Monads, epistles, fevers, colds
Cool drooling mouths
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Will you create a lasting world?
Will you dry our tears
Will you ensure life for every boy or girl
That's the sum of all our fears
That's the sum of all our fears
Are your eyes seeing, what our eyes see
These visions of hell and heaven not free
Will you close the book and just let it be
While the water boils down in the sea
That's the sum of all our tears
That's the sum of all our tears
With your finger on the buttons of a warhead
Will you press the red button marked send
Will you let loose the dogs of war unlead
Like the fossil fuels that have come to an end
For that's the sum of all our fears
That's the sum of all our fears
There wasn't a dry eye in the house
When the film of Earth ran off its reel
The director was as quiet as a mouse
But you could hear every producer just squeal
Will you ask mother nature for a refund
Saying I thought we had a lifetime's guarantee
She said look son what you've made me do
It's because of you that I had to roam free
So I stare in the mirror like a mad man
And ask myself what am I going to do?
Just wait for death here in the badlands
Where the dry winds are blowing their due
Shine a light in from outside Lord
For this house is going into the shade
And we're sitting beneath a hanging sword
It's one that's only man-made
Let us be judged by a court of our peers
Let the hammer stroke beat on the gavel
For this is the sum of all our fears
For our fears yet have a long way to travel
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
James Allen he lived down in Bowlish
And he planted near Darshill docks
Where the water flows down, from Shepton Town
And into the sewery locks
And he collected these Ukrainian snow drops
Beautiful flowers like pale faces at bus stops
These Caucuses brides who were carried on the tide
Of the Crimean War over fields of crops
Which soldier with his face buried in the mud
Looked up to see their beautiful faces
While cannon balls fell all around
Red blood pooled in all of the places
What hope was there in their black despair
To see these white flowers just growing there
Up from the soil, the good earth of their toil
Like a spring of hope in the valley of death's lair
And so back they came as bulbs in pockets
Who knows what horrors their porters had seen
Back to shine brightly like light bulbs in sockets
Though not yet invented the electrical gleam
And growing them hardy and growing them strong
James Allen adapted them and brought them along
In his greenhouse, his shed, his garden wall's shade
Damp like the valleys of the Crimean parade
And with powder white hands from the flour mill
Dust on his jacket, green fingers of skill
He picked and he reasoned, discerned and he judged
Used tricks of the season, through forest paths trudged
And he cared and he reared them in the English style
To be well adapted to winters in these British isles
Until these Ukrainian flowers learnt to love these lands
Brought here by soldiers, tended by gardener's loving hands
So look around you in February when the snowdrops bloom
And think of their journey from the hands of doom
And hold a light brightly, like their fair heads shine white
And look into the future with hope and fine fight
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
In the cinema of certain dreams
Where the 'dumbmoney' themes
Retro-actively alert and stimulate
An already heightened audience
There are the pronstar couple -one black the other white
who begin kissing every
time the protagonist mentions running
naked through lightning with his dick out
The word dick is a activating one for her
for some reason
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as they are
directly in front
Then the young men who love a toke
Began to move when the young brother spoke
And smoked upon his big bong
Then the older couple who sat at the front thought
What have we done wrong
When the music with explicit lyrics came on
About sticking her pussy out and her bum
Or big ass pussy as in the American is common
And that's about the size of it for me
What people do for a thrill on Saturday
In a public space
It seems the cinema theatre has become a stage for all the people
For whom they see on film the You tuber
Sway and cajole and persuade
With his engaging enthrall
And being brave
Well hey, we have been inverted in our culture too
You can see the couple who have watched too much porn
The internet grave
Or those who follow the dumb ass videos of 'retard' can I say?
They do in America, they do on the internet where nobody
stops them, where they ride the wave of popular opinion and reaction
And harbour dreams of being millionaires in shares
And stock options
Sticking it to the man
Like on the planet of the Apes
But can I say, I am still abhorred
By the extent to which people can gamble away
And put a squeeze on the hedge funds
Who short the stocks on the ordinary man
Working in the ordinary company
Which it bankrupts in the end
No wonder, I can understand
But the whole culture is one of greed
I deny these Robin Hoods are any more moral
Yet he says the system is broken
He is trying to equalize the struggle
The stock market should be open
For anyone smart enough to play it
Not only the rich few
Sure perhaps it is the land of the free
And the home of the brave
And he really did study the fundamentals
Of the company gamestop before investing
But the others did not, they just followed suit
And he lead them to change
Well the same thing happens to humans all over
And sometimes it works out
Sometimes not, it's all just a gamble
I respect the risk they took
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Per se perseus flying on Pegasus
It's not the flying I object to per se
It's the dog food they turn me into when I've landed
That's why I stay aloof in the hoof
Up on the roof tops
Those are the proof stops I need
Just professor proof and Mrs lies the cat
She's always lying down
What an untruthful cat
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
It's what he would have wanted
A queue of traffic 500 m long
Down a narrow ridge road
With barely enough space for cars to pass
It came to pass
That as he passed
And the funeral guests arrived
The mourners in their Toyotas and Hyundais
In their Vauxhalls and their SUVs
In their Ford's and Mazdas and Minis
That the poor man who was the star of the show
Could not get to his own cremation on time
The hearse was blocked in
The hearse reversed, it shunted forward
Inch by creeping inch
At a snail's pace
Even slower than the slowest mourners
looking for the last parking space
And what is the world coming to?
When you can't even get to your own funeral for congestion
Honestly
But it's what he would have wanted isn't it?
For all these well wishers, with tears in their eyes
And expensive looking suits
Setting trends in funereal fashion
To drive, all individually to his cremation
On the Mendip hills
Now that's using your head!
And who said tiredness kills
And as the body lifts and bends from the pelvis
As if to make one final point "and another thing!"
In the burning holocaust of the furnace
"Stop driving to funerals!"
Then as flesh melts from bone
and bone crumbles
The skeleton falls
Apart
And what advice he would give
Would we listen now?
No longer human in form
Perhaps once the flesh was willing
But the spirit?
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
And we are just echoes of a love
All childhood
The love of our parents
Is the first love
Then I was a child
Like an egg broken
The child grows up and tries again to
Be whole
Like a child again
Girl becomes a mother
In an echo of a woman
She once knew who loved her
The boy becomes a man in an echo of his father
And in echoes we ache to be loved
We ache to be this whole
But each vibration of life
Shakes us further apart
Stretches out our frequencies
If you're lucky you
Get on somebody's wave length
And love is an echo,
An oscillation
Until the adult shell breaks
And the ego
Drifts
And childhood is everywhere
In dementia
The echoes of childhood are strong
As the love, the need for love again
Of the parents
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.