Thursday, 25 December 2014

Writers' Irony

Inspiration,
like an uncharitable dripping tap
forever fruitless thought
and threatening zealous
colours and smiles borne by 
a writer with a drying pen,
want for want.

Inspiration,
a colouring book of 
folded pages and thick black borders.
A frustrated child
indifferent to method
and thus, devoid of intention,
need for need.

Inspiration,
purchased in the wrong currency
irony bountiful
but desire for articulation lost,
yours for mine.

Dried ink and scented candle wax,
pressed against the black mug
vacuums, ticks, footsteps, gasps, 
noise, noise, noise,
opportune child picking at herself,
shredded lips and opaque nails.

Hated papers everywhere,
grey-lead for incandescent words.
Useless, pitiful and senseless
waning desire.
Direct this passion before it loses out.

Me

A quick eye and mind compromised 
by slow deceiving reactions
and the unfortunate characteristic 
of wanting to provide pleasure
to the company 
via predictability 
and a long-standing joke 
at her very expense. 

Misguided angst or abuse at anyone's hand?
Now this is the bully's nuance. 

A Military Sentiment

New colours,
sights that have never dared make an appearance,
radiant shades of happening dreams
control is lost but irrelevant
exclusive and stunning
a beautiful war.

Blood and life shed in protest of cynics,
imaginings have conquered
but reality is irretrievable.
How do you reach for your children?
You lie and paint
a beautiful war.

Inconceivable devotion
to an illusory leader whose vengeance and pride is personal
distributor of matte uniform
and creator of preserved love
cheers for forlorn regrets of 
a beautiful war.

The inarticulate lad
whose promise of glory was lost
a simple spirit made simpler.
Clandestine martyrs made angry
real love made redundant by
a beautiful war.

A vow for loss won again,
for nothing short of adversary warriors
once taught of cold and heartless
taught to weep, love, grief, feel, fear
regardless of 
a beautiful war.

And what have we in this moment?
A dark cloud of haunting history
iron clad indifference of a disconnected generation
sympathy is mandatory
but true, valid and raw emotion is lost on us/faultless to 
a beautiful war. 


~ History Poems

Toxic

Toxic airs of high expectations,
skirts of dancing prima donnas
and laughs of crouching panthers,
tails askew and darts of yellow eyes readied,
smiles of buttered malice intent.

Talents in emotional balance,
false hearts of composed and silent apathy.
Champagne sits quietly
forged adoration and fictitious shambles
swim and sparkle on every surface.

Torn, slashed, spilt, discarded -
a heavy nightly occasion of dissolute hopes
the crimson that fades and ivory spoilt
giving way to solid tints and shades of disappointment blue
unsightly veneers of showing green
and the colourless that drips from every colour orb. 


~ Party Poems


Manuscripts

Millions of first pages,
potential in blanks of promise and beginning hope
ripped and unguarded - the best of them.
Pledged and rich of
undisclosed and furtive tells,
betraying insight and honesty.
Manuscripts of treasure,
maudlin value,
original if ever one.

Of course a hero, a conquerer,
in charismatic and honest wit,
a belt of gold,
an endearingly malicious and dim
adversary never forget,
and then a lady of perfect tresses,
cheeks pink of baby apples,
soft and laudable disposition,
classic if ever one.


~Pseudo Poems

Eyes of Recovery

How may I rid myself
of that incessant dripping noise? 
The darkened greyness dancing like corpse shadows
underneath the lightless globes of chocolate.
Crimson to tanning lips,
widowed arms empty but reaching,
a silhouette host
to the bidding creatures of a beckoning 
daughter of dawn.

The pebbles press into the back of this
crying angel as she runs her
wilted white fingers through blackened hair,
reaching for that contented young soul
which coated the thin lashes curled around 
those smiling orbs of blue and grey.


~ Pseudo Poems

Milday

An enchantment of a person,
a goddess of wit, grace, honour set among us.
Gloves of crimson imply the blood
dripping off the tips of her sweet butterfingers.
Silver folds of satin, ivory drapes of silk,
pink sleeves crafted by a latin,
reach up and scrape the sky
only to have golden shimmer fall and rest
at her feet with silent sigh.

Intricate a pattern,
diamonds cut and squared,
sketching some map 
of vague and formless quality paired
with bullion tined spools of dithering locks
bounding about her frameless face,
the shine dressed not the woman but
the woman dressed the shine.


~ History Poems