I know it’s over when I see kids slipping;
Into the pictures, of these rich Olympic bitches snitching.
They are all still sipping, the cold blood out of this hood,
Tell someone they’re no good, and they’ll never come good.
Like a sort of sport, we are caught, marshes like Marcey.
And still tonight, we are shielded from the light, and so lastly;
That enlightens the idea that we might survive,
Writing to express our stories side.
Forever hoping to have the last laugh,
If we manage to find a way or set a concrete path.
We all have some fight
So please move on.
And forget the beauty of hindsight
That so patiently lingers long.
We sell ourselves no matter the night;
To do more than shine cheap trainers glistening white.
In the spotlight of the cop sight, we sell what smells right.
In the kitchen, mums on a mission to cook something enriching,
Crying like onions, we aren’t supposed to mix in.
Something more than skunk, robbing of ambition,
I left school with this poetic blinkered vision.
So you make a decision, with all these people making incisions,
That you won’t succumb to division,
Not forgetting squeezing religion.
Twisting and cleverly turning, a peaceful endeavour;
Into a Nazi wet dream, an idea of heaven.
But let’s at least outdo the East,
Our imprint struggles to find its feet,
In the shadow of this growing beast,
So readily policing our feats.
Finding strength and solace in defeat,
Only then do we accomplish dreams;
That comes like steady streams, waiting to gleam.
If ever they are seen;
By somebody who might discover what has been,
Between lines lies this unmovable machine.
Sunday 13 September 2009
Wednesday 2 September 2009
Bittersweets
To love you some is to singe you steadily.
Something I couldn't decide inside to do too heavily.
As you sit sunken already heavenly.
You slowly twist, trying your best to shoo those,
Whose moods irk you.
Throw a hornless Joker at you,
And like Butterscotch buttons,
You crunch.
Coquettish.
With slightly sore seeing spheres
You suck on sweetly sour Sherbet circles;
To my abused amusement
I can’t start alone.
Just simply you.
In the way that tickles blood.
As stolen blue bottles set to sit amongst the tops,
We in such solemn stiff daylight flourish.
Dressing down in town, like certain flies.
It shades like glass, a sandy disposition.
Lustful.
Under the rosy hood starts the seething flood.
Go on as you mean to end.
Spur the thud.
I’ll rustle something up so you can still
Purr and nod.
Willingly woven like these spidery conversations.
Crushed under foot or flower.
As he is himself shrouded in shallow advice.
Like clasped fingers calmly clammy.
With bitter toffee teeth
It bites like tomorrow.
Trying dryly to defy all others
Just lies, as they are lying.
I spy with my little eye
Smiling.
Like The Shining.
Strawberries in the showers
Soaked in such biting Sunday shine.
Something divine tonight.
Waiting on the right light
To tie the knot.
Door ajar
You ignite glowworms.
Just for a start.
When did the time go?
We twisted the talk as we chewed.
On crusty food, that glued problem proverbs together.
Whist dreaded bread sticks snapped to a strange glass cracked,
The rhythm.
The pulse.
The water.
And the aftermath.
Of all that follows that.
Something I couldn't decide inside to do too heavily.
As you sit sunken already heavenly.
You slowly twist, trying your best to shoo those,
Whose moods irk you.
Throw a hornless Joker at you,
And like Butterscotch buttons,
You crunch.
Coquettish.
With slightly sore seeing spheres
You suck on sweetly sour Sherbet circles;
To my abused amusement
I can’t start alone.
Just simply you.
In the way that tickles blood.
As stolen blue bottles set to sit amongst the tops,
We in such solemn stiff daylight flourish.
Dressing down in town, like certain flies.
It shades like glass, a sandy disposition.
Lustful.
Under the rosy hood starts the seething flood.
Go on as you mean to end.
Spur the thud.
I’ll rustle something up so you can still
Purr and nod.
Willingly woven like these spidery conversations.
Crushed under foot or flower.
As he is himself shrouded in shallow advice.
Like clasped fingers calmly clammy.
With bitter toffee teeth
It bites like tomorrow.
Trying dryly to defy all others
Just lies, as they are lying.
I spy with my little eye
Smiling.
Like The Shining.
Strawberries in the showers
Soaked in such biting Sunday shine.
Something divine tonight.
Waiting on the right light
To tie the knot.
Door ajar
You ignite glowworms.
Just for a start.
When did the time go?
