These feelings are caged in civilised speak
but I’ve got a book of matches that strike against my bones
and every breath I take
Is oxygen to this rage
Inside my skull the passenger in my brain
recites all the shit you’ve done
the things I’ve said and the unsaid dead
grinding down my teeth
as my tongue twists and writhes helter skelter
Seeking primal scream
poet
Carillon silence
Our shadows dislimn the land we extol
Bottle necked exhalations shrugged us up from our holes
to witness the passing shape of our lungs
as we sprung from gunpoint
And do dead daisies push up their brothers too?
In the silent spring of our futures
A carillon tolled silence.
I Cried For A Crow
I cried for a crow
I hardly even know
Sometimes I wish I could harden my heart
But everytime I try
Somethin’ always gives me a start
And I’m back to cryin’
For a crow
That I hardly know!
Words of the day prompt: Convivial, hotch
Is it per’aps your convivial nature that ‘as us swingin’ from the chandelier
With delightful intent
To light up the room
As we grace uselves in’t presence of yorn?
I’ve not much fit for a king
I can’t dance an’ I certainly can’t sing
So’s supposin’ I don’t quite get the hotch outta me step
An’ I quibble at me face with me ‘ands
Would ya (sorry you, Sir) still measure me jests
With a clap and a laugh
Mebe a hoot if fancy teks you to such place?
And incase in you forgot me name, It’s Wilbert Walter
Gorbert
You may ‘ave ‘eard me called Gorbet Sideburns
In reference to the ‘air on me face.
A Garrulous Old Chap
There was this garrulous old chap
he wore a beige cape with blue dotted lines at the wings of it
he talked a fine tune
but I’d be damned if I could cipher it
he smoked a pipe and the smoke would billow up to his bright blue eyes
as If to make a point of them.
He was a town crier
by which I mean that rather literally
screeching his woes with a guttural wind
leaving a discordant note in his wake
but I loved him besides all that
It’s wasn’t just the gems in his eyes
it’s the way he smiled
and the way he buried me nuts in his garden.
Fabric Of Time
Time threaded pinks and greys
the carillon surmised
Eras weaved fabric
thrashing and whipping on the washing line
Hours Cloaked as raptors
turning the seasons in their wings
An eloquent ballet
Collecting the frayed ends of generations
Since called into apparitions.
Summer festival
The sky festooned himself with chandeliers of birds
Alighting himself with reflection
Prowling with a blur of breeze he searched and reached for hats to adorn his steeple
Dancing with a flutter and swirl
He painted the earth yellow and green
with summer festival.
A peculiar comedy
There is a peculiar comedy to rubbish
Drawing from us capital
A rat race to refusal
Of extinction
We are all here, criminal
Making trenches to hide the nuance
That folds us into animal
We are all here, origami children
Hemmed in at the edges
Becoming nuisance
All bring crushing impact
With a grudge to hammer home with.
Needing no rehearsal to contradict
As we lay inside this labyrinth, the matrix
Bourne by identities.
In short, we are addicts
Living at the tip.
Maps of hate
The underworld Twists and trawls
Tearing at the strands that thread our masks
A beast Writhing in the crowds amassed
Hatred prowls the tips of Tongues
And the grey man with a yellow grin
Gathers the squall
We bear witness, this shift of fate
Criscrossing new maps to the temple of infernos gate.
Pink Fiasco
Plumes of nascent rumour dispersed by a breath of wind
Whispers abuzz with pollinators.
Straggling the walls, you bloomed
pink fiasco blush.
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 