musings of a damned mind

Latest slam addition
love to all readers

Still your tongues

 

 

 

Still your tongues.

 

To the shouters in Wall Street and the politicians with their briefcases

 

Still your tongues.

 

To the media hounds baying obscenities at the faux aristocracy of footballers and anorexic movie stars;

 

Still your tongues.

 

To Shakespeare and Byron and Shelly,

To Nietzsche Sartre and Dostoevsky,

To Saul Williams, Taylor Mali and Anis Mojgani,

 

To the poets ,The philosophers, the politicians,

The writers, the fighters, the lovers,

To everyone, everywhere,

 

Still. Your. Tongues.

 

And I will still mine.

 

For there are no, words, left.

 

We’ve used them all.

 

When a politicians sex life is ‘horriffic’

 

And a ‘celebrity’s’ breast size is ‘barbaric’.

 

When a big brother candidate is ‘disgraceful’

 

And racism is worth defending

 

What words are left?

 

Still your tongues,

 

From the screeching for attention and fame and stardom

And listen.

 

Do you hear that?

Tap, tap, tap ,tap.

 

Sandled feet on Tibettan cobbles

 

Tap, tap, tap, tap

Sandled feet in a Burmese square

 

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap

 

Bare feet on darfur’s sand.

On Rwandan sand

In Korea ,

Vietnam ,

Afghanistan .

 

Taptap taptap

The heart beat

Taptap

Of a young boy

Taptap

In Lebanon

Taptap

In Baghdad

Taptap

He looks up

Taptap

At a shadow

Taptap

In the sky

Tapta………

 

What words are left for this?

 

And why do we only listen when someone tells us we should care?

When a sporting event runs a burning twig through a city,

Then we sit up,

Then we pay attention.

 

To those…

Tap tap tap tap

Feet.

 

Taptap

Still your tongues,

Taptap

Open your ears,

Taptap

See with your eyes,

Taptap

Finally,

Taptap

with your hands;

Taptap

Reach out.

 

hey all,
my first ever slam poem
P.S It’s MEANT to be arrogant

 

 

“About me”…

 

“Hobbies and Interests”…

 

“What do you do in your spare time?”

 

I find it hard to believe that my generation thinks the best way of getting to know someone is an impersonal, borderline narcissistic section of a facebook profile

 

Or a myspace page,

 

But I guess I’m guilty of that too or I wouldn’t have cause to write this.

 

I sit there, by that flashing computer screen and consider what to write.

 

“I’m a law student”

“I’m a martial artist”

“I like red heads”

“I’m a fan of small cats called errol”

I mean what?

What am I put here?

Are we so defined but what we do that we can sum up what we are in a matter of words, of labels?

 

I think about for a second then slowly type…

 

I’m a writer,

 

“Poet”

 

I sit back from that screen, that shield of glass and plastic that hides me from the outside world and ponder what the person reading this will think of me.

 

Skinny jeans and a studded belt?

Skull-and-crossbone T-shirt and a side parting?

 

A poet, a whinger, an emotional?

 

Do they perhaps think of some quaint little hobby, noticing daffodils and throwing off quirky limericks about cheese.

 

Do they see an angsty teenager, crying his heart out because one more girl fucked him over. Another voice lost in a sea of self pity.

 

Let me tell you what poets do.

 

We write,

 

We talk,

 

we think.

We spread ideas where there were none,

 

We propagate cacophony in the darkest night with erudite words

You’d never have heard.

 

We take the loudest voice in a back water club in a town no ones heard of and reduce it to blessed silence.

 

We spin out a web of our hopes and dreams and lives that you might look on them and marvel at humanity’s beauty.

 

We drag you into harshest corners of existence and force you to look in the deepest wells of yourself.

 

THIS is what I do.

 

I speak words that make the strongest most violent of men sink to their haunches and weep.

 

I take a pain so personal and cutting it would reduce any to tears and spin it into a necklace of rhyme so sweet it lifts your heart to read of it.

