I think that when you ask someone what they go through to make a piece of art, literature and music, they often discuss stimulates like social situation, or moments that they want to put to paper, or even it can come at an unlikely time. I think when i wrote these two poems, i was in-between different emotions, and couldn’t really express how i was feeling, so i decided to sit down with a pen and paper to see where it went. This is the result and apologise if it looks like its all over the place, but i think that this reflects my mindset at that particular time, and i even think now the spontaneous write in the moment poems have minds of they’re own. I hope you find something there that makes you think something you wouldn’t normally think of. I always aim to write my poems so they imitate all the background noise, and maybe simulate thinking that makes you think outside of the normal ideas that we all share.   

 

A conversation (worth dreaming of)

 

Religions and war

 

that was all that was said here

 

a wall bigger than you and I

 

stood large above an open case

 

paste this into my own image and send it

 

my scaly old skin

 

and my tiresome old laugh and bones that could not go on anymore

 

pigheaded

 

stupid

 

drunk

 

that was all i was intended for

 

try this and that

 

a cravat made of steel is weighing me down

 

torn above God or Jesus

 

who has to exist but Darwin

 

hypocrisy into what was real or fake

 

intent as hard as you and i

 

what is clear is i will never be truer to myself

 

always so tiresome with steam, i had to make some changes

 

redeem, express, repel and replace

 

that is all that thy could offer oneself. What do i know or believe in, as god is dead to me, and what is true can never be told to those few

 

its too old and mask-full to tell thy otherwise

 

oh i hated my own skin too much it was an affair to behold

 

what i can conclude is that flowers were not made to express peace from within

 

instead i am just a clown with nothing said nearer to my withering heart

 

room to room, all the ripped up wombs that were set up to die

 

i want to cry inside, i could not tell why

 

is this the end?

 

i hope not as i’m too near death to be alive

 

redeem, express, repel and replace

 

this is all i can hope for now

 

not a crumby bastard that writes for likes, or reads classics that remind oneself that such creatures do exist

 

we are not alone with these fantasies

 

just lost in an open world.

Camomile tea 

 

Lower into the valley of blackness

 

Ovid paths became enriched with sadness

 

a medicine is most effective at night.

 

Where the night creatures roam in tight thickened communities

 

hierarchy showed there was no animal at heightened ability.

 

The act to cry, moan, whimper and plea endlessly

 

for in times of interventions there were gallon hats full of tea

 

yet you don’t listen nor do you speak

 

you feel sinking is the only imagined curse word in existence

 

the liquid connection just isn’t there.

 

There are those who understand, who sleep too much like you, and try to comprehend.

 

like a rose in the garden of evil

 

whatever line is most convenient to escape defeat.

 

water droplets of satin look divvy into the umbrella

 

thoughts of todays dinner plans

 

is meat on the agenda?

 

*

If we thought we were boring that would make our juxtaposition much more questionable.

 

this is a story of you, so why do you think so lavishly?

 

Its hard to hold onto something that isn’t there

 

that is a concise definition of sadness, picking from an oval tree full of pears, which seemed oblong, full of holes.

 

Until you reach the shore and tore out chunks of hair, they tied you down to the sea

 

everything up to your appearance baffles some me’s

 

but all they understand is that you are no completely free.