The Machine (first draft)

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.

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.

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.