 

I send a verse to a friend who’s heart is crushed by the weight of the world and it makes her smile, for the first time in years.

 

I speak words that puncture the vainglorious and drag them down to look the rest of us at eye level.

 

I am a POET

I speak,

WE speak.

 

We are the voice of the people, the true glorious revolution and we WILL be heard.

 

We will take the most sacred of lies written in the most holy of books and shred them of their deception,

 

We will take everything you have assumed about humanity and the world and yourself and twist it around so you see your broken reflection, with all it’s sins still upon it.

 

And we will make you feel good about it.

 

I am a POET

 

You want to define me by what I do then define my by this.

I sit while my black heart pumps ink blood out onto a sheet of velum through wrists slit by a fountain pen.

 

I stand before crowds who do not know me and bare my soul that they might steal yours.

 

I stand on the shoulders of Shelly, of Shakespeare, of Wilde and Shaw,

Of the bards and the story tellers and the historians.

 

With the flames of words and the swords of rhythm, envenomed with my own blood and pain I will show what lurks in all of us that you might exorcise your demons.

 

We are poets,

 

We speak the truth and your ears will bleed with the weight of it.

 

We will burn the cowards and the bigots and the hypocrites in the fires of their guilt until nothing is left but ash and dust and ink runs through the street at our feet.

 

We are poets,

 

We speak the truth,

We ask you to listen,

That’s all I need to say,

About me.

 

A lifetime of lines

And a whirlwind of words

Spun together in time

The true and absurd.

 

Rhythm for heartbeat,

Words for a dance,

Ink for blood.

A dweller of chance

 

Unfulfilled and possible dreams

Wrapped around until

Finally it seems

To be impenetrable.

 

Words spin from page,

A dance and a trance,

Enrapturing those

Who hadn’t the chance

 

To run.

 

Or chose not to.

 

What am I now

But a lifetime of lies

Illusion and dream,

Hopes and the skies?

 

Are any of us else?

As we dance to the sound

Of the rhythm of stars

And the beat of the ground.

 

I call myself ‘worddancer’

‘inked-one’ and ‘shiner’

And say the names as if

They’re somehow a decider

 

Of me being different to everyone else

Instead of a dancer,

Or a toy on a shelf.

 

I say all this not

To make you see me

As something other

Than that which I be.

 

Gratification is not

My aim on this night,

As I sit in the dark

Beneath a solitary white light.

 

I wish only to show

One this night among many

Just what I mean when

 I say I haven’t any

 

Clue what will happen

To me or these others

Dangers abound

To my lover of lovers.

 

A curious thing is the human heart,

So strong and so vulnerable

So ignorant

So smart.

 

It seems to control,

More than the mind,

The actions that lead

Like the blind and the blind.

 

I have no real reason

For writing this now

No great point to make

No wondering how

 

Just thinking in verse

‘Rambling’ I could say

As this night turns inexorably

Into the day.

 

I know i’m in love

That much is clear.

I’ve no doubt on that

But which way to steer?

 

A hound from the past

Haunts me again

But no cave to be discovered

By holmes and his men.

 

Its my own mind that haunts me

And a personified devil,

That’s found in my heart,

Dapper, dishevelled.

 

I fear her love,

And mine for her,

I fear i’m misleading

And stealing from her.

 

My rhymes are all wasted

Word-bullets all spent

Lines exhausted

Last orders long sent.

 

I know not what to do

My control is lost

Im caught in a dream web

But at what cost?

 

She says she loves me,

How am I to know?

How is she for that matter

No matter how  I show.

 

What do you say

When you don’t kow your heart?

You’re your own worst enemy

Where do you start.

 

No battle to fight

No war to be won

Ink devil is laughing

The games just begun

 

The chase and the catcher,

the game and the web,

the Star and the Faerie,

the Love and the Dread.

 

I’d give it all

For one taste of her hair,

The smell of her skin

And her laugh on the air.

 

But have I the right

To wait for her here?

While she waits still there

With salt-loving tear?

