poems

Sunday best

I pace

Throwing windows open

Moonwalking across rooms

Playing a jarring melancholy that hums along the floors

Staring back at my dry aesthetic

Ripping through cloth to find the right lie

Thrust in steam and scent

Molested with intoxication in older shades

Mona Lisa painting now

And then I pause

My feet forget how to pace

Standing high, jewelled

Breathing in the obscure lyric

Imagining a simulation

Where everything is the same

Except for me

And it looks so much better now

Quieter how

This is probably what Van Gogh’s left ear felt like

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poems etc.

The election 

They won the only coin toss

Before the others knew how to play

And then they stood appalled 

From higher moral ground

Wearing coats with green lapels

Hints of gold in their salivating grins 

Preaching dreams only to tax them

In barren lands rain a sin


And yet the hollow people followed fast

The humourless constitution of the dream weaver

Afoot on a cloud above 

Lambs electing butchers as their leader


Finally they reached the alter

Their carcass stinking of despair 

As he perfumed himself with power

The illustrious illusion of order

Was only for the civic fair


And thus the carnivore sat on the throne

Lined by the hide of your forefathers 

While your flesh drops off your bone

The fat man’s dinner party a slaughter


poems etc.

Unexpected arrival

With an unexpected arrival

Drowned memories surface

Like bloated corpses 

Deserving no burial

And beseeching comfort 

The frightened juvenile 

Averts hateful glances

As she shields herself

In a cocoon of consolations

Trying to suppress

What she got away with

Desperately hiding

The hole in her heart

Made by her ego

Blamed on him