We twisted the talk as we chewed.
On crusty food, that glued problem proverbs together.
Whist dreaded bread sticks snapped to a strange glass cracked,
The rhythm.
The pulse.
The water.
And the aftermath.
Of all that follows that.
Untitled (first draft)
His fruitless haze stings dreadful dreams,
They do harness the hungry darkness.
The harshness evolves, as my shapeless faceless words revolve;
Around the skew screws.
Stale pigments that poison harlots.
Cracked, flowerless brains of a mouthed yesteryear.
And so with a petty pick of papers;
He tips.
The digital bigot, and his distinctly distant disdain.
Fistfuls are wishful, and he the solemn soul;
Man does much to dismiss you.
Failure isn’t a chosen option,
It’s something he was frozen into.
This soothing flavour is the bland mans savior.
Until his Cadbury vocabulary finds treason,
To touch up; the torrid salt less seasoning,
Of a tasteless Shoreditch penny mans reasoning.
A hollow tomorrow arrives snide,
The stench of sorry sorrow.
I have arrived in tech time,
Music strings alive, with the tune of Tech 9s,
Kids putting to bed the already dead.
Something his teacher said.
They do harness the hungry darkness.
The harshness evolves, as my shapeless faceless words revolve;
Around the skew screws.
Stale pigments that poison harlots.
Cracked, flowerless brains of a mouthed yesteryear.
And so with a petty pick of papers;
He tips.
The digital bigot, and his distinctly distant disdain.
Fistfuls are wishful, and he the solemn soul;
Man does much to dismiss you.
Failure isn’t a chosen option,
It’s something he was frozen into.
This soothing flavour is the bland mans savior.
Until his Cadbury vocabulary finds treason,
To touch up; the torrid salt less seasoning,
Of a tasteless Shoreditch penny mans reasoning.
A hollow tomorrow arrives snide,
The stench of sorry sorrow.
I have arrived in tech time,
Music strings alive, with the tune of Tech 9s,
Kids putting to bed the already dead.
Something his teacher said.
Saturday 1 August 2009
Pear Drops
You have been so unkind to me here.
Still forcing solemn smiles to slip from my lips.
Come quietly along with me elsewhere.
Somewhere other than this London.
Anywhere other than this fear.
Isn’t it clear, that we never even belonged here?
Did you know if you place a shell softly to your ear,
It is the subtle whimper of the sapphire sea you hear?
We should run away through brittle fear.
And the sharp poison of misjudged excitement.
If you take the steep steps towards the door,
We might just steadily slide amongst the skillfully snide,
Confining our love to Embankment.
90'S unlabelled vinyl and Aretha of soulful cities.
Unfold your words around the wine,
Escaping these reams of uncultured pretties.
Taking on the terrible tapestry of tuneless times,
Crossing couples unwilling and lifelessly entwined.
Pushing through the rhythm,
Telling tales of blonde fuelled crimes.
Drenched in this melody of pity,
And the men buttered in lies.
Scuttling swiftly through Cromwells lonely city,
Practising lines.
With ill intentions lurking,
Behind glass eyes.
And still your metaphors bite me.
No money, rarely a job, just a great love,
That stays for days and plays.
But you make noise.
You make noise, proudly shrouding this space.
I can see it in your eyes, held plastically in place.
That luck I’ve had can only hamper the sad.
Where art you though dad?
Cuddle me through those powdered sweets,
We used to stash in the dash.
I don’t understand how my hands, can be so under planned?
And unknowingly you expect so much.
And yet you too do nothing to help her,
You accept so much.
I knew you wouldn’t step up.
Hell, you don’t half know how to disappoint.
I ought to have thought that such a kindly family,
Would steer clear of such a spineless sort.
But I will unconditionally stick by you,
Because still I see slivers of what others don’t,
I bet you see the transparent whispers of the mistress,
That live raw in my guilty throat.
Still forcing solemn smiles to slip from my lips.
Come quietly along with me elsewhere.
Somewhere other than this London.
Anywhere other than this fear.
Isn’t it clear, that we never even belonged here?
Did you know if you place a shell softly to your ear,
It is the subtle whimper of the sapphire sea you hear?
We should run away through brittle fear.
And the sharp poison of misjudged excitement.
If you take the steep steps towards the door,
We might just steadily slide amongst the skillfully snide,
Confining our love to Embankment.
90'S unlabelled vinyl and Aretha of soulful cities.