 

I don’t know the answer

I pray that I find

An answer in night

And poetry of kind.

 

This paper I’ll burn,

By keep hard copy

One night’s musings

Un-tempered and sloppy

 

Yes this page I will keep

For the time when i know

What to keep secret

And how

My heart

To show.

IV

The game

 

In ages past,

Creatures crawled,

Over sand and ice.

 

Died their deaths,

On each other sprawled

Lizard, worm and lice.

 

Crushed by ages,

Burnt by heat,

Forgotten beneath the ground.

 

Black viscous oil,

Resurrection.

Awaking at new sound.

 

Formed into hardened shell again

Plastic shielding from emotions bite.

Under finger like the owner.

Button.

Depressed.

 

Figure jumps, and flees a foe,

Concentration beads in sweat.

Doubt too great for simple answer so,

The Game is played instead.

 

Character running, jumping, playing,

On the plastic covered screen,

Dead creatures feel the pain,

That is too acute to be seen.

 

Arm round waist holds her firm,

As on the screen she sees

Her hopes and dreams played out before her,

On there she can simply be.

 

A failure there can be replaced,

A simple matter of ‘restart’

Mistakes made can be erased

No danger to her, or her heart.

 

But still that arm it roots her down,

Makes her see what is truly there,

Shows her starlight and horizons,

Shields her from the worlds dread glare.

 

Scared to stay and scared to go,

So she sees the game again,

Takes the comfort the arm is offering,

Scared to end, scared to begin.

 

Arm’s owner waits, patient, coiled,

Sees in her eyes the light of stars,

Knows the desire to cling to soil,

Knows the fear of flying far.

 

But still he waits and holds her close,

Knows she’ll find her way in time,

Find her wings or take his hand,

Hear the music, hear the rhyme.

 

So he asks for nothing, but sweetly smiles,

As another tries, her will to tame,

For he wishes to see her free,

And so he holds her, helps in the game.

 

I might even show these to her one day, you never know.

 

Them as need to know who.

Know.

 

I

Blossom

softened bud with ink stained rim.

Impenetrable shell. no hint

 for what’s within.

 

Scattered rain,

Blinding sun, falls on unyielding

Skin. Ink stained.

 

Blinding sun, purest light,

Cuts through the dark, ends a night.

Dare to open, bud to show

The blossom inside. the rain to flow

 

Over petals gossamer. Blossom fragile,

Shown the sun .

First time in a while.

 

Dared to hope it was ok to shine,

Petals to show, gold to mine.

Frost comes swift to the newly bud,

Harsh and cruel, severed but

 

Closes in time, small sap its bleeds,

Ink stains quick to cover leaves.

Rain washes off, the sun trapped out,

Sap seeps through a bleeding spout.

 

Moon now rises, blossom tries

Again to see the dawning skies.

Of swift frost it is now afeared,

Scared of hurt, scared of tears.

 

Dares to hope at stars’ caress,

Blossomer’s touch, a light blue dress,

Sees a smile and responds in kind,

Dares to hope, to show, to shine.

 

Hoar frost comes and cuts it. Swift.

Lingering hope and barbarous twist,

Blossom caught, unclosed, unawares.

Sunlit wounds, still it bares.

 

The starlight cuts and catches the flower,

Cuts it deep, leaves sweetness sour.

Ink runs through skin, seeps into flesh,

Tattoo of pain, of shields, of mesh

Of recollection that holds blossom closed,

Lotus held, bloodied rose.

 

One day to flower, perhaps, we hope.

To shine to all, nevermore to slope

Away from the light of other’s joy,

Birth given by the ink, flower used as toy.

 

One day to adorn and perhaps to grow,

Entwined with a flower not just for show.

Till then arrives the ink shall shine,

Deflect all gaze, a different kind

 

Of light it gives, warm bathing not

So bright, as before, to pierce the night.

Keep a light night light to not hurt sight.

Blossom closed, bud refreshed

 

With ink spun words,

A silence found,

Flower shut

Out of sight, of sound.

