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.

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

Synchronise

Dancing in sync they do,
brandishing colour of feather for returning affecting.
The craning of rounded necks,
flexing, smoothing,
soundless words exchanged,
envy for indifference
the olive bird dance. 


~ 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

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. 

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

The Famous Secret

It isn't easy to look back at the person you were in previous years and appreciate who that person was. To understand so comprehensively what makes up the essence of a person (yourself) comes inevitably with a level of contempt and resentment maybe at how predictable and transparent and unintentionally honest that person was. Self-actualisation I think its called. There are so many instances in the future which are inevitable. You promise yourself that you will never become or succumb to that unavoidable fate but in time of course you do and instead of hiding the person you are then you abuse your past self and the lack of understand she had. I can't guarantee that I won't look back at anything I created, anything I wrote for that matter and just hate it, be disgusted with it and want to destroy the fact that IT happened. I wonder if there's a stage in life when that stops happening. I suppose that is why authors generally don't publish in their teenage years and director's don't release films until they claim not a wealth of experience but at least something that resembles it. 

Because growing up is just that, hating but perhaps eventually accepting and rejoicing in what WAS otherwise how do people love their children? I suppose thats where parent-to-child relationships screw up, unless they see hte person they love inside their child and even though most parents see the complex and intricate scope of accepting something else, they unconsciously decide to make it simple, and just live as if they can love but really - they just can't. As living is just a lie: people just lying to themselves and to others, which is probably why realistic films can be so hard to watch because thats when people stop lying, as they are shown what telling the truth is, and its uncomfortable, its a portrayal of when parents get it wrong because they stop lying and the truth isn't liberating but just a recipe for chaos. Being cynical may complicate simple things, and it may make life miserable and darker but at least you're not lying to yourself because you know a secret, a famous secret. 

With Insanity Comes Happiness (sometimes)

Thirst for insight compares to curse,

set up for failure, a sculptured impossibility.

How to satisfy a desire for infinite substance,

but with youth brings idealistic minds

which fade and crumble, grow defective over time,

So perfectly

we are left with a collection of wits and intellects

spent and expended

happy inevitably in a penitentiary of insanity,

a prison

but blissful (we think) all the while. 

~ Pseudo Poems

Necessary Moments

A betrayal of some unworthy sights,
from youth exploited and 
destroyed for better measure.
Beginning sights and try may you try,
blame who, blame me, blame influence,
puff, smoke, liquid gold,
delightfully smooth, invisible and irrelevant,
for the necessary moment,
but as moments shorten,
as does cheap satisfaction.

And the innocence of broken white wings are 
never recovered.


~ Pseudo Poems

The Animal Yard

The crowd like one coherent body,

shifting and jilting; its dimensions ever-changing,

a thousand melodies making anthem

for this animal.

I laced my fingers through the dense air

and looked not to the dispersing fumes

but the human reactions.

The effect was lost on me 

and a mystery to the creatures 

of the yard,

these friends of pretence. 

~ Party Poems