We can’t forget the
sunglasses. If we do,
we’ll be conspicuous.
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
till we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an ap for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
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 He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him.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 bags
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
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-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heaven
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than 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 my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries 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 hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete.
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
Napo 2- Zombie ApocolypseTurn, turn, slow turn. Twist bones
broke but drag drag behind, pull
tug flesh ripped. Shuffle, groan desire
only for blood brains.
Undead, unliving, unknown.
To survive a zombie apocalypse don’t be
a hero. Do not fight marauders without
necessity. Attrition; gnawing for bare
minimal (lest you be gnawed upon!). To
survive 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
Across crumbled pages.
I let my soul
Bleed into ink.
As my way of asking
Statues and glowing
But 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 conversations
and protestations (no, that's not right)
declarations, no, dreams
of what the future might look like.
we were young, vibrant, and
beautiful (and inseparable, once)
and we thought we knew how to
take hold of the future.
for my part, i struggled with
age 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 showed
just 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 moments
that i want to relive.
we were foolish, confident
(and oh, so alive)
and we fell into our roles
with a predictability
that is near miraculous
i doomed myself to the role of
the forever-child, always looking back,
always dreaming of the carefree days.
you quickly ran out of adventures,
and set about finding new myst
Empty But Alivebreathing you in, october
i taste the numbing agents
even on the very surface
of your conspiracy, this
prepping of the patient
this unworking of the earth
sealing it as-is
hardening the sites
of future graves, forced shallow
not harvesting, just weakening
arranging late-year stacks
of blurry panic, while disabling
the defensive response
so much decline to wage
before the winter kills
october knows i'm a fool
for the dark underbreath
of its dead open air
the howl of the breeze
through its night fields, empty
but alive, and so very not empty
its rhythm of silence
between barks and calls
stalls my heart mid-beat
i used to pray for its engines
to restart, before it hit ground
but now i realize
that there is no floor
to this dream
and no bottom to this fall
To The Boys Who Died In Their SleepTo The Boys Who Died In Their Sleep
c(h)ords s n
cadence in codas
lives into over
on the other
and time folds like old laundry
fade into two endpoints
like closed lines
this is ad nauseum
not ad infinitum
for the quill
in soft shadows:
the swallow's smile
between a dream
you musn't worry
I have found
on the page
hummingbirds only fly in the sun hummingbird girl,
you are the sunlight twinkling
in my eyes. a letter addressed
to no one ended up on nobody's
doorstep, dancing around odysseus
and his iliad. the gods whisper
in your ears at night, lending you
their words to paint onto brittle
parchment. you are a mystery
cloaked in fragments and fabricated
wings, the taste of the universe
on my tongue. if i could unlock
the cage i would set you free,
but my nimble fingers aren't good
for anything except tying knots
in heartstrings that aren't my own.
ten.why don't we sit under
the hangmans noose;
for a bit.
watch the crows hustle around
frayed ropes, and listen to the
wind rustle dirt's
there's a cool breeze coming
almost too cold, its...
so let's just walk away and seek the
under these charcoal
[its a comforting feeling to have life, and
death in your control. ]
My Personal PreferenceI don’t care
For pretty hearts
I like the ones
That are scarred
And taped together
Because those are the ones
Who have been through Hell
And have the courage
To keep beating
dextrorotatory doxologiesI once was a heavenly body, I think.
A sharp crystal in the veins of God.
I swam about in bliss fluid
and rambled all truths
in new shades of deep blush
as he brusquely introduced me
to others more potent
I felt myself nearing the heart of all matter
and panicked, lodged painfully
in vein, dangerously ingrained
instead of ascertaining that
the truth of self is not held
And as I ventured slowly closer
I posed but one query:
"Tell me, what power
do you have
to spare me?"