Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.Our alarm doesn't ring, it singsPharell beating our morningstill we remove from our snooze. Weforgot the tink-tinker orbleep-fuck-bleeperand emerge the same.The same commute to work:Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk bythumb movements. Our ears dumblocked into a Will-I-Am trance. Nota glance of the changing scenes; the only birds we see are angry.The same office echoes withtip-tip-tip-tappingof emails blaming others and smack-talking.instead of actual talking. We fall forthe hype of Skype and only Siri’svoice drones narrow answerswe accept as truth. The same playground, huddled corners;Children pick a blackberry instead of picking blackberries, for their late-nightFacebook fights. Words will always hurt see:no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unlessthere’s an ap for it.What do we do when stop?Orwell you're too latetook thirty years to demonstrate yourdoublethink and we all cling to the
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bagsshuffle down the high street between clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase. They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers, leftward stepping the rushed businessmen-- a pinballmachine shopping centre.A green-robed man, tall with wand and hoodmust be a wizard. He’s happilyprocuring sushi and sparkling waterwhilst his companion; short with her piercings and jeans treats himas if he wore the same.Down the high street, two track-suited parentszoom past on their children’s scooters—half-smoked fags between fingers yellhow fucking amazing this is.and aspotted teen raps his love for Jesus on a muffledmicrophone. He raps for the Father,He raps for the Son and Holy Spirit. He raps for peace, for hope, for you.In a corner, Brown eyes, hefty tears,a snot-ridden face--four years old. A train runs through the mall toot-tootingas grumpy shoppers move out of the way.A
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heavenand throw the keyinto the lions land?A beautiful girl enjoyingyouths ignorance;a new fantasy to live. She'd stopped believing, butfaith stays in a heart longerthan a head. "She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because myhair was brown bobbed and she dated DavidBeckham; I wanted to marry him. Ihad no internet and recorded songson the radio to tape, daring topause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sangto S Club and thought I was the coolestin my smiley faced top and my yingyangfriendship necklaces. You had to know theMacarena not just for weddings butschool discos too and then every steps routineto fit in. Slow dances with boys made mewish again that they were David Beckhamand not greasy teens with bad curtains forhair. They pressed themselves against you beforetravelling to the next girl in leopardprint skirt. Viva forever was merelya fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole ofthe nineties, hoping my teenage self couldfind her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letteroutwitting at last the greatest.A photograph, filched;a King’s humiliation.In your eyes sheholds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted faceand streaks of black across his chest; he standswild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by theechoes of fallen enemies. He slewtwo hundred men and just scars mark their defence.There’s a warrior with a painted facewho prays to gods mightier than he; he kneelsarms open to implore. He calls upon his armyto pray with him; equals once more. He watchesembers burn before retiring to his tent.There’s a warrior with a painted faceand inside his heart rests a son and daughtersleeping. There is a reason he isa warrior.
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station Leaving the train stationalone I watch strangers head home.The waves for yellow cabs andstench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I letthe cold cloud white breath.Even at midnight, a long-coated businessmanhurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,a clip-clack of heels and giggles-their night hasn’t ended. Across the road, three youths in hoodedtops kick a can whilst eating chips only stoppingas clip-clacks pass them and swoonimmaturity. Swear words exchange.In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if takinga commute, tapa-tapping the concrete. Exhausted I can only wait withwhite breath etching blue hands desperate to bewarmed. Eyes fight; tired andvigilant
Napo 2- Zombie ApocolypseTurn, turn, slow turn. Twist bonesbroke but drag drag behind, pulltug flesh ripped. Shuffle, groan desireonly for blood brains.Undead, unliving, unknown.To survive a zombie apocalypse don’t bea hero. Do not fight marauders withoutnecessity. Attrition; gnawing for bareminimal (lest you be gnawed upon!). Tosurvive ravenous army equip your your wits and an axe.Moan as much as they moan- both sides are hungry.
AnswersI don't write poetry.I just let the pen DanceAcross crumbled pages.I let my soulBleed into ink.As my way of askingStatues and glowingScreensFor answersBut They never answer.
we used to fly togetheri've got a good memory,but i was surprised to find the box;full of our scribbled conversationsand protestations (no, that's not right)declarations, no, dreamsof what the future might look like.we were young, vibrant, andbeautiful (and inseparable, once)and we thought we knew how totake hold of the future.for my part, i struggled withage as if i had a chance of winning;our battles were the talk of the town.you, you took to the passing of time with an eagerness that showedjust how ready you were to put away the notions of childhood.i've got a good memory,but it's easy to be selective,pick and choose the momentsthat i want to relive.we were foolish, confident(and oh, so alive)and we fell into our roleswith a predictability that is near miraculousto behold.i doomed myself to the role ofthe forever-child, always looking back,always dreaming of the carefree days.you quickly ran out of adventures,and set about finding new myst
Call it Fallthere's a soft kiss ofmedium-rare sunlightin the barelybroken bonesof this October dayjust warm enoughto think that summermay have stasheda day or twoin our pocketsbut each tomorrowreminds us morethat it didn'tthat this autumnknows little lifeoutside its barrelof choking appleswhere yellowjacketsbore, conquer and,still sweet,curl into a coolslow sleepof frozen dreamspaused in dawn'sblanket of frostthese short daysunder long nightscount down toa new beginningof the enda dark springof bright blushand angerthat will burn this forestnot down, but nakedand we call it Fallas if there's a misstepor slip involvedas if we make a choiceor skip the chanceto not veerfrom daylight's trailonto these our printsso well worn and re-worninto timetwo human sets enterand where it goesfrom theregets lost in thecrunch of leavesbeneath usour moon stays lowgiving trees new lifeand wind carries crieslike song, for miles
decodei pinedunequivocallyfor the quillin soft shadows:the swallow's smileand toothyflightthe curveof treebowsrotting-freshto planta buduphigh andhemlocking-mebetween a dreamand sleepand sleepand sleepyou musn't worryI have foundan ink-sourcethus:a quibblingcreek -my soul!It willblossomlike poppieson the pagebefore me,myfingertipthe pen
Empty But Alivebreathing you in, octoberi taste the numbing agentseven on the very surfaceof your conspiracy, thisprepping of the patientthis unworking of the earthsealing it as-ishardening the sitesof future graves, forced shallownot harvesting, just weakeningarranging late-year stacksof blurry panic, while disablingthe defensive responseso much decline to wagebefore the winter killsoctober knows i'm a foolfor the dark underbreathof its dead open airthe howl of the breezethrough its night fields, emptybut alive, and so very not emptyits rhythm of silencebetween barks and callsstalls my heart mid-beati used to pray for its enginesto restart, before it hit groundbut now i realizethat there is no floorto this dreamand no bottom to this fall
hummingbirds only fly in the sun hummingbird girl,you are the sunlight twinklingin my eyes. a letter addressedto no one ended up on nobody'sdoorstep, dancing around odysseusand his iliad. the gods whisperin your ears at night, lending youtheir words to paint onto brittleparchment. you are a mysterycloaked in fragments and fabricatedwings, the taste of the universeon my tongue. if i could unlockthe cage i would set you free,but my nimble fingers aren't goodfor anything except tying knotsin heartstrings that aren't my own.
Napo 5- In the ParkWe can’t forget thesunglasses. If we do,we’ll be conspicuous.
We can’t forget the sunglasses. If we do, we’ll be conspicuous.
Please sign up
or login to post a critique.