Songs and the Forest

Poems from Charlie Hill. Email: [email protected]

[ebonythistlekicker]

Performance Opportunity

Hey guys, I'm putting together a spoken word night on Nov 26th at By Other Means. Looking for performers. Are you up to the challenge?

[walkingbomb]

reminder to:

straighten your back

go pee goddAMN IT STOP HOLDING IT

go take your meds if you need to

drink some water

go get a snack if you havent eaten in a while

maybe wander around the house/stretch a little if you’ve been sat at the computer a while (artists especially: sTRETCH THOSE WRISTS)

reply to that text/message from earlier you’d forgotten about

maybe send a nice lil message to someone having a bad day?

[mouthfullofsxnd]

I just would like to thank everyone who ever reblogs this so that it somehow ends up back on my dash because I usually need the reminder (especially the drinking water one)

[ebonythistlekicker]

SELF CARE IS KEY

[ebonythistlekicker]

I Do Believe I'll Dust My Broom

Fall slowly, silent. Pull the dusty blanket up At the moonlight's pace Across our tentative island And I will send a finger Made a hook behind My teeth for stories sweet There corroding. I will sprinkle dandruff, Whispers of old thoughts Unsightly in discarded multitudes As a path windward, Dancing on chance On the whim of hot stone And your voice And your pulsing feet About our tiny island. We tell ourselves we are above, But only beside On the levelling of waves, All others also dwindling At moonbeam edges Desperately sweeping Their falling former selves away.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Words of Murderers

They say great writers write economically, But economics is for analysts, Not dramatists, nor fantasists, Purveyors of midnight trysts Between mortals and their muses.

That’s not to say my kind don’t analyse, But our presentation confuses The uses of our findings With the face of the divine, Which is fine,

When there’s nothing to get done, No statues to be raised Or wars to be funded, Had to stop myself saying “won” And praising murderers for easy rhyme.

My words are no commodity I will let them fall from me Freely, like an animal shits pips, But I will recieve no payslip For trying to make this march to the dark More a walk through a nice park

With a bench where kids get stoned And mums run round to get retoned Because of the dreams they were sold In words economic, cold.

Why be frugal and hold words back? Til a new world is won, we must attack Everything unjust, everyone we distrust Until all hearts are on tables And we are finally able To see what makes us tick.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Kiss from a Bubble

A bubble kissed me As I did the washing up, Moving the soap bottle So it wouldn't fall Again, I squeezed, Reassuring, an accident, And out popped a bubble. It rested on the back of my hand, That space I'm meant to know so well But can't seem to remember, For an iridescent pause, Tender, It kissed itself extinct.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Stop Whining and Level Up!

I've been grinding Far too long But not gaining enough experience. I'm turning circles in long grass, Crushing dungeon creeps, Slaying 10,000 zubats And all I am is confused. I hold out hope, If I just keep doing what I'm doing, I'll stumble across treasure. Some rare artifact Will magic away my issues. And I know I could face the boss If I really tried, And I might die a few times, But if I keep treating this as a game, I'll never reach the next level.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Attention to Sprouting Thought

Why can I not read My words as urges? Broken water, The breached seal, A head glistens With delicate sentiment To make a garden For the public to walk through Where tiny grass can dream. Instead, excavating relentlessly, I am the dog who lost his bones.

[ebonythistlekicker]

So What Happens on the Underground?

They say we never really touch, That the sensation of contact Is illusory, provoked by atoms Pushing their like charges apart, But in that way I am Empty as you are: A thing of spaces catching light, Tight-knit in bonds, a whole In imitation. More pixels Than people; more pattern, A sequence of entropy And yet, as voids, across voids, The touch is felt. The charge is changed, Our sequence altered, And the air will never sit The same about your shoulders. I am not the same As before we met; Touched; lay together, Even the air between us Is transformation, exchange, But the same could be said For the mattress beneath us.

[ebonythistlekicker]

YouTube Sermon

For Francis E. Dec Gangster computer god, Scion of moon-brain, Atomic robot magic cabinets, In every living room, Whirring. The stars, If I listen I can almost Hear it: gangster computer Messages straight to basal ganglia, Tremors in the rusted bathtub, Moon brain stewing In its own drippings: This is how we rearrange The loose flapping day, Robot trudge, Clock in, log in. Sermons from the search bar: What is god? (Gangster) What's love got to do with it? (Chords) whirring in every home Across the country, repetition, Disjointed mornings. Too many windows open: Moon-brain pouring in Rich lizard conspiracy. Truth is a cracked egg. Truth is filled in automatically. Pistons in oscillation, The whirring, The background hum, The echo of the start: the sign that there is History, the bassline, Ignored. Too integral.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Shared Summit

Climb together, In weekend ascension, The summit shared A whole mile from the main road. Celebrate in supermarket sandwiches, Packaged. Moments Above trees and spires, The walking boots dusted off. I hear Everest Has a queue now, anyway.

[ebonythistlekicker]

The Pillow Cracks

I try, and thrash, And lie awake at night without, Smash my head into the pillow For poisonous passion (Or the end of it) In smoke clouds billowing Smudging the edges of this drudgery. There is no leap Into sleep, soft-edged Cavern dragging down But always stopping short Before the impact of the day. Dawn cracks, I cracked, There's crack somewhere near, But my demons are feebler: Mere weeds, And I'd be a dick To call myself addicted But the word surges up At night's urges As I yearn for fractal curls And a throat burning Like a scream in slow motion. The cavern looms without echo And I cannot enter.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Marked

If you must tattoo a snake, How many years of cracking, Of setting the old face aside, Must pass before the defining design Flows away like so much rain? I understand now why So many people are tattooed With anchors: washed As we are on seas Of other voices. The pearl of me rests Under a scarlet tongue.

[ebonythistlekicker]

In the way that Maro says

Most of my friends are blue, But in the way that Maro says, Not glum staring at dust collecting In the cracks of their hands, though Looking for perfection can lead to that.

So says the green in me, That’s just the way we are, Looking for reflections Of the colours we like in ourselves, And trying not to see our black.

I find that I clash, With other greenish, blueish hues But that’s probably the red in me, Especially when they spill white Into our delicate mixture.

I’m probably too white for my own good Except when red and black conspire. I try to search for harmony But is that just the green Letting the world go on?

[ebonythistlekicker]

A Spiral on the Wind

I am possessed. A dark rot corrodes my chest, And yet, my hands can't help But motion to the act of smoke. Toking whole afternoons Rolled up in a ripped out diary page, Idle solitude, spiraling birds. I made a pact To never waste a lung to cigarettes, Instead the light joint, purposeful, A cigarette disguised In clouds of fancy, Perhaps a taste of her. Her? Absent love, love lost, Love yet to come about, She-of-many-faces And yet only the dead mother's heart. My world is ash And a spot of brightness burning In the closing, frozen, Orange half-dark Of a London night. My world teeters, Disintegrates, A Spiral on the Wind.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Attrition

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. We. Smash. Slide by, roll, I long To be smooth In all these meetings. Stones, stones only, shining, slick In every shape, texture, hue, Until form is nonsense. Until nonsense gains form In patterns, Florettes, mandalas, diagonal fours, Everything similar in being part Of a set too large. I lose track of which one I picked out In all the stones rolling by.

[ebonythistlekicker]

The New Connection

Our conversation is Fractured. Bright shards embedded In all the Internet 's corners. You approach me From all angles Of the mind.

[ebonythistlekicker]

Box

Here is a box. "Why did you give me this?" I want you to fit inside. "Is it a present? Is it a home?" It is a box. It will sag when it rains.