Review of "Poetry"
Cynical, acerbic borderline alcoholic with an inherent distrust of all things from Sunderland.
The blush of dawn and plans are formed; languidly where we belong
Focus sharpens easily now, lines and edges more pronounced.
Blurry smiles and sparkling eyes and middle distance melody flies
The earth warms us so comfortably it slows all speech.
Watch them be, amusedly, empathy comes easily
The time we're wrenched into the day is hours and hours and hours away,
Sleep will come eventually but please not yet for me.
The music slides forgettably, yet soundtracks all so matchlessly
The essence now for us and me is just to be.
This is where I can be me, a synthetic potion lets me see;
Only for a while do I catch a glimpse of me.
Before the first cars' just fired engines ring a dissonant morning call;
Clacking of a shutter or discordant mocking cackle?
Fluid surrounding rhythms become a tinny tuneless rattle
The sun's warm hand caress now blowtorch kisses on my cheeks;
And our cocoon dissolves and it's solitude I seek.
Tactile innocence now replaced by urgency of touch
The guilt augmented tenfold; just base need left from the rush.
An itch borne of an instinct, that I want so much to scratch-
While knowing all along that I have to let it pass.
Eyes meet a fleeting aeon, and then can't look again;
No one wants this anymore so pass the telephone for more.
The unattainable alchemy now vanished from your eyes
From dazzling iridescence to an opaque cloudy lens
And what was it I saw in you or those again?
The distant hum of lawnmower now screeching through my ear;
And suddenly wanting anything but to be here.
I need more, much more, yet this is me - always will be, has always been
Entwined with me, or born in me? With me inextricably
I scare myself with thoughts that I could be content with this.
The boy dies constantly inside but I purposely keep him alive
I need him dead so I can live but that's what's killing me
An unwanted butterfly without the gift of flight
The burn of ambition fades in me with every dusk
The sun-bleached stone my face is on; I have to etch it in before I'm done.
Product Information : Poetry
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Listed on Ciao since: 14/11/2001