To be ‘enlightened’ you must first realise that enlightenment is bullshit in the first place.
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The clouds hang low, rigid, like zeppelinz
We hang low from them, like marionettes
Though, no, I am not a puppet
But, yes, I suppose it could be said that I am
Yes, lets call it highly strung
They make us dance to a tune i dont recognise
I thought i knew it once
I thought it was a tune i once tried to write
Back when I was the apple in someone’s eye
I think a worm, or was it…
No, I can safely say it was a worm
Corrupted that someone’s eye
They look, but they no longer see.
I may have been, per’aps the worm that wriggled
Or, no, it jus’ ne’e was meant to be.
No, quite right, it was all a lie, ne’er have i felt such love
To lose and bid goodbye
But, i have felt such things!
I’m almost sure of it, though i’m not so sure it was me
Written for W3
I ‘ad jus’ such a hunch
It was gonna be one of them rum ones
As i set to the bus station
And the B15 had only gone and been replaced
By a flippin’ stegasarus
Can ya believe jus’ such a disgrace?
”Ow am i meant to ride betwixt ‘is osteoderms?’ I asked
To not such as a mumbled reply
‘This bloody bus service is coprolite’
I shouted to anyone who passed me by
Written for W3
The pigeons cut diamonds in the trees
And the wind cut through in whispers
Telling all who would listen
What they they strained for it to be
But windows were sealed
And fences whistled
With forlorn decree
That pagan Gods had been trodden and outworn
And the world is too much with us; late and soon
We’ll always be
Written for W3
The world is drawn in rough squiggles of lines that giggle through the grape vines that intertwine my mind
a blurred map of lingering torment overrun with anxious flotsam
squiggle squiggle
so anxious the world is topsy turvy barley a picture to be drawn thats worthy
My hands wont be still
I’m all frowsy and nervy
A deer in the headlights
My feet pitter patter like the rain
They all tek it for granted that i’m jus’ prancin’ and dancin’
But heart to heart
Its all restless edge
flowin’ down to me loosey goosey feet
Am not a tap dancer, i am neurosis on legs
Maybe bordering on psychosis
Its hard to tell out here on the ledge
I dont want a ladder
Or a rope
I’ll jump off, maybe, tomorrow
But my hearts got the jitterbug
And my ‘eads got me swingin’ be the ears
Stretching ’em out too far now all i can do is bloody listen
There is music in my ribs
Wind chimes and xylophones
I can hear the river in my veins gushin’
My bladder fillin’
A rush o’ blood to the ‘ead
funny how it makes ya feel dead
Inside this caccoon of dread
Makes you notice your eyes in your sockets
Painting pictures
If only i could paint real nice
Instead of this horrorshow in my minds eye!
In the sink of our hearts
A thicket o’ rush
where the river runs
A volcanic bomb o’ flush
rinsed our faces scarlet
A momentary hush
The days dawn had broken
and the music held yesterdays momentum
the melody tied our stomachs down
anchoring us forward
and the sun looked criminal
shining upon us in the midst o’ such a dour mornin’
‘e were purple in’t face with wisteria blush
with big ginger tufts at side o’ ‘is face
‘is round belly ‘ung over ‘is trousers
which were always a jot too short
the cuff o’ ‘is socks on display
usually checkered blacks and yella’s
with black braces hitchin’ ’em up
always ‘ad a pocket watch ‘ed tek t’ ‘is ‘and at a quater t’ nine on a friday night
leanin’ on’t lampost
waitin’ fer ‘is lady luck, Mrs Esther Muffet
me gandma would look through’t window and tutt
‘e’s a rum one ‘e is!’
one time I asked ‘er what all she meant
ya know what she said?
‘Well, ‘e looks like a man who’d play’t trumpet, but ‘e don’t! I don’t trust a man who looks as ‘e does yet don’t play a trumpet!’
Well! I thought ‘er a rum one sayin’ things like that!
me grandad came in and asked, ‘What ya think ol’ Gorbet sideburns is waitin’ fer?’
”is trumpet!’ I replied
me gran rolled ‘er eyes, ”es waitin’ on little Miss Muffet! Ya know this be now!’
”ere she goes! finally got up off ‘er tuffet!’ me grandad grinned
‘Don’t ‘e know she’s married?’ Me gran would ask each time
‘don’t she know she’s married?’ would come my grandad’s reply
and we’d spy through’t window, duckin’ when thee so much as glanced our way
and that one time me granddad turned and said with a sly grin
‘Well, at least ‘e’s got the ‘orn now!’
and me gran wacked ‘im o’er the ‘ead!
This is written for W3
These meridian lines are blurred by the time we see it clear
All these cigarette burns and coffee rings mark wasted minutes
And these explosive stereo revelations
blast us spun up in knots
Fishing for thought
In this cerebral sea of noise
Like fingernails on chalkboard
Scratching beneath the surface
Searing bloodshot scattered aftershock
This is written for W3
Inspired by:
I’ve been chirpin’ out
Am all scarlet blushin’
Perchin’ on me thistles
they’re mine now
Tek in the moment
Wont be long ‘fore soon
an’ i’ll be gone in a wee blur
But ya know them thistle seeds ya put up, on advice from rspb? Yea, f*** ’em
I wont be eatin’ ’em
I’ll stick t’ the source
Cuz i’m mighty wild like that
P.S do keep up the sunflower seeds.
I have been found on wet pavements
The postmans loss, a new journey for me
I have been passed from pillar to post
Without too much kerfuffle
I have held together reams of quixoitic letters
Marred by time and bothersome quarrels
An acomplice to a man and his mistress
and I have been lost and found again
I’ve been stretched too thin
And sprung back again
I have gotten bigger, slacker
I sit, flung into a drawer, awaiting mail.
Writing for W3
I came across a gentleman with an apple for a head
Stem an’ all
I thought to myself ‘what a good replacement if ever I lost my own!’
I asked the man, ‘whats it like having an apple for a head?’
He said, ‘take a bite!’
And i replied ‘I can’t I’ve just brushed my teeth and you wouldn’t taste very nice’
Then a worm popped out from his ear hole and said ‘hi’
And that was how i knew he was rotten inside
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 