You who hide behind your job's place
The security of position
What are you waiting for?
Your own souls are dying
You have surrounded yourselves
In the fat and grease
To protect you from the from the Viking hoards
Who come pillaging at your door
You may pay them off
With all your riches
Protect yourselves
From war
Or real risk
You who
Fatly waddle
Down your streets of pleasant peace
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
A picture of you is a sketch at best
A portrait I guess
To capture your soul
Or to exhibit your beauty
Now who is this picture
Is it you?
No for you have changed moved on, grown old
The picture remains forever young
And in the eye of the beholder
Becomes whatever he or she believes you to be
But not the real you
Just the picture of you
That superficial brush stroke
The work of light play
Shadow and contrast
The movement of your flesh
Some ideas
That attach us to our own flesh
So what becomes of your picture?
It is consumed and absorbed by the viewer
It becomes a body given flesh
By the eating
The cannibalizing
We have become the cannibals now
Having gorged on instagram, we are walking albums
If not in our heads, in our eyes
In our nervous systems
Changed irrevocably by the humanity of flesh
Where is the democracy of flesh
No it is a thing without choice
Feasting on the ever present, omnipotent, inexhaustible
Stream
So turn it off,
In a flash you can dream
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The crime of cetacean murder
Whether by whale or dolphin
Can be summarized in one way only - guilty
Or more informally:
- You did that on porpoise
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Back slapper
get back in line
Backslapper gonna make you mine
Do you the things that I want you to
Back slapper
You gonna slap me black and blue
Kindness never killed the cat
Curiosity did that
You keep slpping all them backs
There gonna back you in a corner
Gonna lay you out flat
Catnapper on the pay of the man
Painstaker you gonna carry the can
Rain wrapper gonna drink your span
Slam dunker in the holiday van
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
This kind of love isn't floating my boat
This kind of love is sticking in my throat
This kind of love,
This kind of love
This kinda, this kinda love
This kind of love isn't doing me any good
Oh I should have been in showbiz
I'm in the wrong neighbourhood
This kind of love, this kind a love
This kinda, this kinda love
This kind a love is like a bottle of wine
Corked in the middle, it's way past its prime
Down in the alley with the dirt and grime
This kind a love is some kind a crime
This kind of love is getting my goat
This kind of love is making me bloat
I've gorged on the love, I've worn out its coat
I need a new candidate before I have to vote
That kind of love is winning the race
I want that kind a love to take this one's place
It's all up in the air, it's over the line
This kind a love is some kind of sign
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Here it is the mountainside
The moon like surface
Meet your guide
Its uphill from now
Be on your way
The wise pilgrim knows he cannot stay
Be up high, closer to God
The shoes on the other foot
And the horse is shod
First, there was a Tailor
And next came the Priest
But the crucifix jailor
Was not one known least
He was a soldier
A fighter like you
And like you he once was on a mountain too
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The Rocks have splodges, splotches of black
Moss spotted, lichen baked, the microbe rack
Faces that were once cracked
By the ice and snow
A shattered crown, a humpty dumpty
A Jack on a hill with a crow
And a crowing goes Jack now
His pock-a-dot tied up in a sack
A stick on his shoulder
A whistle on his lips
Hip-hopping over boulder
Tip-toe topping down dips
A slipping on wet stones
The rushing galling river glen
The flushing archipelagos
Of Moss, liverwort and lichen
The saxifrage in Saxon tongues
Lolling, lapping at the fringes
Watercourses bleeding through the rock
Water falling in dark singes
The high table land set in cloud shadows
Laid for a feast of the giant of the mountain
Yet his guest never comes
Never treads foot on steep path
Nor tows his flag pole up
Nor visits with his laugh
This cold place of Ghosts and stages
Actors rehearsing dead plays
Poets reading from never seen before pages
All is secrets up in this plot
All is hand tied
Mouths closed
You get what you’re given
And you’re not given a lot
These are the days on the thunder mountain
Where the crags are the stalls
And they echo their applause
In claps and snaps
And cracks in the atmosphere
In the buzz of the dead listening skies
In the hearts that crack and break up there
On the mountainside of the mountain lair
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.