Poetry

Shrugged Like Grub

Matt5 Comments

Slippin’ on me jester shoes
foldin’ meself a body to bemuse
faught the mud, got done proper good
smoked me up
like pigs in blankets
all ‘ung up, snug as a bug in a rug
said, ‘Eat me up! It’s part of me lifecycle!’
I shrugged like grub ya know like Atlas does.

Authors Note:

I wrote this in June of this year. I’m sharing it for W3.

I can’t write anything much right now, just got nothing, a complete block in my head and not for lack of trying.

Hope you don’t mind me sharing one I already wrote, that I thought might fit the bill for this weeks W3

Mr Eons comes for tea

MattLeave a comment

Mr. Eons came to sit with me for tea
I confessed to him that I feel like he’s always there
Mr Eons shook his head and said, ‘Always, there is a sad melody that underpins the webs i weave’
‘I don’t really like tea’ I told him in between the tocks of the ticking clock
I turned to look Mr. Eons in his many eyes, ‘why do you never leave, always harvesting the flies in me! If i had buttetflies it would be a sign of motion. But here I sit. Here I waste away, and yet, I can see it in your eyes, it is not a waste when there is no waste to be!’
‘It is true, my friend’ started he, ‘you’re not even worthy of being waste, which is a waste you see. In your space another could be, but alas here you are, that I surely see.’
And the clock ticked, the wallpaper peeled
And his lips sipped and his legs slowly crept
And I cried and begged for breath untreacled
Mr. Eons wrapped himself around me
My teeth chattered in the dark
And my ears picked up the melody
as he dragged me into the darkest periphery

Anhedonia

MattLeave a comment

These things I carry
empty baggage
Having not been through enough
To feel the way I do
Yet my empty heart is heavy
and nothing fills the void
To lighten the load
And that’s what loads the smoking gun
my skeletal cage can’t bear the bones
inside my skull
I can’t contain this insipid home
with treacled webs
of shallow deeply woes

I Have Been Human

MattLeave a comment

I have been victim
I have been villain
I have been kind
I have been cold
Young and old before time graced my bones
I have tried
But not all the time
I have lied
But also spoken truth
I have been ‘only human’
Just like you
But now I will be tried
Before mob rule.

Authors note:

Mob rule is looking for scapegoats. Politics is shifting to extremes. Minorities are the canaries in the coal mines. The scapegoats.

That’s what this poem is about. Humans. Humanity. The humanity that some people, some who are in power, want to take away.

Exercising my writing muscles to get back into the flow

MattLeave a comment

Using words of the day for inspiration the following was written

If only I could succumb
to the lagom of swirling leaves
be as free as that which glides effortless to sleepy death where hollows don’t know their depth
where no words drew abyss
into which to peer
For the endless dark matters none here
It just is, it just is, my dear
Whispers the crunch of leaves under feet of deer

Seeking Primal Scream

MattLeave a comment

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

Sunday wordle: as yet remains untitled

MattLeave a comment

We will be demolished in good time
no matter how eager we shout from our chests
we will turn where we are left to lie
Left to age again one more time
I am afraid, with much doubt there will be no stepping into white light
Those tales of afterlife, immortality will have been the biggest scams of our lives
So with all that said, this is the one life we know ourselves to have
And our legacy? Well, that’s not up to us to write
its all written in another’s mind

The clipped Sounds Of Drowning In Autumn

Matt7 Comments

Welcoming the pitter patter of rain
we pull on our boots
walking hunchacked under looming clouds
the voices of builders amongst the bangs and drills
clipped in our cotton wooled ears Bleating absences sheepishly grey in our years
And through the hustle and bustle Depression whistles
as if through the teeth of a biting wind
Our noses cold, dripping with the tumble of leaves
Centipedes scratching at the leather of our boots
looking for crevices to dig through.

This is for W3