(SJH= 1 < 3 \ / E)
The bulging veins of my borrowed biro
chug and choke as they dig their way to the
frontier of writing. My inked-up engine
splitter-splatters clumsily across a
page policed by road blocks.. Prohibiting
Rhyme. My imagination stalls until
melancholy revs the licensed pen-spade
into gear. A uniformed Heaney waves
me on with a nod. The writers code. My
muse acts on the signal and guns me down.
He sucks me dry with smiles and lends me words
that trickle out like tears. I love-hate him.
For steering my lost sonnet I thank him-
“Our car crash in motion helped drive this poem.”
SJH >.<
The Injustice of Priority
I'm stiffled by this skin,
the endless layers of mesh
jailing silent screams and
locked up hurt. These tortured,
tired bones ache for guilty
viens to bleed, some quick release
to numb the pain of inward
breaking and stinging tears.
Keyless smiles are out of
tune with my captors singing
school of messed up priorities.
Watching him propped up on
the other side of steely
bars coaxes me towards
freedom.
Dylan Thomas and his convulted web of artistic genius..
Fraying
It's a little bit tortured,
every stich tearing from its
fragile socket at the core
of 'us'. Our smooth lines fraying,
a suspended cable wire
unplugging where you meets me.
I cant resist touching you
with wet hands. Tempting fate.'I'm
loosing you and it's effortless.'
The Fray..
Without You
I’m desperately indecisive but decide to be pre-emptive,
something non-committal and in the safety of ambiguity-
a festering mire of under-cooked words half baked in their
wallowing belly of self-pity. I willingly succumb to the mantra of
egotistic cliché,instinctively indulging in the vanity of foresight,
I think they call it 'saving face'. It’s a pungent, bitter sort of
amusement that consumes my attempt to rationalise my pain
fuelled 'poetry in motion'. Pompous prose fills the void of
intentional absence, drinking me up in a weedy tangle of
words. Sullenly encrypted codes of confusion haughtily impose
upon my [he-] art. You’ve programmed me not to trust
you...we're crashing.
Hunger gnaws at my sanity as I lie in bed alone, mid afternoon,
with curtains drawn, watching Rosemary Shragar’s School for Cooks-
“I’m afraid it’s so delicate it’s beginning to separate and tastes
a tad too bitter.” All the things I hate keep on devouring me-
the way you choose to 'miss' me to save your wine glass congregating
dust. I fritter away lost time in solitude aching for you to swallow
me up in your arms, instead, you allow Tyrone’s prosy horizon to steal me from your foggy glug.
Spat out and exhaled.
Left to thaw.
And here I am. Writing this.
Without You.
Rosemary baby..
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