4th December
I saw myself erased in their minds
a faint memory imprinted
but with no face
just an intuition
of something remembered
a vague hollow nothing
that couldn’t be returned
Poetry
Advent calendar 3: Hushed
December 3rd
How can all this be overcome
when we’re always on the run
the debris of our rush
hanging from the trees
plastic dreams
tied in string
and all the little things
we let go to the wind
Calamity ahead
tangled wings
trapped in plastic rings
consumed and inside everything
the debris of our rush
the world being hushed
Advent calendar 2: No translation
December 2nd
It was our houses that were the aliens
we became the invasions
and I am no less guilty
needing these things as much
as any man if not more
lest the cold get to my troubled heart
the birds sing of things we couldn’t
we’re animals lost in communication
in which we still have no translation
Advent calendar poetry 1: The woods
1st December
In the woods
grounded in rugged boots
stripped from our alienation
we stand
in communion with the others
their tails waving and teeth chattering
and beaks opening trailing out winters breath
Bills drilling, tongues rolling
snapping up a woodpeckers delight
nothing is quite the same
once you realise
even dead trees are teeming with life
Sunday wordle on an actual Sunday
No one is free I thought
the wings of truth split
into papers
cogs in the engine
shredding that to which we bear witness
turning what we knew
into something shiny and new
to fill this emptiness
Sunday morning lie-ins
our only day in which we don’t have to strive
and I thought this, this is the price
people think they have to pay
for freedom
and so I ask
What is freedom anyway?
But some elusive dream we’re free to chase?
Sunday wordle on a mundayne
Shh…
Wipe over the dissonance in turquoise
to rid us of this tension
Shh…
Release us from this and into Eden
stay easy with your breath now
No one is the one
but one part of the whole
Shh…
Silence speaks volumes
our alienation seeking absence
The roots of us holding onto this earth
seeking solace in natures theme of rebirth
Sunday Wordle: Brew
My breath trailed out before me as light as a feather
and a breeze blew through the enchanted forest
and spread the richness of autumns gold
like a clue enlightening desire paths
scented with that nutty earth aroma of a seasons transition
in which storms are brewed
just a stone’s throw away
from empty streets
and bounties becoming few
A teacup awaiting winters brew
The skeleton of prey
They laughed me out of my own body
they laughed me out of my mind
they pecked and pecked
and gobbled up all the parts of me
that left myself behind
They lit up and smoked me down
the butt of jokes fizzled out in ashtrays
poured down the drain
and through all this they bonded
a pack of wolves with their prey
tearing me apart piece by piece
and now the people stare at me
‘why can’t he be more like me?’
Because I am the decay
the left overs
from a feast
the skeleton of prey
The machine
I can’t bend into the shapes
the machine wants me to be
and I’m always coming back to this place
a conclusion
I am not strong enough
for the world, I am in
All the equations add up to this
ever trapped in what and who I am
and between what the world wants to see
the things reflected back to me
the reflections of all the types of men
I ought to be
Meditation teaches us to breathe and be
but breathing is the least of your worries
when you’re feeling like me
and I can only really breathe
when I’m safe from change and stress
so really I learn nothing
and all of this is just a waste of breath
I often wonder what relief it would have been
to have been left to die when I was a baby
instead of still learning how to fucking breathe.
I see the world ahead of me
and I don’t want to be a part of it
but the machine wants me
Sunday wordle on a monday
A meeting of words
a tap of the keys
our digitized selves
trapped in the looking glass
blue light eating our souls
divulging our secrets
into the systems eyes
never alone but always feeling so
or wishing you were
trying to paint over the cracks
too many years
to blink away the waste
lest the powers that be
might sample our misery
and find they like the taste
