Psychography

The blank page is stained,

Ink bleeds into spiders limbs.

Spreading through the fibres,

With arachnidian pace.

Beige pulp tainted,

With the neatest script.

Obsessive pause before touching the page,

Then letting go for words to take control.

Loosing time to pages,

Hours to rhyme.

As the heart like cartridge,

Drips into words.

Tracing my signature,

Like figures on skates.

Deliberate Accident

I heard a failed firework,

Went to the window to twitch the nets.

A razor chill ran up my spine,

What was a cold, black discarded peak of tyres,

Had become a blazing funeral pyre.

Windows blinked at the reflections,

Flames dwarfing street lamps at midnight.

As the buildings hide out of sight,

Behind pillars of smoke that dance in the moonlight.

It makes you sweat with unease,

As insignificant humans try to tame the writhing beast.

It snaps and screams,

Then begins to moan.

As it meets the inevitable mud pool of fate.

Drowning thousands in profit,

To sign the claim that saves you.

Decades of family hours,

Crackle into an anonymous shop shell.

The Dwindle

Add it to the pile,

Black gadget obsession.

Replace what you already have,

Devoid of necessity.

Re-enforcing hurried lives,

So quick to share a passage compared.

With invisible glue you paste on facebook or twitter,

Vocal discussions reduced to discarded litter.

Text speech for your stories out loud,

Have stolen voice box, Braille or your best friends reading hours.

Cd’s and cassettes of audio book fame,

Abandoned in libraries of yesterday.

Tubes in a decade,

Full of tombstone clutching commuters.

Sitting in row upon row,

Waiting for what to do next from their computers.

A minute to buy, download then read,

Why such a hurry and craze for speed?

You’re eradicating the pilgrimage of the famed emporium isle,

Wandering through bookshops to pause and browse for a while.

Up to three and a half thousand books to be stored,

I was thinking when booking a flight last week,

How on earth will I get my bookcase on bored?

Reality check.

Not all five stars,

In your Amazonian skies.

Whispers of software ice ages,

And an electronic pinstriped abyss.

Your infatuation with convenience

Takes four months to fix.

No crinkles, rips or raindrop foot prints,

Only perfection without grain or pulp.

No longer will typos or double chapters,

Create priceless one offs for the collectors vault.

I tried to fold over a corner,

But neoprene snapped like my knuckles stuck in a queue.

Instead a pixelated angle of an impostor,

An ironically clever dog-eared fool.

The involvement of accidental bath water,

Has now come to an end.

Will you snuggle into the radiator,

To be read once again?

Fantastic memories of autographs,

And childhood waiting,

Hugging my indelible census of signatures so close,

To glimpse the fame in ink I was anticipating.

And what happens now,

Are we reduced to a cd pen signature per screen?

At a tonne a piece nail them to your wall,

Next to the crucified article staring from your pin board.

I caress lines of script with my finger,

Smile at doodles and frown at crossword scrawl.

No fiddly buttons,

Just me and my humble pencil.

The breeze turns my page,

Avoiding the unsquare digit dance you must fight.

With your jumped up flash drive’s E-ink,

Emulating the true original,

But will yours survive the same luminescent centuries in time.

For Goodness Sake

For goodness sake,

I sit here running over memories.

In the dark at day,

And in the light at night.

Tormenting myself,

For what reason I don’t know.

Leave me alone,

They fly round my skull like ghouls.

Exorcism of the cranial artery required,

As I stare at my eye lids.

Wondering when it’ll all subside,

Its scrams into the silence,

Jabbering away at the back of my ears.

Faces snap,

Morph into someone else.

Can I hide in here for a while?

Running away didn’t help,

Staying here has made no difference.

What am I meant to do with this shark I can’t jump?

Confidence is in the eye of the beholder,

I bought a telephone I’m scared to use.

Competitive edge to beat what I don’t know you’re doing,

Racing blindly through the mental forest of posts.

Refusing to find an answer,

Even though I need to.

Stare at a light bulb,

What does it mean?

Its switched on I suppose.

I read a thousand alternative meanings to the words I feel,

It doesn’t change how they work.

Favourite things are back,

But no one to share them with.

Consciously erasing what people will judge,

And I re-wrote that bit twice.

Changing words to suit fashions,

It’s like an old t-shirt I love but only wear in doors.

For someone with short term memory issues,

I chuckle at the fact I remember every gory detail from years ago.

Forget what I wanted to buy this morning,

Yet can remember hatred I want to drop like a bag of rats.

Escapism holds the key I’m sure,

I’m using the things I love as an escape.

Which is good but not working,

There’s nothing left to confront.

Typing words for hours,

Hiding outside at work.

Sneaking into a teapot again,

Hoarding biscuits to try and keep me afloat.

Personal Ad

Disclaimer:

This will be truthful.

Not the pretentious made up me,

That I zipped on to meet you at a bar.

That wasn’t a date,

It was a paraded show.

Favourite jeans and trainers,

Sunk into a cinema seat.

That’s how you will get to know me.

Mandatory conditions for application:

A gamer of undead proportions,

Plus movie buff who can open my eyes.

Thou shall not judge music,

So no prune face when I mention Metalica.

Product warning:

My hair doesn’t smell of strawberries,

And I sometimes forget to have my legs waxed.

But I will accept your man pants sprawled across the flat,

And bacon sarnies instead of your 5 a day.

As we shoot our way through a Sunday afternoon,

Avoiding the sunlight of convention.

May be we can we fall in love. 

The Talk

One side step,

And approximately 13 hours off a decade,

Can love just stop?

Has a power switch been flicked,

Or a memory ray flashed before my eyes.

The talk ends,

Your subconscious breathes.

Now we are just acquaintances,

Standing three feet apart.

Routine must suddenly cease,

Autopilot clocks off without a trace.

Love in the physical,

Not an issue - just roll over.

You take cool steps to stage exit,

But mental heat hangs on.

For something true that drained away like sand,

Has just landed its last sucker punch before it was gone.

Not 1973 (Office Work)

Do you not see passed the handbag and necklaces?

I feel at one with the suffragettes.

Except, the modern interpretation chains me to a desk,

Incarcerated by forms and procedure.

You have no power here over anyone,

Yet gain strength by hiding behind battlements of experience.

Preaching equality and fairness to the higher beings,

Afterwards you stamp out dreams that question you.

Fresh blood is spilt and drained,

Refusing to pump it into the aging veins that need it.

You push and push to the edge of reason,

Did you not realise that we will jump off?

Crashing down the steps of progress,

To lay crumpled like discarded post its.

Bamboo Moments

Tinkering leaves,

Fingers tap in the breeze.

Lime green spears,

Your delicate image draws me near.

Sway and quiver,

I watch you shiver.

No support in your branches,

As you bow to the elements in natural arches.

I smile as you giggle,

Wanting to hide in your safe bubble.

Silently dancing with you at dusk,

Hate leaving but I must.

Tranquillity rooted in time,

Simplicity that’s yours becomes mine.

Can of Loneliness

Strongbow can with a straw,

After hours on a cold damp wall.

Just like that of the one who left it,

Alone after dark in the dew filled air.

No one to notice it,

And no body cares -

About you,

Faceless teen.

Drinking into forgetfulness,

Through a petit plastic straw.

Holding a thought of girly youth,

Refusing to accept the teenage alcoholic’s dream.

No time for ice or a glass,

Not even four walls and a bar.

Ring pull to your innermost secrets,

Now contorted permanently open revealing who you are.