Skin

Your beauty is only skin deep
One lash will fall
Impede the eye of mystery
It’s waisted.
On the size of your
Corrected curves
The vessels
Soon ooze
With treacle, black
The sweetness
Burns an acid sour
Retracing those steps
To get back to where
Laughter lives
In the young cubs.
You swallow them whole
With a veinous wrath
Your smoke leaks
The horrors of blackness
Skin bare, cold hands
Vanity rips through another
Pair of lungs.
I lack the heart
To tell you how to behave
But it once pounded
In a cage of your making
The monster, afraid
Not becoming what becomes
Of each living thing
Organ stitches sew
New paths to bleed
Young love, not
Always what it seems
Skin touching skin

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Skin

Litter

I’m a literary fearist
Literally in fear of
Being lit and critically
Burned by unforeseen
Circumstances from
Those reading books
In cultured scenes.
Litter lines my street
Neat rows of planted cans
Flowers sprout up
Through chicken wings
Bodies, fleshed out
Plots of land spread thin
Not a single metaphor
Mixed in the cracked
Pavement weed skin.
It’s a tarnished hole
Of thoughtless crimes
Against the wordy world
In library lobbies
Where the whispers swirl
I’ll admit my guilt
Emit the fear, cuff me
Before I stray within
A hundred yards
Of a keyboard, pen
Or pencil case. Laptop
Desk or a paperchase
The furious snapping of
Scholars flexing twigs
Burning every copy
They find sitting on a shelf
Come light the kindle
Destroy the notes
Relieve the world
This storyboard needs
To find a deep tarmac grave
So no-one has to suffer
The fear of it
Being read.

Litter

Right

The way society works
Is to reach an invisible
Hand in to crush a heart
Without warning
As a selfish man reaps
The rewards of coming
First in the evolutionary race
The rights of two
More important than one
Solid friends need
Close stimulation
The exhausting experience
Of invasive spacial perception.
I see the hazard light
Flash in my eyes
Who am I to refuse?
Security, remove this bastard
From the bus.
I’m in the wrong, and I know it
But despite the hostile muttering
Not a punch was thrown
But inwardly I dig myself
A little shelter
For the four hour siege
Trying not to eat
The sensitive areas of brain
Sometimes, it’s best to forget
The momentary lapses
Of your own contradictions

Right

Flake

Brushing off loose
White flakes, powdery
Talc fizzles gently
Through the air
Leaving a brief residue
Fleeting dust, settling
As individual parts
Where light cannot penetrate.
Blinking cartoon eyes
Wide and white, watching
From the dark, words
Vibrate meaning, strength
To carry loaded terms
Till the boulder flecks its flint
Floorward fleeing
The structural sleeve
It disintegrates to ash
An urn to mourn an ancient feeling
The anxiety of being alone
When people rush by
Without any thought
Off to lick a cool wafered cone
As solid cream slowly melts
In the searing midday heat
The bleached white expands
Spread along the matted grey stone
Spilling out lengthways
Leaving a flake, exposed
Atop the splattered mess

Flake

Shadow

The bright blue cloudless
Oblivion casts its dominance
Over my furrowed brow
Feeling the heat drift
Into a shadowy individual
Sucking sweat
Mimicking movements
Using predictive tricks
To keep my eyes
From seeing the leech
The blue dome stretches
Across the line of sight
Not obstructed from
Above the valley drop
I sleep more, and find the toil
Too much to carry on
The shade beckons me
My shadow carefully extricates
Itself, in search of a new host
Till I feel half
The bag of bones, relieved
On the cool forest floor
Breathing some life
Back into my springs

Shadow

Uniform

I’m from a time
When green land was punctured
By grey men, fertile
Features homogenous
Blades of sweet screaming
Little land of golden bricks
Shook under the weight
Of demolition dating.
Concrete jungles swung
Through tired old tin roof shacks
Replaced by luxury
Fa├žades, sat high above
The natural eye line
They flaunted their wealth
From the top floor
Cash would have landed
Like bombs, if any had
Trickled down.
We could customise ourselves
In ways future thinkers
Could never have foreseen
But we accepted our uniform
The grey replaced the green

Uniform

Pin

He rolls up a sleeve
Perfectly poised
To pull a pin
Sparing destiny
A hard defeat
Gracefully kissing
The hard wood with knee
“Shot”, they chime
Comrades with fists
Bumping off each hit
Like the end of a game
Playing the strategy
If you hit a six
Then we’ll take out ten.
A confident stride
Shirts of nylon
Creaseless, pristine
Dry under arm
Pressure still builds
No scent of alarm
Until the target’s acquired
Then the ball spins from a hand
Strike, in one swoop
Little men dance
Like tortoise upon their shells
No guards to keep
The gutter out of play
Raw emotional crunch
Of ball striking bone
Where a loss means
Sprawling out
Openly weeping
Living in pieces.
Now the game’s done
Breakfast cooks by the fire
The hen clucks out an egg
The yolk, a deep colour
Boys see its hue
Practice their swings
Triumphantly yell
About winning a battle
With an army of so few

Pin