There was traffic on the A19 The toll of incorrect change and Passes in the wrong lane Past the deadline for paying, again. If one day the heat of the moment Rises beyond the honked horn, The River Tyne will boil with such a rumble That crayfish will float among the Nissans.
Originally Written 09/05/2020, Edited 12/05/2021
Bestowed gift of manifestation As laid by this babe's head, Bring abundance to this child With bounds yet to be unknown. Create from his flesh a conduit Flowing bountiful in curiosity And free in unabashed glee. Fortify his bones against misery And afford him only adoration. Grant him true expression of Boundless and pure creativity Cascading from his fingertips Or coursing from his pouting lips. Hold his tongue from envious spite. Transform those jealous intentions Into tangible and fortuitous actions. Harbour angers, fears and explosions To free his spirit for fresh pursuits. Transmute his negative shadows Into innovative and fertile passions That may regenerate his being And unshackle his ambitions. Produce from this humble bairn An infant of widened eyes and heart; An enduring and steadfast being. Make him true, fair citrine dreamer.
I’m faithless and unashamed
For God did not give us grief.
Love manipulated our trust
So that chance could gamble
With the futility of our existence,
Ripping the tense velcro bonds
Of hearts grown together.
I applaud it’s gamesmanship,
For it doesn’t laude it in our faces
By any means other than simply
Gathering the grim and gaunt
In coats of greyed gaberdine.
Long coats hanging as if empty,
Made black from the heart’s rain.
I am faithless and entirely alone,
But still gesticulating to the air:
An open chested final demand
To give back the gift of grief
That greeted me at this graveside.
Need I be a god-fearing glossolalist
To return this heartbreak?
This margarita Drank at a dozen a dime, Uses island lime
All the far places That the heart wishes to be Come with a price tag
I stood on a boat On an ocean oh so blue, Missing only you
I long for a break, End the mundane daily grind Just for a moment
Momma told me not to run with scissors Lest I pluck out my own eyes With the rounded tip of the blade. But she needn’t have feared impaling For the glittered edge could split reality Into newer categories of felt or unfelt, Processed or compartmentalized in boxes That are to be continuously mislabelled And indexed under different triggers. Momma told me not to run with scissors Lest I pluck out my own eyes With the rounded tip of the blade. But she needn’t have feared impaling For the glittered edge was a siren That promised to multiple your mark By severing the ties to reality a little more. Knowing the hook was catching enough To long for a longer, deeper verse. Momma told me not to run with scissors Lest I pluck out my own eyes With the rounded tip of the blade. But she needn’t have feared impaling For the glittered edge was a safety blanket Bound in bumps of gentle grip polypropylene. Soon substituted for safe preschool variety In the same clear polyvinyl therapy pencil case As the steel screw fit pencil sharpener.
Slam Walk away Don't look back
Locked Turned key Safe as houses
Opportunity Once Presented But turned away
Chapters Eventually close On our past
Gently Grasped handles Pull to frame
Run in the rivers Scrub beneath the finger nails Blink - it's back again
The brush of absence Without feeling or thinking Paints death into life
We can't wash our hands The blood is under the skin Written in our past
The cheap cotton shirt Rubbed on his plump neck As he sat on the edge of the bed Watching her adjust her cheap polyester bustier. They’d discussed pricing. He’d already paid half. He was nervous, Hesitant, Didn’t think he could So she cut him slack. She pursed her lips And tugged at his zipper. When she was bobbing her head He was positioned staring at the ceiling Unable to sit. Before long his face, Once a grimace, Glowed from completion. Slipping out another twenty, He passed her a tissue and left.
Yous are ruining my life Belts an immature Geordie tongue Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. I hate yous Screeches her juvenile lungs Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. You’re not a very nice mummy Shouts the crying child. Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. * I told her she couldn’t have chocolate for breakfast
To escape to the land of fairy tales and princes, Would be marvellous at best, Escapism at worst, But beautiful that none the less. For living in castles, Comes rent free, Spare the dragons and dungeons, And curse bound witches. For jobs are for peasants, And royalty we'd be, With bountiful Riches, And careless minds. Yes reality is no Castle, And princes are but men. Fairy tales are stories, And Riches are sparse.