Daily Splurge

I'm going to write a poem off the top of my head in here everyday, perhaps more than once, perhaps less, in an effort to get me writing as often as I can. I hope you enjoy them. If you want to use any around the internet or for something else, just ask...

[dailysplurge-blog]

Time’s Imagination

Time lies inside a chest

Writing itself a story.

Beneath an ocean, blue and

Thick, it waits to be released.

In vein it does

For if time is locked then

No key could set it free.

Movement cannot be.

So within the chest its’

Mind runs wild, picturing

You and me. An entire

World in which all

Grows and changes,

Where Time can be

Set free. But outside that

No click from the lock.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Distraction

My lower back hurts

and I have work

that’s in for tomorrow and

I keep staring at

this old journal article

about why rhyme aids the memory

of sentences. I stare at it for ages

on my old Toshiba laptop

and my eyes

don’t move

because I’m thinking about women. 

I keep checking my tablet for a new

Snapchat,

from a particular

someone,

but it’s seeming pointless. 

               01:26

and I know it’s pointless

and that I should just

focus on my work,

                             but

the second a sentence

doesn’t make sense my mind drifts off into

                                                                    fantasies 

which are much more pleasurable to think about than

the work I have to do.

Why can’t the 

libido and the

mind work as

one?

That would apply to both

of their preferred scenarios.

If anywhere, this is where procrastination

gets you, or more specifically, 

me. Thinking about women

and thinking about work 

does help in both cases, but only to a certain

extent.

Just like the Yin

and the Yang,

action must be taken with thought,

otherwise you sit and wonder why your dreams

                                                                                    still aren’t real.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Roanoke

That tree where silver

sap shades the canyons

of brown bark that reach

up into firework-leafed

embers of that green-flamed

tinge. A house for the real

and, so far, mystical to

meet, the aether inside calls

ghosts and humans into the

same earthly limbo, the sweet

horizon between heaven and

hell. Goblins squabble in the

bar, slapping each other’s

big, warty heads over who

pilfered what gold when.

The damned, hollow faced,

sit between the huntresses,

paladins and warlocks, silent.

Beneath the rooty chandelier

wisps the elixir of life and

the kiss of death and atop

this grown meeting ground

is Roanoke, swaying leaves

from the winds of every plane.

[dailysplurge-blog]

In God's Light

In God’s light he stands soaking in the rain

outside the hotel. He reaches to her

car, she leans out the window. I can’t hear

their exchange because my hood is up and

families splash through the river of Shaw, noise

muffled like red break lights glowing on wet

side-walks. In God’s light, drenched and cold, the rain

falls on the homeless, as she drives away.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Forms in the Mist

I took flight on an apparition,

one that took gold from my superstition

and flanked me in sick decay,

relaying to me that I needed to play

in order to win. I felt wrong.

Going by that feeling, I continued to sing

and extinguish competition

while I conversed with others.

Dream slices catch me now and then,

showing me clear as reality experience

that there is more than many people realise.

Maybe that’s how I knew from square two

to not simply believe what people say, especially

when it involves there only being one way.

If you have to do that to do this,

then why we’re all individually still breathing is a myth.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Flying In Water

A stick wobbled in the Thames;

catching my attention, I sat and

watched it. Something tried to

scrabble itself up and I couldn’t

recognise the bug. Only after a

moment did I see what it was.

A butterfly was drowning in the

thick junk, more than my arm’s

reach away. It rippled water, as

its sodden wings helplessly

flapped against gravity. There

was no way it could get onto

the stick. I searched for an aid

in the bushes behind me, I did

not want to watch it die. Sticks

I found weren’t long enough. I

was useless. Instead, its wings

ceased their frantic pushes for

life and I saw the ripples end.

[dailysplurge-blog]

The Well-Oiled Cry of Freedom

The grey, endless roads of Fresno 

etch their way into my poetry and 

the way I think. Like my days 

as a cleaner before university, 

this city of car parks filled with 

monstrous, filthy trucks urges

me to reach a better place. While 

I’m here, I’ll let dust clog the crevices 

of my stanzas, heat melt my wintry 

English verse and bark my spoken 

word like a bulldog snared by a

bald, gasoline-pumped eagle.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Too Much Sitting Down

My back hurts from sitting

in this creaking chair that I

sometimes lean back on in

my Fresno State dorm. Up

from the bottom is where. I

try to sit more straight and it

helps slightly, but it won’t for

long. In my eyes and nose I

feel an illness coming on. The

cause is unknown. Maybe it

stems from sheer boredom. I

need to get out of this chair.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Flickers by the Fire

Relish your wisdom, because it will not

last. Cherish your knowledge, but do not hold

on when it is over-written. Wine stop

keeps the air out, but the wine in. Be bold

and drink. Use what may be used and you will

change, reddening cheeks and confidence crazed,

let the conversation flow into sin.