 

Waiting for that lover’s touch.

Blossomer’s hand, not too fast, or too much.

 

At the corner of your garden,

I do now grow,

The blossoms colour you could soon know,

 

Just a touch is all it needs.

Sweet caress, brush away inked reeds.

You did it once,

Then drew away,

Left me to frost and harshest day.

All I need is to wait,

Till you say,

Yes.

 

Maybe one day.

 

II

The chase

 

Pounding heart beats silken chest,

 

Hooves fly on tender turf,

 

Head down,

 

Eyes front,

 

Mind cast behind.

 

Click of heels on frosted pavement,

Laughing glance to check behind,

Sees him following, treading firmly,

Sees him running, matching time.

Hound pads after, chest too heaving.

 

Sees fleeting glimpse of deer in sight,

 

Vision tunnels

 

Blood rushes

 

Desperate attempt to match her flight.

 

Soft slap of slacks on the frosted pavement

Pain in his eyes belies the dreams,

The hopes she represents, she doesn’t know

What she could be, or what it means.

Hound slips,

Tired broken,

Through haze of blood It dimly sees

Deer stood over,

Cruel pity flashing

His lines of blood to match her tears.

He stops defeated, breathing sharply,

Sees her stop a way ahead.

Watches her show the great deceit,

Leaves hope and dream, finally dead.

 

III

Hoar frost

Slender vein of ice-work lattice

Sketches name in frosty rime.

Vision of hope in frozen trellis,

Held against the winds of time.

 

Ice creeps through a hole in skin,

Left by where a flame once burned

Dwindled now by dagger’s weaving,

Left were hope and love were spurned.

 

Bitter shape in face is freezing,

Icing over hole in heart,

Blood freezes close to trap in heat,

Ink runs still, covers each part.

 

That too freezes as time continues

Leaves him Frost, a bitter shard.

Hoar frost armour ‘Gainst the winter

Lifts above and holds him, hard.

 

Jackie stands in newest form,

Ink frozen close, catches, sleeved.

Ready to thaw when honest flame beckons,

Never more to be winter deceived.

 

 

There’sa  part IV to come, will let you know when i do, writing the procces of being messed around with if the situation didn’t keep FUCKING CHANGING

ok.

breathe

Till then.

You’re guess us as good as mine.

Toodles

X

If you find this offensive…

then don’t read it.

Something i put together, on request (yes i do requests)

it amused me.

 

Our brewers,

Which art in Devon ,

Not permanent be thy stain.

Thy barrel come, I will be drunk,

This tavern shall seem like heaven,

Give us this weekend our liquid bread

And protect us from relatives,

As we forgive those who call ‘last orders’

Lead us not into town pubs,

And deliver us from lager-drinkers.

For thine is the bitter, the ale and the English.

For ever and ever,

Barman!

 

Those who are close enough to need to know what yhis is about.

Know what this is about.

 

Blossom.

 

Blossom

 

softened bud with ink stained rim.

Impenetrable shell. no hint

 for what’s within.

 

Scattered rain,

Blinding sun, falls on unyielding

Skin. Ink stained.

 

Blinding sun, purest light,

Cuts through the dark, ends a night.

Dare to open, bud to show

The blossom inside. the rain to flow

 

Over petals gossamer. Blossom fragile,

Shown the sun .

First time in a while.

 

Dared to hope it was ok to shine,

Petals to show, gold to mine.

Frost comes swift to the newly bud,

Harsh and cruel, severed but

 

Closes in time, small sap its bleeds,

Ink stains quick to cover leaves.

Rain washes off, the sun trapped out,

Sap seeps through a bleeding spout.

 

Moon now rises, blossom tries

Again to see the dawning skies.

Of swift frost it is now afeared,

Scared of hurt, scared of tears.

 

Dares to hope at stars’ caress,

Blossomer’s touch, a light blue dress,

Sees a smile and responds in kind,

Dares to hope, to show, to shine.

