a long neck reminiscent of dinosaurs gone by
she places you in her eye
You
beholden to this
the shadows of the swan
in feather and lust
a purity that sheds dust
just like us
life
Living on a soundwave
My mind terraforms this alien soundscape
Tendrils reaching down, down, down
a spark of something unseen
an inverted skeleton
without a smile but a frown
propelling myself as a jellyfish
up, up and out
Electric sirens seeking me out
A torment of screeching ghouls
screaming from my mouth
A stream of consciousness 2
The sounds drew ripples around us
containing us
wrinkled and transformed
waves of consciousness anchored
bearing witness to this gathering
of all matter created in our image
a conglomeration of everything and nothing
a hoard of haves and have nots
a buildup to ‘just fucking stop!’
Too much, too much one
too much none
a climatic climb
an anticlimactic drop
rust falling from antiquated props
traditions burning candles
with prayers answered, not
swindled of thought
trajectories yet untold
falling below this ocean
of accumulations sold.
Stream of consciousness
The music matched the swirl of the leaves
or it was the other way around
and down another layer
that one prolonged note underpinning it
wrote my feelings in the air space
a sadness I felt remote from
yet there it was, a dark spot that harnessed my breath
harassed by the accumulation of matter
closed in by the shadows i must accept
my conscience drifting in the utterance
of leaves falling with indifference
the world seemingly born from negligence
an apathy I can’t stomach
butterflies reaching my nervous disposition
trying too hard to abide
The chaffinch
The chaffinch sprung from its perch
as if lifted by the music in my ears
Its wing beats seemingly to my eyes
fitting to the rhythm and the time
couched into this space
music augmented the moment
Sunday wordle: Under
The yellowing of our fate
was just the suns bluff
it had soothed our souls
with its spill of rays
but alas, fall had torn
flushed leaves asunder
ready for the raspy breath
of winters plunder
the hiss of the breeze snaking its way through the leaves
no longer
as lifes greedy show of green
finds a safe haven below, under
wrapped around the larvae
of next years wonders
An experiment: Fall
I feel like a computer that has eaten space cookies
sitting here on cloud 0.9
it’s like a hammock contouring to my body
holding me afloat
in the middle of the storms that are ever looming
and when this cloud bursts full of rain
I will fall head first
as if a rain drop
and on my advance, I will feel the exhilaration of falling
heartache exuding via sweat
I a fellow humanoid, being part of the fall
my heart soaring the skies of summer
before the drop of autumns blunder
and as I fall into winters backdrop
Christmas carols erase my desperation
as it travels to their voices
and colours the world in Christmas hopefuls
anything to colour the winter with something akin to joy
lest the bleakness remind humanity
of its own downward trajectory.
And as I plunge
to the place in which we’re all destined
I feel more certain than I have ever before
it’s something we all know
and it’s this moment that counts
as the seeds of my life disperse
not a nullification of my form
but a nutrient-rich dust
in which I become
Becoming the fall
and feeding the seasons
of the coming years.
Dunno
I’ll smoke another cigarette
to put another nail in my coffin
I keep thinking I might be getting close to rest
but still, I keep on going
torn between fear and loathing
Why do I keep trying to do my best
Can’t I just stay in tracksuit bottoms and vest
loafing around with no will to do anything
but in jest
Why is everything always about progress
what if I just want to stay here
where I regress?
They say it’s okay not to be okay
but I still think I feel ashamed
Is it okay to not be okay
and stay the same?
Sunday wordle: Lord knows what looms for us
The weed did creep
revealing the
slack in our towns
of concrete their
roots spin and whirl
taking grip in
the crack of our
retreat with a
curl
it searches for
the light a glimpse
of what we for-
got, Lord knows what
looms for us our
eyes did strain to
see the stain of
blood coming for
us.
Authors note: I have not one clue about the different formations of ‘poetry’, so forgive my attempt at some kind of… well, whatever the fuck it is…
The machine that cradles us
Trying to bribe time we’re going to change
words easily spoken
we’re working on it
How much time do we have
to be a work in progress?
I think to myself
as I look out of the window
of the machine that cradles us.
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 