Hold on for just an hour longer,
I miss you already
and the way your eyes smiled
even though I know it isn’t easy.
Please put down those pills so sombre
in your shaking hands
and walk with me down the street.
I love you enough to care
in these riptides of sorrow and strife,
and I just need to hug you,
for you more than for me this time.
Don’t write that note much stronger,
call me and let’s go
on that trip we always spoke of.
In my head the tenses are confused
because you still are to me:
Hold on for just an hour longer:
please put down those pills so sombre;
don’t write that note much stronger.
Because you still are to me.
Here we go, standing in line
with the sweet smell of innocence
and screaming delight.
Thus with a push we arrive
in our ferris wheel seat.
The light is as bright as noise,
and up we go.
It’s curious how it looks
from up here, still a bit strange
moving backwards but upwards.
The wind blows, and we shudder
but keep going till the top.
Oh look at the fireworks,
look at this climax!
But we dare not look down:
But a steady decline:
six feet under awaits, patiently
because Death knows eternity well.
Back in the past
sat a young boy,
and though time moved fast
diligence was his joy.
Look at him today:
he’s not afraid,
dedication does pay;
success is his trade.
Wake up before the alarm,
a new day, a new way
to make it all happen:
possibility is a charm.
Mock my dream!
But let it be see:
I worked harder and
attitude was on my team.
I’m quitting the show
Ain’t my time to shine
Time to quicksand myself
Deep into my mind
No silence up in these fires
Can’t catch a break in these tides
Don’t know which way is up
But I know I’m going down
So mad at all these spectres
Don’t know if they’re mine
But they whisper me stories
And I can’t sleep at night
I’m afraid of that silence
But I need that constant buzz
So I just sit here ruminating
How nobody else hears these sounds
It has been a few years now…
The roses have bloomed five or six times,
five or six times petals snapped off
in the winds, in the rains.
A few loved ones have passed;
a few scars have been gained.
Yet, here I wait, hopeful;
A life unexamined
is a life not worth living,
yet still a life, surely?
I washed my hands of old times
and I know the dust is yet unsettled
On those ornaments of a grudge.
The dust sits thick and brown,
like my apology:
forgotten, but not quite lost.
He wants to hide with me
in a tree-house of secrecy,
cuddle into me
and plant himself in my fertile soil.
He smells like wooden cologne
and he holds me like he needs me:
up here we’re safe
from shutters and flashes.
It’s some kind of dream
but I feel this like it’s real.
Mendes, who are you?
Why did you come?
And why did we leave?
Little Liam falls down the well
Hits his head in some hell
Shakes it off and blames himself
Now he sits on Hedone’s shelf
A twist and tale, smoke for the screen
Skinny jeans and kidney beans
Acetone and Ritalin
Falling short on Serotonin
Little Liam lying low low
Who gives a
Cause Little Liam thinks he’s stuck
It’s all done with money
The chopping and rolling of the honey
And he’s in the making
It’s easy once you’re used to faking
What is it we do
To ourselves late at night
As the coals simmer softly in the darkness?
The moon doesn’t exist for us,
There’s too much romance we’ve applied
To that ball of dust in the sky we’ve allied.
We’ve forgotten about the Romantics:
Wordsworth’s rainbows and Blake’s grain of sand.
But we have ourselves still –
We really do.
And we sit in the dark
In our own shadows
Within the shadow of something else.
That pain inside
We can’t quite understand.
All competing for a love we will never receive –
So it goes…
So we blend ourselves into the dark
Like the artist rubbing the charcoal on the page.
We ask questions we don’t understand
So any answer wouldn’t be noticed.
At the sight of a ray of light spilling through
A wooden blind
We see an opportunity to celebrate;
Celebrate not the light
But the unlit.
These tropes of light and dark!
Tiresias who saw all; Oedipus who did not.
Yet Oedipus saw, Tiresias did not.
So what is it then?
This grotesque Romanticism of smudging ourselves?
We’re splatters of one colour
On the same coloured canvas.
But we want to be noticed.
We still want to be seen.
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.
– From ‘Introduction’, ‘Songs of Innocence’, William Blake
When legs stop swingin’
sitting on a high chair,
and the spontaneous bursts
of Crayola-coloured imaginings
fade into a soft grey despondency;
When no more glittering unicorns
appear in the fluffy flowing clouds,
and waking up becomes
the first effort of the day;
When I-love-you is replace
with love-you automatically spewed,
and fantasies of worlds inside the mind
become longings for the weekend;
When sandcastles on beaches
are ignored in favour of the Sunday Times,
And ice-cream truck sirens
become an invasive clamour;
When children cross over
and transition snuffs out their flames,
sadly this when life
their ethereal innocence claims.