All An Anarchist Could Care

Such sweet soliloquies
Were wasted when
Jilted, jaded, jawless,
Wanton women wailed
Mindless melodies mostly
Lamenting long lost love

Someday siren songs
Will whisper where
Ravaging rocks rose relentlessly
Dangerously demonstrating deep
Water waits wickedly whilst
Your youth yields

Her hands held his heart
Tight, taut, timidly
Tracing thin ties
Across an aching artery
May more mercies

Have half her hope
And all an anarchist
Could care, could
Ever expect exists
In iridescent internecine

Mixed mechanically
By better beaus, bowing before
Mice, men, mortals,
Deaf deities, dead dreamers

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Perhaps

Perhaps we’re all tired of faces pressed against
The glass, fingers clinging to the edges
Standing atop roofs, ready to fall flat
One last time, one last push, one final stand
With backs against walls and many metaphors
More living for the sake of imagery and allusion
Alluding again adds to alliteration
For one mind too tired and tied up in over-thinking

Pushed far too far and with too little to show
But these battle scars which cut skin deep
Red blinking eyes look north and east for an escape
Anywhere but here, within or without a clue
Clearly caring for form beats flavour

Rhythm and meter will meet her as she falls short
Measuring the distance between iambs and I am
Too old for this ship, sailing through rocks and ravines
Glacial pace and taking on water far faster than I ever knew
Was possible. When apathy breeds antipathy and damn you
For not writing something universal

Fan fiction for flunking fantasy freaks
Would sell better than those ornate scribblings
Those little words, those little books you write
Ain’t that cute, hey did you read that new vampire book
Wow, weren’t that deep and isn’t that guy so cute
So perhaps I don’t want to be part of that discussion

And writing on the fringes is something more valuable in
The end, and perhaps it’s past time you realised
That it will be long after your end that you are appreciated
Or even noticed by many who saw the advert in their weekly
Paper but paid no more heed than they do for anything
That exists outside their dimly lit day

Born with no exotic name nor exciting accent
I’ll never be the darling of those who
Dangle dactyls from their necks or place
Trochees on trophy shelves, heaving and held up
By maple in their mansions
They have traveled the world, darling
And aren’t these people so rich in culture, darling
Now take a photo of that one, darling
Look, he’s crying, dancing his traditional dance, darling
Let’s hear what he has to say, darling

Perhaps being all that you can be and nothing
You are not, will win races in the long run
As you pad along this dusty marathon track
Barely able to even see the numbers on their backs
Mouth dry, muscles tired, bones heavy
Better hope you’ve got some more left in the tank
Better hope you saved some for the swim back

Innocence

It was yesterday or the day before, years before
We sat there on his bathroom floor
Her head in my hands, huddled
Legs drawn up beneath my throat
Chin resting, waiting, compact and cocooned against
The knees which had sat so neatly on the linen

Drawn up,  held up, hoping for
A life in which silk sheets stained slower
And young lives were harder to colour with
The blotting blood of innocence lost
In a sense of the word, perhaps it was
Never found

We walk out into a wide world with
Brighter beaming lights than we had
Ever wanted or hoped to see
And still, when the metaphors merge
With the reality
You’re still sat there
Holding her head in your hands
On a cold tiled floor

At midnight in May
Never so scared or learning so much about
Who you really are as you did in three hours
Aged fifteen

Hearing her heartbeat tick, tock
Stutter, start, staggered pumping blasts
When it’s more than you can bear to hold
Her head up, let alone your own
It isn’t about you anymore
Or her for that matter
It’s about this, this whole thing
This deep mystery, this cosmic mess
That keeps us all constantly on the bleeding edge
Of a razor blade
You’d best get used to this

What they don’t tell you is;
Nobody is ever ready
For this dark ride through narrow streets
This game of life

Skies

We see the same sky
You and I
Watching as the horizon
Blends with warm ocean
And aren’t you glad you’re laying here

