Good

I’m starting to feel old
The wisdom jettisoned
Towards oncoming oracles
Whose tongues still
Perform magic tricks
Righteous oratory slicks
Combing over the arid
Plain singing
In one of two tones,
Complexity is
Messier than a
Simple song about
Right and wrong.
I understand, I do,
The verses that used
To froth from my lips
Were full of shit, too
Life was, is, unfair
I burned through
The energy to give
Something back by
Singing selfishly about
Structures I barely understood
Using kitchen towels
To mop up a flood
Nobody noticed when
I stood up and cursed
Maybe, now’s the time
To get out and do something
For the greater good

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Good

Elegant

I’ve been given my injections
Jabbed in the arm
All the armoury I need
From a word floating
Through the air
Like an elegant dancer
Shape and form
Twirling through the gaps
Heat seeking missile
Dynamite on impact
But I’m standing tall
A diplomat of importance
Over-reaching my area
Straining to leech
Bloodsuckers in baths
It’s difficult to sleep
Without guards to halt
An airborne attack
The tiny dancer
Whistles in the wind
Carefully throttled
By a little voice
Whispering into my ear

Elegant

Self

I am not myself
When I’m with you
Or myself when I’m without
A sense of my self
On the whole I sense
Myself, existentially,
Aware that a self appears
When I, as myself, experience
Eyelids lifting in dim light
Hear, as myself, the sound
Funnel in through the ears
But I sense that my self alters
Things that seemed reasoned, once
Suddenly, lack sense
A perspective of selfish
Desires not driven by myself
But needed to remain my self
Or merely, a self, an abstraction
Knowing, myself, as a collective
Though I am, myself, conscious of
The inconsistency with which
I, as myself, often convey
I’m unable to know whether
It is myself, or my self
Where I, as myself, behave
Like an abstract being
Cells, as a self, at oneness
I’m not so sure of it, myself

Self

Regime

Strong boys toot their horns
Marching two-by-two
On all fours

Fun for all the children, rifle
Them in before bullet
Points doubt

Strong and stable computer
Simulations. Friendly
Firing squads

I perch above street level
Giant canvases
Roll on

Marketing campaign slogans
Stick like confectionary
To car windows

The long drive home through
Grey drizzle and greyer
Suburban gates

Strong boys don’t cry themselves
To sleep in barracks, they
Play in anger

They drive a bulging six-pack
Into their bottled heart
Stopping cardio

Knowing more about regime
Change than any folks
Back home

Regime

Void

It’s cool to be a nihilist
Pour that bleak, scornful
Weak coffee over the head
Of a loved one.
They stop talking to
Roast each individual bean
At 37 degrees. Life
Signs are good, above
Average life expectancy
We get to watch as puffins
Exhale on their tiny island
Reminded, of how pointless
It is to try at all. Ivory towers
Shooting birds, such a great
Huntsman, they’ll say
Taking the little victories
The small pieces of joy
Smashing them like
Colliders of matter
Colliders where matter matters
No matter what the bulilding
Blocks turn out to be

Void

Biohazard

It’s hard to write poems
Like you’re a voice for
A generation of artists
Suffering in silence
Apathetic about stagnant
Careers in thrift managing
To exist day-to-day
Without ending it.
Glumly, I flick through pages
Of questionable merit
Every job needs a portfolio
Nobody uses filters to cut
Shit included to pad it out
Give it a noticeable weight
A polished golden biohazard
Charged at the industry rate

Biohazard

Rigid

I’m supposed to write
About things I see
Frame them in a delicate verse
Both patient, and a butcher
With perspexecutive lenses
Yelling through glass cubicles
The click echo location commands
If not for yourself, then
For your community
The street spirit that died
When we locked our doors
Never quite straightening
The visual cues on the wall
Aware of many pictures
Competing for one role

Rigid