Tormented Organism

I am a 22 year old writer in England. There are only a few important things in my life at the moment. Whiskey, women, snooker, music, and fellow writers. When the lot are together I am happiest. However, this is seldom experienced.

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Matter

There seems to be this slime

edging out from under my bed

thick, slick, congealed and blood red.

I sought the source but with little luck

found not a single trace

'What the fuck?'

I asked myself with my hands upon my hips

a look of blunt tools in sheds

slow cats and empty picnic bags.

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Diligence and the converts of cynical law

dancers amidst blades burning

the tapping of heels and palms

liquids suspended in green eyes

a girl who knows

words are for her not for the many.

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Counterfeit

Torn apart aside of it

like radiant notions never mattered

coiled respiration 

torrid rooted path

languishing in the destitution

haplessly beside myself

with dreams that promise

bodies and words to tranquillise 

sedate the petulance 

crude form of tired doubt.

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Epitaph

There is this influx

this crazy breed

that pours upon me

hands and knees

forced flat into the gravel

with all complex thoughts astray

a million miles up there is this vibrant lie

made real upon the grounds

that I am something more

but when put before the light

faults, flaws, errors drawn.

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Embellished flesh of hers

eyes severe and frightening

beneath the swaying ferns

I felt the world in time

as if for once it harmonised

with what I knew to be 

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AM

Whilst we ruin a fifth

skin on dusted rug

scratched tumblers

blackened match

I look beyond you

see a void in which the future grows

iron blood in mouth

the pain between your teeth

loose shirt about your body

red hair upon your shoulders

lunar light falling through

and casting lines across our feet

tangled there we stay

until the moon has moved

replaced by day

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Swell

Pleased to be alone

to stand and to be cold

in the gentle southern-sea breeze

within my hands to hold

the echoes of your voice.

And now that only waves can fall

the gulls will dive

and that is all

I will feel the tide wash over me

for I am cleansed and free.

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Daylight

I was a small boy when I saw the sun

it floated and it ebbed 

the countries of its fires

oceans that swept upon my surface

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Totem

As if something would stop

the aches and the tired look

almost like the earth did shatter

like brittle glass plates

like all were consistent 

and in this could be found triumph

a god word and a dept

a harking back to older times

a hollow injustice bloodied

a counter-piece for the autistic 

lifelong solidarity

etchings in the ivory 

the bewildered young in rows before it all

an audience faltering and unstable

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I want a girl who writes

some girl enrolled on a literature course

I want to drink a fifth of scotch

and in the cold of the morning

with eyes like dry-ice

slope into a lecture by her side

pretending I know exactly what they mean.

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Still was the air

quiet the night

and though the stars shone

there was something amiss 

a smile, a laugh, that echo of her

carried across the fields lit by the pearl mauve moon

the silver-white hearts aglow

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Faceless

There is nothing alike

the empty stone

the nameless slab

to have cried, loved, screamed,

then to be forgotten

to be beneath the dirt and dust

beneath the walking

beneath all conscious thought

you glorious dead

you who lived so honestly and you who now sleeps so silently.

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Congress

I feel a great deal of competition,

opposing force against all and all,

though I feel I'm doing well,

I feel I've something more,

like a sheet of paper I should withdraw,

folded and tatty,

a certificate of authenticity,

a proof upon paper written in ink and sealed in wax,

I feel I could disband,

or even hush the crowds,

their faces like tintypes frozen in abstraction,

their words inaudible and weak compared to mine,

I feel this all and yet I doubt,

I doubt that I am different and before the paper I stutter,

my words congealed and stagnant,

my writing rudimentary. 

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Moments

There was a track beaten in dust,

hoof prints, blades of sun-scorched grass,

there was the sun, low, and the there were the shadows,

stretching elongated and ethereal before us. 

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Astute

There's a smart dressed man in town,

he has a doctorate and a bag of instruments,

he'll let you know what's best for you.

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I want out

On deaths door do we rise,

like the unhuman things we think we are,

do we ascend into a world of kindness,

where all forgiven, where all beloved,

a world where, living with each other, we grow irritated and try our upmost to cast ourselves down like orphans out of heaven.

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Poem for a friend

The road is shorter than it seems

takes its toll on the body

the mind too

but it is shorter than it seems

though there appears to be no end

arcing with the curvature of the globe

it will be upon you soon enough

for the road is shorter than it seems.