That tanker out there
What do you think they’re
Thinking when they sit there
Watching and waiting for a call
To come to shore

Why do you think I care
She said as she traced a thin line of
Sand across
Her belly button
Idly caressing and eyes on skies
Distant, daring and blinking blue
Eyes
Behind Ray Bans that could define my life
I breathed deeply and furrowed forth

If life is a game
Are you winning or losing
I asked her
She sniffed and drew her arms around
Her knees
Poised, taut and drawing it out
I’m playing and that’s better than most

She left to the right
My feet dug in the sand
By the shore
With the sun and the sea and the scene
Still the tanker sat motionless
So here I lie with my eyes on empty skies

Less Talk of Oceans

Chitter, chatter away gasbag
More mephane for merciless mercenaries
Who’ve seen no more of war than
What appears on their nightly news
Their views askew as

They buy the agenda, whichever agenda
Is sold to them, the consumer, a consumable
An expendable asset in the war of error
Where an enemy becomes an ally when you add oil
Bold boys, big bags of blood from British barracks
Buy another inch of sand

Young men with hopes, dreams and cares
Families, such young families
Two bags for two gallons of the black
Blood money because oil runs thicker than water
Whilst the red runs and stains the soil
Strap a medal on it and call it honour

So, less talk of oceans
Crossed, paths found and plowing a furrow
When you’re just digging graves
In which we bury common sense and
Two twenty year old lads from Scarborough
Who saw a flash ad and a paycheck to show their girls

There are no trenches here
We’re on new battlefields now
This is a new kind of war
Their war against us
Whoever we are
Whatever our skin
Culture, creed or god
When their god is viscous fluid

So fight the good fight my brave boy
Infidel, imperial with a bulls eye on your back
And a price-tag round your neck

Four Posts

Sat among flowers and trees
With two cares, no fears
And a whistling breeze
Sharp to the ears and soft on the soul
Whatever that is

Identity is a state of mind
And it’s all psychology in the end
Disconnect and drop off, drip-fed
Emotion, like little blue pills
Ground up into your dinner
With all the kibbles and bits
To keep you calm

We all have memories
But we’d better keep them that way
And not let them loose on our hopes
Dreams and other creations
Our notions we hold dear, hold tight
As we hold our dearest in the dimmest of light

We turn to the line of ghosts
Who linger too long by
Bedroom four posts
Groaning and moaning
Some more than the rest

Wearing yesterdays clothes
Shuffling and scuffling over
Polished oak floor, digging ethereal
Heels into the rug

They all have stories to tell
Of another mans life
Long ago and barely remembered
Through the haze of cigarette smoke
And half bottles of gin

Make a man into a monster
And set him loose on the beast
To be rid of the pain of being a cliche
So strangle the ghosts and ghouls
And repeat finer written words
Or more succinctly selected phrases

Be all, end all and go strangle a
Swan for the third and last time
One care voiced and the other
Drops like porcelain, shattering into shards
Sharper than glass, duller in hue

Victory

I am a victory
She sung sweetly as
Her small form framed
The sky and sunlight shone through
You’re only so sweet for so long

Live life and gather your rosebuds
While you may, as there are many ways
For age to wage on that felicitous form
Smile and dance, hold on to something
The brightest of days not the dark of the dawn

Lights flicker and flash out far quicker
Than the charm of her smile fades
Give up, get up, move on
And muster every fractured fragment
Of what is left of your self respect

Drag up, dig in, weather another storm
Whether you want to or not
There is always something brewing
Humid, a static, there is something in the air
Here, an energy, a flare

A flair for melodrama, oh Brutus et tu?
Hey, her hips didn’t lie but the same
Couldn’t be said for her thighs
And we get up, move on, grow

Standing now before it all
As the grass opens up ahead and the
Sunshine has never shone this bright
Finally you get it
That head over heels bullshit
It all makes sense
As you hold her in your arms