Unfold your words around the wine,
Escaping these reams of uncultured pretties.
Taking on the terrible tapestry of tuneless times,
Crossing couples unwilling and lifelessly entwined.
Pushing through the rhythm,
Telling tales of blonde fuelled crimes.
Drenched in this melody of pity,
And the men buttered in lies.
Scuttling swiftly through Cromwells lonely city,
Practising lines.
With ill intentions lurking,
Behind glass eyes.
And still your metaphors bite me.
No money, rarely a job, just a great love,
That stays for days and plays.
But you make noise.
You make noise, proudly shrouding this space.
I can see it in your eyes, held plastically in place.
That luck I’ve had can only hamper the sad.
Where art you though dad?
Cuddle me through those powdered sweets,
We used to stash in the dash.
I don’t understand how my hands, can be so under planned?
And unknowingly you expect so much.
And yet you too do nothing to help her,
You accept so much.
I knew you wouldn’t step up.
Hell, you don’t half know how to disappoint.
I ought to have thought that such a kindly family,
Would steer clear of such a spineless sort.
But I will unconditionally stick by you,
Because still I see slivers of what others don’t,
I bet you see the transparent whispers of the mistress,
That live raw in my guilty throat.
Homage to The Streets
Holding heavy hands, on heavenly gilded hilts.
Temptress like silk, salted tears and scolding spilt milk.
Sorted when snorted and sordid he’s crawling,
Sweaty pizza for the morning geezer and lean like Pisa.
Rest thy weary head, on this coffee stained bed.
Wherein lays my dead, choking on Monday dread.
Dressed in the Sunday best, complete with string vest.
Get out the garlic butter, and mums yum swollen tum.
Sticking to slims - together forever, no matter the weather.
Washed tenner to mates, like Mr. Burns he yearns for sum.
Thoughts that ought to have been thwarted for the best.
They seem to suggest it’s fickle and far from jest.
If I told you I hated the way you dressed, would you get stressed?
Finish up and fuck off is the fable still said.
God you ain’t in heaven, how fried be thy brain?
Sorry songs on Singstar, sad fat lads on the train.
Never be on the Wii, as they sit and stare;
At the confined kind, who never learnt to share.
For that pork pie just there, you’ll need a common prayer.
Even though you live over here, why should you fear the jeers of peers?
Next joke for the broke fat bloke in the Potter cloak.
Dressed in tartan, smoking sheds, and bikes in gardens past,
Making mockeries of maudlin men whose arteries harden fast.
He is beaten by his class for his cherubic chefs arse.
I need saving by the craving for which I’m saving.
Saving all my shaving for the kind who enjoys topless raving.
Racing Post with Stella close, sinking six in the sticks.
Classics in tinted glasses, like Davey the dashing fascist.
Reaching out for the daughter who’s hungry on the quarter.
Ice cream pleas for Solero scenes, and tightlipped as they are tightfisted.
Crying for Rusk biscuits like junkie fixes.
E’s and dribble bibs.
E’s and citrus fizz.
Granddads knees and Viz.
Pulp Fiction for the kids.
Potty politics and Perry shirt – a dead cert in that skirt.
The Streets hold the words as he skins live the winner.
Hoddle’s smitten for the forever sitting.
Yeah mate, you’re right, we only come out at night.
The proud swimmer, and footballer tonight.
Temptress like silk, salted tears and scolding spilt milk.
Sorted when snorted and sordid he’s crawling,
Sweaty pizza for the morning geezer and lean like Pisa.
Rest thy weary head, on this coffee stained bed.
Wherein lays my dead, choking on Monday dread.
Dressed in the Sunday best, complete with string vest.
Get out the garlic butter, and mums yum swollen tum.
Sticking to slims - together forever, no matter the weather.
Washed tenner to mates, like Mr. Burns he yearns for sum.
Thoughts that ought to have been thwarted for the best.
They seem to suggest it’s fickle and far from jest.
If I told you I hated the way you dressed, would you get stressed?
Finish up and fuck off is the fable still said.
God you ain’t in heaven, how fried be thy brain?
Sorry songs on Singstar, sad fat lads on the train.
Never be on the Wii, as they sit and stare;
At the confined kind, who never learnt to share.
For that pork pie just there, you’ll need a common prayer.
Even though you live over here, why should you fear the jeers of peers?
Next joke for the broke fat bloke in the Potter cloak.
