Archive for August, 2010

Tourist

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 27, 2010 by dc

Outside your burning house
Where I tried to douse
All the flames with tears
I carried all my fears
In a holy bucket,
Took it like I’d sucked up
All my fleshy pride,
Tried my best to hide
All my nightmare sides,
All the lightening tides,
Smells of pesticides,
Dreams of suicide,
Such a shame
That I walked it like I talked it,
Should have just gone
And bought it like a tourist.

Inside a waiting cell,
Brain a burning hell,
Smells of petrol
As I tell on those
Who should have
Stayed inside the shadows,
Should have flown like sparrows,
In the blackened sky,
Dying all the time,
Life is colour blind
If you read the signs,
Telling you your spine
Is the holy shrine,
For all the people praying,
“Save me ‘cause I’m awkward”,
Talked it, walked it,
Then I bought it like a tourist.

Poetry.net

Lost Waitress

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on August 11, 2010 by dc

You are potatoes
In tights,

A ghost in a bowl,

And your soup
Is a joke

Best remembered
At wakes.

Poetry.net

The Light of the Mighty

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 6, 2010 by dc

The riotous foot thump
Of out of town brothers
Makes others believe
They have fists of their own,

From gracious beginnings
To sour misadventures
All lectures were lost
When the heads all fell down.

Gather round soldiers
And spit what you see,
If your glee comes in buckets
Just luck it and believe,

You were meant for this rumble
Let those fools see your smile
And while they soak it up slowly
Add guile and don’t grieve,

Some are gone,
Breathe,
You are here,
Heave up your heart,
It’s the start
Of your rise
And surprise
Is the light of the mighty.

Poetry.net

They’re Back Now

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 1, 2010 by dc

They never stopped believing
That if you starve the simple
They become less needy,

Clock faced and basic with hate,
They only pretended to perish,
All organic lies and forgive me pretensions,

They’re back now
Preserved like an illness
And smug like a ram

In a field of slow-moving sheep,

You can weep,
But they’ll only love it more.

Poetry.net