 

Hoar frost comes and cuts it. Swift.

Lingering hope and barbarous twist,

Blossom caught, unclosed, unawares.

Sunlit wounds, still it bares.

 

The starlight cuts and catches the flower,

Cuts it deep, leaves sweetness sour.

Ink runs through skin, seeps into flesh,

Tattoo of pain, of shields, of mesh

Of recollection that holds blossom closed,

Lotus held, bloodied rose.

 

One day to flower, perhaps, we hope.

To shine to all, nevermore to slope

Away from the light of other’s joy,

Birth given by the ink, flower used as toy.

 

One day to adorn and perhaps to grow,

Entwined with a flower not just for show.

Till then arrives the ink shall shine,

Deflect all gaze, a different kind

 

Of light it gives, warm bathing not

So bright, as before, to pierce the night.

Keep a light night light to not hurt sight.

Blossom closed, bud refreshed

 

With ink spun words,

A silence found,

Flower shut

Out of sight, of sound.

 

Waiting for that lover’s touch.

Blossomer’s hand, not too fast, or too much.

 

At the corner of your garden,

I do now grow,

The blossoms colour you could soon know,

 

Just a touch is all it needs.

Sweet caress, brush away inked reeds.

You did it once,

Then drew away,

Left me to frost and harshest day.

All I need is to wait,

Till you say,

Yes.

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe one day.

 

FINE!

Abbi!

I’ve put it up. lol

Firelight

 

 

New moon, dark night

Secret smiles in firelight

 

Chosen chains, hold me, bound,

Her smile holds wings, her laughter the sound

 

Of something I don’t recognise, on that dark night

 

The urge to touch, to hold,

The firelight

 

Her smile it seems, doth draw me in

To be ‘just friends’ is that a sin?

 

“Yes” whispers the moon, that dark, cold night

“When its another you should hold, in the firelight”

 

A black cloak blurs as a white mask hides

My true feelings, desires, best left inside

 

Who dares to brave, take the mask from my face

Who dares to be, she in firelights, embrace.

 

re: humanity’s ability to actually learn something

and how we manage to have a ‘rememberance day’ without actually remembering.

 

The Memorial
 

Cover him over

With lilies stained blood red,

With poppies, and with primroses,

Black flowers o’er his head.

 

Cover him over

So his face we need not see,

His life need not remember,

Unchanged we may be.

 

He fought, he died for us,

For country and for king.

The least we can now do

Is avoid the memorial sting.

 

Build him a statue

So that we may forget.

Raise him high on podiums,

Of pain, but not regret.

 

Cover him over now,

So that we may go on,

And fight and kill again.

Remember him in song

 

But not in our actions,

In our deeds or thoughts,

So that we can go on killing,

On the past be caught.

 

Far be it for us to remember,

To maybe learn from the death,

Far be it form us to grow,

And stop choking their breath.

 

Remember him in marble,

So we may forget him.

Remember him in bronze,

And revel in the sin.

 

So cover him over,

With lilies stained blood red.

With poppies and with primroses.

And kill in his stead.

 

 

Walk in the Night

 

Will you walk through the night with me?

Turn not away, from bright stars’ glare?

Will you walk through the night with me?

At the shadow, and the light gladly stare?

 

Will you walk through the day with me,

Dance in the warm summer sun,

See the dusk sink beneath the sea

And a new dawn just begun?

 

Who dares to walk the night with me,

 Who has the courage to really see?

Who dares to watch the stars with me,

And have the courage to truly be?

 

Who can see what few can see,

Catch the illusion, hold it fast,

Who can be what no other can be,

See the links, future, present, past.

 

Anyone could walk in the night with me,

You need me not to show you the way,

Anyone could see what I can see,

But first they must give away

 

Boredom, convention, I must and I should,

To themselves be true at last.

Then, finally, see they could

The future, the present, the past.

 

So will you walk this night with me,

Turn not your eyes from the light?

Will you travel the ways with me?

And step with me. Into the night?