Tag Archives: death

The murder of a phonethief.

The young writer made his way down the boring blankness of the city street.
It was busy, but solitary still with boring.
Turns a corner,
Without warning,
A gang of hoods in hoods surround
Looks around, no soul around,
“Ey lad giz yer phone there”
Surely this is too unfair
Orion wearing underwear
Does he play or does he scare
Like silly children fighting fair
The speaker then reveals a blade
Short and slight but thickly made
Through skin and bone
intent to wade
The poet child won’t be waylaid
Visions can/will not be delayed
“Though tough sir you need this phone
To pay the gas bills at your home
It’s full of all my pretty poems
Made in ‘notes’ on nights I’ve groaned.”
“Hahah fkn poems?!” The lads stand all look round and laugh
And think of sweet robberies past
They never used to pay their gas
They did it all just for the laugh
Their body, souls already passed
Reverie drop look up at last
The smirk did twist and twitches last
Into the face that souls doth pass
Back to threaten man they pass
The laughing has but turned to gas
And nervous lack back stony fast
‘Sterling’ cig smoke only gas
There are no jokes, there’re no laughs
And eyes meet eyes in slipping grasp
The writer young, no time for lack
Or food to devils: answer back
Snatches blade
Successful *thwack*
Quicker than the vein of smack
And, Heck!!
Jams it in the speaker’s neck
Lets go to keep violence in check
Lets go, Orion karma checks –
Crimson squirts do issue forth
Around this deadly plunged in fork
-Dirty blood
Made in hood-
No stop to wonder
Or inspect
His win,
How pavement fills with bloody flecks
Gargle “!gaaargh! Do ah pull it out or leave it in lad??!!?”
Damage only made reflect
Eyeballs of monk and group deflect
He carries on, tread at same pace
And direction ‘fore this haste
The group disbands and lets him through
Not running scared but let him through
A few footsteps and then he knew
His souls would be free, red guilt goo
He walked down road, no shred of haste
Just calmly and at quite same pace
From ‘fore they did demand his haste
Looks up to black and outer space

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A rose murmurs.

Give me idle death

& women’s murmurs
That cough through lips

That spirit heard her
You Cherub! get away with murder
Open, winged, I’ll never gird you


A reflection on resonance and recent rampages.

Sunday afternoon
Open the gates
Call in the refrigeration
breakdown service
Swing from hanging lights
Pull the table back
into place with your
frustrated foot and then sit back and let
it resume its de-frust
on top
Let long john stroke your girlfriend
through the knee hole in your jeans
and listen to Tame Impala’s first album (of course
after john, lou, and andy’s banana one).
Maybe later and just once we can listen to side B of
Thee Oh Sees’ latest effort (“Mutilator..”) on 33 & 1/3
instead of the recommended 45 rpm
because that sounds nuts
and pulls at your guts.
Eat some from around an
avocado’s dream hole
and reflect on the realisation
of your own
Is this all the result of
listening to countless records
and watching their plastic turn
and turn to gold through
little glass Buddhas you
got for a few quid off
a rude (because I was)
shop girl?
On Sundays I try to
look at the fuck being
my shut up and listen
to utterly everything. And take your
news & talk away as I’ve already
cried today over recent Isis
attacks so I don’t want to know now or
talk about it any longer,
those men were too
awful and beautiful in
such terrible and horrible combinations
and they’ve too truly
taught us about true
evil that I just want to
relax now (and with a little care not even refer to any
distinct aspect of the whole damned thing as “evil”)
– so take it away.
(Quiet, then the wind
ruffles at the blinds)-
Ah – better flip to the
other side now but
that blood ran
whether it ran through
your mind or not.
I only mean to make sense
of it or not.
I (can?) only mean to help or not.
God bless the Bataclan & its ticket buyers (I’ve seen that band and
they’re fun) and
balcony dangling believers
for hanging there high above the cold, windy concrete of a street & hanging in there.
The same wind encircling you
just encircled me on my
bourgeois balcony as I
enjoyed a butt and it
is cold.


Steering.

The pessimist complains about the wind;

The optimist expects that it will change;

The realist adjusts the sails,

The king of death cannot see he who adjusts the sails.

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You’re all.

Modern day views are so extreme,
  it’s like everyone’s walking ’round in their own dream
    Expectation’s running so high,
        inspect patience, we’re born to die!

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