static doubt

Static
fragment of doubt form
and buzz
a persistant blue-bottle of the mind.

The screen flickers
from black
to white.
A weaving confusion;
maggot dance.
And questions to ask why.

Whit noise seeps in
oh, please dont change the picture.

you grasp the remote,
the outcome
a button press away.

The news is on at ten.

worded she

she’s a yellow oxymoron,

your newest iambic pentameter

a rhythm always seeking new paces

and words you don’t understand.

She’s the opening stanza

That cant make sense

until the rest have been read

And the deeper meaning discovered

In a moment of revelation.

Enjambment-

on every line.

this undescribable, underlined upturned

alitteration.

The confusing concept

that is she.

She’s the adjective that describes the everyday verbs

That would sit there plain and undefined.

And as loud as an onomatopoeia.

She’s the ink on the pages

That ran out from your fountain pen

And blotted
As you worded thought.

She’s between pages closed

A Fading Metaphore

Unread

Undiscovered.

To walk

Poisoned, bound, dutied and tied,
held centred in this neighbourhood.

And all the grey these eyes can see,

Echoes in circles around this hard-cemented society.

Hum-drum and seen.

I pack a prepared misguidance

Stepping off this orange lit tarmac.

Refreshed.

And a chill,

As I watch my breath collide

with an open sky.

Sometimes its hard

to find your feet
When you still don’t know

Where they should be.

Push on glass.

Have I arrived

When I have no destination?

I brought these white shoes yesterday.

In the empty night

Roads become as endless as the dark.

I know the next town,

But the wonder still remains.

To disappear and not return

To where I always wanted to be.

Somewhere.

Itchy feet.

Fresh ground.

Fresh air and new sights

become my home, they give me faith;

Beauty can be seen,

And caught in a dew drop.

Hope.

In a world

of injustice and mutiny

Travel endlessly.

Or run,

Until the wind dies to a still.

That invisible force

Like time

We only fear because we cannot see or ever know.

Maybe I can learn to greet myself

Searching

For my reflection to break out

Open.

To rise and toast the feast.

sooner or later,

they’re going to ask

"where’s Molly?"

but ill be running along with the click clack of a train.

the peice

He looks

i’m drowning in this cardio-vascular moment

Fuzzy turquoise grey with puce swirls

He says it in chalked colours

a world of powder and bright dust

Displayed on a pavement

Tarmac for all to see

the colours spill

And run in the rain

Paint spots and inkblots merge and smudge

To create New colours

lines that slowly curve to the sky

And a confusion of brushes

As we paint like new professionals

Without a pallet

This accidental artwork that is ours

A one off original

That cannot be brought

So we stand and become the piece

Get to know its every motion

Beyond the surface texture

And belong