accompanies the blissful trite –
expressionless bile –
that is here present.
Along the way
the slag of a light known as day
(though it’s furthest away
from his mind)
lazily, calling for soulless repent
from a murkier past:
There, our municipal pit
All thoughts and feelings enter
is full, brimming
with nameless creations!
No claimers and nobody looks for,
or asks for, their namers –
till they’re called from the nights.
These fucking fuckers
Fucking up our lives
For their personal stake
In our political state
Sucking our lives dry
Leading fates awry
Leaving fears to dry
And this comment’ry
Which tries to make it seem alright
Is now as bad
As the fuckers so merrily fucking us
So shame on me
for plugging in
For staying tuned and trying
How sorely fucked the feeling is
As wit washes over this fucking
That’s really surely fucking up
I hardly ever knew the game
Yet know that I’m now
The night before the work starts
Our streets echo with lone travellers
This night of cold clear dread
As the new year shakes free
Of it’s champagne and fireworks
A mighty muted still
Fills up the dark
And in the raging dreams
Of all these people in their beds
Uncertain and alone in today’s cold sleep
Questions of fragility
Feed our hunger for dread
Spoiling this last bedtime
With what tomorrow brings
Outside in some dark corner
Of a Southern London home
I ponder how few deaths make many mourn
The slaps of conflict beat
Fresh tears from more bored eyes
Yet each hour too much life
Is bled and crushed in horror
For one more year has come on us
And forseers contort with doom
Such angry rhetoric, such mounting gloom
Yet this new year is not foretold
And harbours chances new
There’s not time to conjure lies
Just time to start the world.
A return to attempting to find my poetic voice. We have come to the end of a string of Beck’ Beat Poetry events, which have been a series of fantastical occasions! Enabling me and others to meet and hear top-class poets from across south London (and Hackney)!
Sparks which light up this sky so bright,
to light the hearts of youth tonight.
Those that whistle, whirr and ping:
showers that usher the winter in.
Loud bright claps
and whooshes of firepower
launched from the dark,
glowing, burning…then embers.
For this sharp date
when kids stay up late,
steals breath from all lips
frozen, open and baited.
Tonight the sky is blistered light
and caught in brains
and smoked so bright.