defined as we feel each is,
are all chapters of the same book
we write to reminisce,
primed and painted with the same theme we
create to self-exist,
scrawled by the same pencil, held
by the same hands as we persist . . .
each of us artists
with the same precise and leather-bound twist.

It is here
where we long for real purpose or true faith –
to believe that something
‘other’/ external / majestic
awaits . . .
but in nothing we trust
yet, cry blame for our fate –
each a different monologue of the same hate;
the same distracting soul state;
the same periodic and prolific bait.
God would not want us, at any rate

It is here
in darkness, arms around each other’s back
that war hangs overhead in stasis,
circling, cycling on a track and
wearing thin our patience
while it leaks like yolk from all our cracks
(we watch it drip indifferently as we huddle tight within our pack)
S
I
L
E
N
T
L
Y
preparing
for the next surprise attack:
we, like wolves, insane
and seeing red with every flash –
our lonely pain inciting hunger,
our deep abyss as black.

It is here
in this cosmic explosion
and it is now just as it was then,
that peace is nought but a tragic parody
of the dreams of passing men –
and nothing changes but the theatre of stars
in lines, in queues, end to end,
enemy to friend to
ENEMY
for decades once again,
consuming pain like greed as our bellies, full, distend,
living every angle of the lie like it is money we MUST spend,
the broken tales of each of us
portending, true, our end;
dangling one more burden
like a dog-tag for a past we’ve penned,
at rest beneath a headstone
in a yard of human bookends.

BOOK OF LIVING DREAMS

In waking sleep we all expire,
remote organics built to tire –
searching lusts for something more
to fill our souls beyond our core

We lay awake inside a dream,
asleep within a constant stream,
alone, in part, to wander, lost,
with passing time our only cost

We play as shadows holding hands
with eyes wide closed and few demands,
our every moment briefly clashing;
fast forgotten memories flashing

Here, we count down from our birth
with time a thief upon this earth –
purpose teased at every corner,
Chinese Whispers our informer

But all will realise when we’re gone
that we were dreaming every song –
that death becomes another story;
a painless world of allegory

It’s clear we write this book forever
as single pages bound together
to lay inside our reader’s minds
in passing paragraphs of time

MOTHER AND WIFE

Bear witness
for in this river of flesh
I carry souls ashore
where countless numbers of
babes become men
become monsters, and then
become thrustly
and greedy
and desperately famished of reason
but too fat with ease, and
too brittle and fractured
of heart and of sense and, thus
absent of care
to repent or ascend
but instead
so depend on their
wafer–thin skin to protect
their descent
into watery storms
– into tangles of nets –
– into womanly curves –
and the blue, blue eyes of
breasted streams,
ungodly fresh sin,
and purposeless dreams.

Bear witness
as I birth these farmers of filth
who strangle the earth while
I patiently wade in the knee–high abuse
and the ocean of seed
to stand watch by their graves in,
where the no–longer–babes
(the sailors and cowards and bastards that dribble)
are caught in a wave
made of stone and soil (crippled)
and anchored and drowned
without sight, nor intent, but just
passage of life
for a time once less lived
due the freedom I
selflessly lost
but to generously give.

Bear witness:
I swell with the waters of life
– the mother and wife –
for an endless such blight
yet, still, I exist
swept aside
and, despite.

THOUGHT #243

Desire fuels the starving spark of presence.

INCEPTION

Inception

Time: a purpose
built for frolic and fancy;
an infinite seduction
so exquisite
that it’s yet to be considered to exist;
a burden so nameless
that life abandons it
almost upon inception.

SOCIETY

We
rush recklessly forward
in awkward sentient colonies
blinded
by self-preservation
and fragility
consumed
by regret
and indecision and
burdened by lust
(shadowy voyeurs that we are)
and
in unreasonable haste
by misunderstanding.

We awaken

sleeping
powered
(faultlessly)
by emotion and media:
desperate
to get ahead of change
before change changes.

We push
almost silently alone
– forgivably selfish –
and factory bred to be unaware
of what to ignore
drowning ourselves in excuses
and reasons to find them
and
searching for peace
but harbouring nothing
– absolutely nothing –
of the sort.

We survive
possessed by impression
and ruined by greed.

We launch
propelled onward
and up
finding any description that fits
to fit
calling it ‘destiny’
(the time we have left)
oblivious
that time exists
nowhere
but in the moments that we hurry
now
(society, that is)
in droves
to pass on by.