Grab logs and put them in the fire, blaze

her mind with your travels and woo her art

of touch, red nails, pale skin, black rainbows,

calligraphy strikes around eyes that ask

to be lowered in flickers, smiles, wet glows

and it is not always bad to cry in

the rain, hand on bare shoulder to listen.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Old Speed, New Flow

I get this heart swing and I

crumple it into an old style

of poem, one that I used to

write. I’m interested to see

how my brain flow works

with the new things I’ve learnt.

A three line, four stanza take

on the world by me, will it do

anything to touch a nerve, eat

a soul, carve into the world a

rational window into my brain,

the abstract thought to obtain.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Teenage Blind Double Date Daydream

How is it so tough to listen without daydreaming in this tiny room. My classmates write and ask questions and really, I try to too.

Thing is, blind dates are more interesting and I’ve got one coming up soon with a girl that I’ve been set up with by a friend out of the blue.

The only time I’ve done this before was that day out on the pier two school boys and two girls we walked after meeting on Bebo we’re

on creaking wood above the waves by games that win teddy bears. I looked behind and Jack had escaped, the girl’s backs turned, we ran as a pair.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Pressing Matters

John, get your keys. Silver Clinks should be open now, so lets grab some goddamn drinks. Why is it so hot? Your air con always breaks and it sucks in the hot LA streets where the heat creates liquid mirror puddles on the road ahead. I need to clear my head, not fill it with stuffy, sweaty anger that only a highway traffic jam can create. Finally, Jesus. Grab me a Blue Moon, I need a piss. Thanks. Let's sit in this booth, that old, fat guy by the bar's looking at me funny. So yeah, she's kicked me out again and oh, you've still not gotten laid in a year. It's your own fault. If it is a fault, depends on what you want I suppose. Maybe get some new shirts, wouldn't hurt to wear something other than that ratty green one sometimes. Really, I don't know how you do it. How long will it be before I can go back this time? I should really stop drinking. No, don't worry, I'll get the next round. All I did was suggest some changes to her paintings. Yeah, they're going into the Getty if all goes well, commissioned by some European big shot. I musta been more drunk than I thought. What? Hell no you can't make a move on her, she's still my girlfriend you fuck! Geez, yeah next round is yours. That fat guy's coming over. Well fuck a duck. You're that Euro star! My relationship's screwed because of your money and maybe my drinking as well. Why couldn't you take your fat wad and shove it to some other art scene? Shit, that one hurt. Big guy with a gold chain thinks he can throw a punch? Still standing after That one? Hands on my collar, woah! OK, this table did not break my fall. You're pulling back for another punch, oh shi-

[dailysplurge-blog]

Give Me What You Haven’t Decided

Lip service? Please. I need your tongue.

Surface expression does not get to the

heart of it and the heart is what really

matters, is it not? Answer me with your

taste undecided by rationality and

undivided by what it should be, just

release that which you are upon me.

Make whirlpools of my instant emotion.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Sigh

The faded, blood red horizon dreams into an old, smoky gold. A waterfall of aquamarine tempts Turquoise from above and fancies itself blue. Where blue finally begins, it is young, but knowing, not fearful near the horizon, accepting with a sigh that reaches into the alpha and omega, revealing the wonders of itself without colour, just jewel studs that flicker gently in the deep dome of the forever black.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Warm Arm

I sit on my dad’s lap and there’s a screen

in front of me, with a square of white and

words going down the page. He holds me

around the back, hand on my shoulder and

I tell him what to write the story about.

An old man with the name, Steam Beard,

has a dog made of steam too. The two of

them save the passengers of a broken

down steam train, by filling it up with steam

of their own and save the day. They all laugh.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Martial Meditation

The dark, throwing atmosphere

of a dubstep crowd take my

memories into those swinging hours

of respectful, bass-lit aggression.

The dance is the push and

the shove and is empty with too

much space. The dungeon, the

basement and the castle of Pula

remain the kingdoms of heaven.

The digital, mystic complexion

of slow grinding synths, swing

us all in martial meditation.

[dailysplurge-blog]

Bed Time Ritual

I breathe in, counting from one to nine and feel the energy flow up the inside of my legs, tell myself I feel something sweet and then I breathe out from one to nine and the energy goes down the outside of my legs and I tell myself I am something sweet. I repeat this nine times and then sleep.