Dressed in tartan, smoking sheds, and bikes in gardens past,
Making mockeries of maudlin men whose arteries harden fast.
He is beaten by his class for his cherubic chefs arse.
I need saving by the craving for which I’m saving.
Saving all my shaving for the kind who enjoys topless raving.
Racing Post with Stella close, sinking six in the sticks.
Classics in tinted glasses, like Davey the dashing fascist.
Reaching out for the daughter who’s hungry on the quarter.
Ice cream pleas for Solero scenes, and tightlipped as they are tightfisted.
Crying for Rusk biscuits like junkie fixes.
E’s and dribble bibs.
E’s and citrus fizz.
Granddads knees and Viz.
Pulp Fiction for the kids.
Potty politics and Perry shirt – a dead cert in that skirt.
The Streets hold the words as he skins live the winner.
Hoddle’s smitten for the forever sitting.
Yeah mate, you’re right, we only come out at night.
The proud swimmer, and footballer tonight.
Capitol
Things just ain't the same I’m anxious. I wanted to make you thankful, but that would be breezy, so here’s a handful I’ll hand you, make it easy. Go back to being the fun yum mum, for your young one. I'll wait however long, however wrong. I know it will haunt but nobody matters anymore .I've told you before with sickly sayings galore, I'll try to restore what I think you first saw. Your jaw hits the floor as much as I hope my head hits that bit, the bit between the lips.
Padding is the shit, a winner with the theatrical knitter who knits bits together. The respected? No. The accepted exception whose job is repetition, but only you give me the ambition, to allow my mission to come to fruition, speak and not just listen. A gnome alone, with just an iPod and a mobile phone. With you I come alive; at a distance you touch the inside. I can toy with the snide when you're at my side. I am empowered at this hour. I am enamoured by your glamour. I am tampered with and hammered. Clanging to the sound of ciders. Bashing, crashing, need catching, room trashing in this daily rehashing of what happens when smoking punctuates actions. The unholy distraction, movies make the worthless just surface, smoking breeds loafing, boxes your mind, even Pandora’s tired of opening, no hope and then, I place this pen in hand again, and try and vent those mental mind minions molding my emotion, in this harsh ocean of notions, waiting on closure.
I don't care what you believe; just keep it away from me, because my thoughts are still free. I am not having you thinking me into a new way to be, I am far from you and nearly me. Let it be. Just forget me, and how we came to be, it doesn't apply when wheels means you can't chill, rely on strangers, to see who tops that bill. Ill with perceived skill, and boring still. Yet nobody knew I could slew without the use of YouTube like a boobtubed teen, trying hard to get noticed by a useless abusive nuisance, who hates you, and is only concerned with what your body can do. I don't mind because I find I renew, you give me the fire to write what I do, it's minds like you who inspire already thin pretty women to swim in slimming pills to squeeze into Pink linen, and somehow it seems like just the beginning.
Padding is the shit, a winner with the theatrical knitter who knits bits together. The respected? No. The accepted exception whose job is repetition, but only you give me the ambition, to allow my mission to come to fruition, speak and not just listen. A gnome alone, with just an iPod and a mobile phone. With you I come alive; at a distance you touch the inside. I can toy with the snide when you're at my side. I am empowered at this hour. I am enamoured by your glamour. I am tampered with and hammered. Clanging to the sound of ciders. Bashing, crashing, need catching, room trashing in this daily rehashing of what happens when smoking punctuates actions. The unholy distraction, movies make the worthless just surface, smoking breeds loafing, boxes your mind, even Pandora’s tired of opening, no hope and then, I place this pen in hand again, and try and vent those mental mind minions molding my emotion, in this harsh ocean of notions, waiting on closure.
I don't care what you believe; just keep it away from me, because my thoughts are still free. I am not having you thinking me into a new way to be, I am far from you and nearly me. Let it be. Just forget me, and how we came to be, it doesn't apply when wheels means you can't chill, rely on strangers, to see who tops that bill. Ill with perceived skill, and boring still. Yet nobody knew I could slew without the use of YouTube like a boobtubed teen, trying hard to get noticed by a useless abusive nuisance, who hates you, and is only concerned with what your body can do. I don't mind because I find I renew, you give me the fire to write what I do, it's minds like you who inspire already thin pretty women to swim in slimming pills to squeeze into Pink linen, and somehow it seems like just the beginning.
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