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.
writing
I’ll let go too.
Everything feels tangled up
a mess of messes
I need some good news
in amongst this cover of darkness
because I’m starting to wonder
if it’s worth continuing through
I’ll stick around
not because I’m strong
but because I’m too weak to let go
and I won’t leave him behind
but when he lets go of his last breath
I feel assured
I’ll let go too.
Nurture to root
Sometimes I wonder if the only gun to my head is civility
Is it wild to be domesticated
or free to be mild
who can know what’s in another’s mind
I can’t play to their whims and dimes
I don’t have the patience or the time
one minute, everyone is fine
the next, a man is threatening you with a knife
and sometimes I wonder if the reflection in that silver
is a man waiting to fight back or surrender
could I be that madman you all talk about
bending to nature
as if his memories hadn’t been erased
therefore, he still knew he was as tree as green should be
nurture intending him to root and roost.
Stranded
Life feels too much like a marathon
where I’ve come to a halt
nowhere to turn, no way back
stranded in the middle of nowhere
reaching my limit
I can’t carry on.
Confessions of a cunt
I’m not made for people
or in gods image or whatever you believe in
I was the short straw, pulled
and the monster in my brain is frothing at the mouth
for you to know this
I’m a facade of shapes I’ve tried to fit into
squeezing myself like a contortionist
trying not to be the rage
but I’ve come to this
Fuck it.
fuck it all and most of all fuck you
I’m a malignant schizoid narcaccist
just waiting for you to leave
I’ve got scars on my skin
who do you think marked this ruin?
I don’t need you
to hurt or heal me too
and it’s come to this
confessions of a cunt
skirting the edges on Tell me it’s not true
but we know it
so don’t break the silence now
I won’t hear you
over the screaming monster inside my head
excision
I find no I in we
our minds merged
where does me end and you start?
we’re gonna need surgical precision
to free me from your hall of mirrors
but what if there is no I left in me?
Who is I and what did you do
to extricate I from me?
Am I an abstract thought
reflecting back at us?
though there is no I in us
but a u for you
So, I suppose I must be
the other part of you that makes us we?
Am I a man made in your vision
a puppet on a string
strung out by your historical revisions
hanging out on the clothesline
left out to dry in the rain?
Do the soles of my feet
walk without soul?
waiting to be returned
to the I you carved out of me?
Pulled mind
Their voices always travel faster than the truth
Always found in the gutter after the lines have been run through
spark me up a cigarette and burn away these untruths
I can’t see for the smoke and mirrors
The string that keeps my mind wrapped inside has come loose
and I’m trying to tie it back together before they notice I’m turning footloose
tying up the laces, weatherproofing my boots
I’m burning up these heedless warnings
you were never meant to mean a thing
so why does my mind keep drawing these useless strings
I’m pulling at tethered threads; all this white noise and dread
stirs things inside my head
my teeth clench together, and all these neon nooses pull my neck
there is too much information
but nothing about you
I’ve been making ghosts in your image
I think you’ve been making me too
Drawing me in your visions, trying to pull me through
but I never was your puppet
even though I’m always drawn to you
but it’s all for the same reasons I’m repulsed too
this hate is closer to love than it should be
yet I have seen through you
but it’s all just white noise buzzing in my head
Their voices always travel faster than the truth
Always found in the gutter after the lines have been run through
spark me up a cigarette and burn away these untruths
I can’t see for the smoke and mirrors
The string that keeps my mind wrapped inside has come loose
and I’m trying to tie it back together before they notice I’m turning footloose
tying up the laces, weatherproofing my boots
I’m burning up these heedless warnings
leaving a trailblaze no one can cut through
I’m highly strung, wound up with no wind down
pulling at tethered threads; all this white noise and dread
stirs things inside my head
my teeth clench together, all these wires become nooses
pulling me into the void from which I had fled
Another letter from Mammaroon
Dear friends
It’s funny what you remember when you miss something. See, it occurred to me recently that there was a great forgetting down on earth. We’d pour our filth out into the world, and then when we glimpsed the ripple effect in our environment, like stones in water, we’d remember for a second, a moment, maybe a little longer if we could hold onto the abstract long enough.
We’d sit, mourn, sigh, and shake our heads, ‘What about the whales?!’ We’d ask, ‘What about the curlew?’
Then, in the next breath, we’d turn and pour more filth, always re-forgetting.
I only remembered our great forgetting because I’m here in this fish tank on another planet. How far removed I have had to be to realise is…nothing but shameful to be honest with you, dear friends.
I miss the way Herons flew like a rope with wings and how the squirrels pissed me off by chewing my bird feeders.
The early morning dawn chorus would irritate me after a sleepless night.
In other news, though, I married Spoon, not because of love but boredom.
Sitting here in this glass tank, I know what a goldfish felt like; if his memory is bad, surely it’s from the tediousness that rots one’s brain from such an oppressive home rather than from biology. I remember having a goldfish that knew when it would get food, and I am much the same when the mammarrians throw in some food.
Occasionally, when the boobacious little spidery mammarrians come and stare at me through the glass, with even smaller ones standing beside them I take off my t-shirt, and I take a run-up to the glass and the little ones skitter and hide behind the slightly bigger ones. It passes the time and amuses me no end!
Yours faithfully
Holden Mcgroin.
Not me, not I, look there at them
Keep the faces within
disembodied voices crawling
a shattering of skulls behind eyelids
peeping to tomorrow’s byline
author unknown
hatred the tagline
the other freaks are calling
Finger pointing
‘Not me, not I, look there at Them.’
contortionists contorting
fists clash, skulls smash
twisting, cavorting
freaks on freaks in blood
sheep calling sheep sheep
over the fence and mawing
grazing on the zieteigests distortion
groomed into war and extortion
And so the chant goes
‘Not me, not I, look there at them‘
‘Not me, not I! Look there them’
A scribble in my chest
‘Write down your inner monologue when you’re feeling the heat.’
but all the words are just one jumbled mess
A scribble beating in my chest
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 