Fuck your horizon
this teacled air I breathe and eat
The sun only makes it heavier
I hate that ball of fire
there he is
Mr yellow sun
fucking shining
while I watch you dying!
I know it’s a self centred thought
to think the universe should tremble
for you and my breaking heart
but fuck, I cannot fathom
the worlds indifference
and how that fucking sun
shines on him
all while the light goes out of him
It feels as though you, you Mr yellow fucking sun
stole it
with your fucking heat bearing down on us
I hate your promise of such light
after winters afflictions!
But he falls now!
He falls now! While you rise!
And it all goes back to that feeling
where I want to shoot you
you fucking cunt
I hate you, Mr yellow sun
I hate you, Mr yellow cunt!
Poetry
Clown Show
I’m one carnival ride
from breaching through the circus
rage broiling beneath the surface
It’s all been said before
semantic satiation
got me dead
and I’m done with these thoughts inside my head
taking me away from all I’ve ever believed and said
I want to burn the world to the fucking ground
I’m done being the jester to you fucking clowns
the zeitgeist is under my skin
amorphous clowns snaking their way in
intercepting algorithmic spin
hate is the new order
empathy the sin
all these serpents folded within
the scales never fall far from their eyes
before they’re drinking the venom in
praising false idols
standing at their podiums
spewing prejudice
animus animating contempt
that got their teeth grinding in their heads
and all our skulls smiling behind the dread
all while they paint the world in red
whose blood will run then? It’s not them
they’re war lust scroungers, not men.
To The Drum Of Slain Beasts
the blush of autumn since passed
the world lay naked
since life found its place in death
seeded with that which will spring
redressing all the ruin
when the earth puts on her blooms
and swathes us all in her scent
while we make smoke of the summer
as if burning incense
to the Gods of hell
and what comes rushing
but the blood of slain beasts
as our hearts beat to the drum
of this machine
we’re surely cradled in
Sunday Wordle: The constellations were scribbled in the sky
The constellations were scribbled in the sky
a scribe for reckoning with the here and now
history ablaze
blows our future to old beginnings
renewed for our narrow minds
always running us in circles to what we shall become
ashes to ashes
and to dust, we shall return
Life is a terrible thing
It is a terrible thing
this thing we call life
we forget we’re part of a whole
when the music plays
and we’re in the moment
all the while time kills another
and we’re all just dancing in times waiting room
‘Enjoy it while you can’
but I was never like you
strong and able to weather the storms
I could never believe life is worth it
with all it’s faults
I’m an all or nothing kind of guy
I never could worship heroes
showing us growth comes from pain
I’m stunted
because I don’t bend to the storm
I stay rigid
and frankly
I’m angry I was ever fucking born
Only read this if you’re angry: Another semantic satiation experiment
Only read this if you’re angry
If you’re not, this may tickle your brain into
Semantic satiation
Semantic satiation
Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.
The only world that still fills
Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.
The only word that still thrills
Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate
hate. hate. hate. hate
hate till it means nothing
hate till it means nothing
hate till it means nothing
it always means something
the word can’t be satiated
hate can’t be satiated
Slaughter house of rage
There is a haunted house where something innocuous, like a painting or a shoe, is moved every day. And there is the sound of a dripping tap. Drip. Drip. But every time you go to look, the drip is gone, but as soon as you turn your back, Drip Drip it goes.
When the night comes to pass and you’re lying in your bed, the washing machine is spinning and spinning like all the thoughts in your head. And it spins and spins, and the swill in your head rinses the same old lines all over again.
And your skull is beside itself with its smug grin, laughing in your sleep; that’s why you grind your teeth.
And when you go outside, you see that your skeleton is wearing someone else’s fucking skin! And the man laughs, he laughs like your skull in your sleep, and you want to grab hold of that fucker and bleed your wrath all over him!
Semantic satiation
Freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedooooooommm freeeddddooooooommmmm
freeeeeeeedddddoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm
non-conformity
non-conformity
conformity
conformity
conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity conformity
conformity
Con – Formity
Con con – formity conformity
The freedom for non-conformity
the freedom for non-conformity
the freedom for non-Conformity
the new conformity
It’s all been done?
The bible
it’s up to you how it’s sold?
The bible? Bible
Bible? Bible? Bible? Bible?
it’s up to you how it’s sold.
We’re always living
always
We’re always living
in 1984
George Orwellian?
George Orwellian?
We’re always living in
1984
George Orwellian?
Take a moment
any moment
and pull it out of a hat
and it’s
George Orwellian
if….
George Orwellian?
If you don’t like that?
The new criticism
new
old
new criticism
is George Orwellian?
It’s always 1984
We always live in
We always
We always live
in 1984?
1984? 1984?
It’s up to you how it’s sold
1984? 1984?
George Orwellian?
It’s up to you how it’s sold.
Fuck it.
Fuck it.
I’ve never meant it more than this
I want to crawl out of my own skin
traverse the earth and watch it burn
a skeletal aftermath
of my all-consuming wrath
the monsters I created in my head
are all the people I have and will ever be
caught in this emptiness
this machine that cradled us
I could never be good enough
to break free from this space
I’m becoming the monsters
the smug face ripped off my nemesis
is mine to take
basking in his out of this world place
where I own the world
and you’re all just pawns in my game
Fuck it.
Holding up this glass, half-empty
a toast to the monster I became.
Divine comedy
The sun holds our plight in contempt
it’s cheshire cat grin shining
while all the prying minds’ eyes
distort us in their image
smug and smiling
and behind our lips, our skulls join in
our fall from grace
a laughter track
for this comedy so divine.
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 