Signature
I have not wrote of you
in a while, because you are undeserving, because
I clam, like pearl, in ocean sweat
whilst they expect
they wait
for entertainment
for Halloween on a Wednesday in June
You are neither and nothing and all
tasted in the twisting tidal stomachs of the anxious,
the knowing:
tastes like digested skin
and living thin.
I do not write of you
But I deserve letters
stuffed with self portraits
of me,
who is me?
I am me.
Every time before and hereafter
They sing
'But
__ seemed so nice'
whilst I bewilder in sand
Do I not seem? Do I not need? Do I not sound
sound
of mind?
Niceness...
I won't write of you
I will only write of myself in relation,
biscuit shaped smiles baked in memories
of friends, to help choke the me down
despite lipping the poison.
I am here,
I was there,
I will never go there again.
I have not wrote of you
words have not wanted me to
sentences recoil at any trace of truth
- how do you manage to sign your name?
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Quietly
Leaf by thorn, a racket is lulled into single tone
Hushing the loud and pretty
Shushing the intelligently soft
Silence drawn on edges of petals -
Too colourful, too curved
Too alive
They want
Ash in the shape of a flame
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my god, there is never any time to recover from the world
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These hallways are felled
oak in grand deaths,
I weave myself
Echo’d step after echo’d step,
light warbles
ominous songs of shadows;
interjection of grief in logic.
Both ends are bleak
unseeable future’s
with only one certain freedom,
encased in my own
Humanity.
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20s Britain
The middle class are on strike
The working class go unpaid
The middle class are rioting
The working class get living standards lowered
The middle class complain about disadvantage
The working class struggle to find average
The middle class talk about intersectionality
The upper class talk about glass ceilings
The aristocracy talk about lineage
The rich gossip about holidays on the moon
The working class get handcuffed for taking walks beneath it
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Do you really
need
to see me
to decide
if
my words are worthy?
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Skin is fibrotic
Untouched touchings
Of things in
Between
Said on the flight
Of eyelash wings
Like a cats long blink
And suddenly
You are
No more
Like a swift at sea
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The wind is not as strong
In your arms
The rain forgets to chill
In your arms
Blistering sun becomes illuminated breeze
In your arms
This life is not so tough
In your embrace
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January sits down
Heavy and unrelenting
She is so tired and doesn't want to walk anymore
You pick her up and carry her
The weight of two sleepers.
You trudge through frost and slop,
Elated at occasional coloured skies,
January cries and fusses
But you bring her along
You tuck her in.
She convinces you to lie down,
Sleep beside her -
Be quiet,
Be still, more.
Reminds you
February isn't going to stop existing
If you let yourself be
with January
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Relationships are not two halves of a whole, they are two wholes in amicable existence attempting to sing in harmony
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The world is not as generous -
The cosmos must infinitely be the same;
I thought the Sky was breaking
When rippling through the bleak, Stars came
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What a tide
Taking me from me
Breathless
On unfamiliar shores
Mottled in sand
The capsizing so common
Bedraggled by senses of cycle
And the knowing
It is all just coincidental
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Blue bird with clipped wing
Sends a flock
Flying
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20s Britain
The middle class are on strike
The working class go unpaid
The middle class are rioting
The working class get living standards lowered
The middle class complain about disadvantage
The working class struggle to find average
The middle class talk about intersectionality
The upper class talk about glass ceilings
The aristocracy talk about lineage
The rich gossip about holidays on the moon
The working class get handcuffed for taking walks beneath it
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I love a soft space
Where wind whistles through ears
Smiles at no-one
You can become the landscape
Still
Whether seen or unseen
There
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