Thursday, 24 February 2011
Spirals of sweat and skin
Caught for infinite moments
In winter’s last feeble light
Like orbs of living amber.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Most would start with your eyes
or the scar above your lips,
maybe even the particular way
pale daylight reflects off your hair.
For me it’s the way you sit
across two seats on a bus and
how your thumbs glide precisely
over the keypad of your phone.
Tuesday, 22 February 2011
Like a finger forced into a wound
daylight creeps through the curtains
bringing with it fragments of reality
that were my childhood nightmares.
Saturday, 19 February 2011
If I could see the future
The truth would terrify me
Because I’m not a hero
Rather I’m just a man.
No deed of mine will save
The planet or mankind and
No statue ever honours those
Who can’t remember themselves.
Wishes are a waste of breath
But I recite mine before I sleep
To dream of day that will never come
When wishes aren’t all I have left.
Friday, 18 February 2011
You don’t look at but through yourself
Whilst wondering why you spent so much time
Staring at various kinds of XP bars in MMOs
Or commenting on your own Facebook updates
Because you’ve no one else to talk to,
And finding that you laugh at yourself
Even when you haven’t told a joke.
How quickly yesterday becomes ten years ago
Where following in your father’s footsteps
Leads nowhere except to a pauper’s grave and
Being remembered for all the things
That you could have done but didn’t do.
His clothes are from Burton’s and Primark
(most of those were Christmas presents),
and although he tries to act like he cares
it’s clear that he really doesn’t.
He can only get temporary part time work
and the thought of a career makes him laugh,
although it’s hard to tell if he’s just cynical
or can’t afford to work unpaid for years.
Even the air he breathes has a chip on its shoulder
which reduces his words to hollow mumblings
about pride and dignity being states of mind
he’s not yet been taught how to forget.
Fragments of teenage dreams drift round his head as
he wonders if the next sixty years are worth living,
so it’s clear that for now and fortunately forever
he will always be not quite our class dear.
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Blank like the pages of an unused passport
My expression gives away the news
That our future is not quite as distant
As we were told we should have wanted.
Patterned glass turns a motion sensor light
Into a supernova viewed on frame advance
Above an ocean of melted wheelie bin lids
Where we drown in an absence of hope.
It is not a lie that we tell ourselves
Just a truth that we would rather believe,
To stop our eyes putting out their fires
And our hearts cutting their own strings.