Sylvia

Sylvia

They put your face on walls

and your words in song,

tattoos of you so you can be

remembered by severed flesh.

Your bones, bleached white and pure

innoccence is now restored,

no more thought

this death is your reward.

Oh, how we like to gaze

upon every lingering words you

wrote,

every single attempt to end your life.

Your family, craving for your privacy

the public, lapping up the stories,

and the media using your body

and mind as script.

"Mind living on paper

and flesh living in offspring."

Syvlia, you lived like a queen

Sylvia, you died like a peasant.

Your religion was only that of life

and you never did really believe in it,

and though you loved the flesh

it was heart you wished upon,

it was brains you longed for

and death you poured yourself into.

So, this broken child you once were

never truly was a woman

and can never truly be at peace,

not with our tears still salty fresh.

Not with annivessary edition of your books

or special edition hard-backs.

You died as you were made,

a pale, broken body

a pale, broken heart

a child, a pupil and teacher,

         an idol, a decoration, a mantle-piece feature.

Literature

The steady varnish of a brown oak-wood desk
Appeals only to those who wish and devour
The simple sentiments of life and courtesy
And the structure of pity by hand and wishful thinking
It is not one’s fault for all the ecstasy taken so shamelessly
From a fellows pardon or an enemy’s scowl
Nor is it that of friend or foe
Or the authorities right wing deceit
A simple term and a complexity of words and thought
Can describe only the most wonderful and valiant of others
As can the most complex words put so simplistically
To have one’s life turn over at the drop of a pen
At the sound of a cry and a touch of a season’s welfare
Like the crispy orange leaves that autumn ascends unto the sunken ground
How do we hark at a crow and not read the fellow’s burden?
And take the pain into one’s hand and mouth to spew out spittle
And the foul flavour of a worded phrase that repeats only a painful memory
It is of a nature so divine and without acknowledgement of its own pride
We take notice of and spread rumour of a hidden soul, an exposed promise
And so our humanism takes not a beating or a praise of tongue
But a step back to allow the past and all that of its present
To define the future’s worded nature of consent
And the eyes of war and tranquillity steal one last glance
Before the writers hand scratches the brown-oak desk
And beholds literature of such beauty, of such pardon and honesty
Of such regret and unfound knowledge of conspiracy unto a scripture of purity

The Elusive Doll

And so the elusive doll
Is roughly shoved around
By the laughing puppet master
By the old man’s hand.
And all you can see is this silly old chime
The chime of a song
The chime of a voice long gone.
How fortunate;
The crystal gaze of an open jewel
The mindless wonderings of a worthless Jew.
The Jew that never hurt nor stole
The Jew that never killed or called.
But the same Jew killed the same
As the next and the next
And the shameful witness
Who never spoke but drooled.
And the workers grant
That kept the men from finishing
Kept tumbling and crumbling
Until the brown lung collapsed.
Until the workers fell upon
The factories sealed fate
The factories dead man’s weight.
‘Here, here’ is the alternative phrase
When there is nothing left to speak
Nor say.
And down this road
I fetch a scar
A path of sunken old.
And so the elusive doll
Is roughly shoved around
By the laughing puppet master
By the old man’s hand.

Ambrosia

---

This is not biographical nor confessional poetry, tis about something I read in the newspaper.
It is called 'Ambrosia' because it is a greek word meaning 'food of the Gods' which is how alcohol seems to be interperated, though it's consequences aren't always 'Godly.'



Beer bottle welfare
Smoking in the new linen chair.
And you get out the old liquor pipe
And an old sunhat of yellowed white.
Like the teeth that fall into your sunken jaw
And the eyes that watch and wage war.
The pocket watch ticks noisily away
But you do not notice
You are head heavy, heart empty
In your own sunken words.
How rich you fill your glass
Of an amber liquid
Of a golden ambrosia scar.
The cracking of your knuckles
Join in a melody of trepidation.
One that you do not see
But it shakens me and fear I be
And fear and fear
And gentle fear
Escalades into me
And then you smile with crooked teeth
And I am me and I am neither
I am the wife of a brute, of a numb, soberless beater.

A Morbid Luxury

---

In what smile am I supposed to supress?
do the tears of joy call out as perfect as they form?
how can my mind and memories of only youth discover
what mysteries are found in the gentle sway of a cold wind summer.
You may call out all your fears and wish them away
but it's what we fail to see and shout out that we seek as dangerous
and I fear for the knowledge I have yet to know.
And I mourn for those with such soft kindness
who's lives were short and sweet
and whose only luxuries were honest and seemingly pittyful,
looked down upon by the upper classes who killed their beautiful souls.
In which land is it so different to behold any love that stops burning
like the fires that have killed so many
and the factory weapons of mankind
that throw our dignity into the morbid flowers of this earth.
What sways in the gentle breeze is what stands still without influence
what is a sound that hears only noise and no concept
so that our hearts deny us what we see as fair.
But fair is not perfection like the lust we seek in our being
and only true happiness is that of love
that ends so tragically
and yet we pour our lifes gratitude into it so mercifully.
Untill we burn out and become only memories
untill there is no physical grasp
of natures kindness
and mans blindness

Everyone Loves A Fascist

Everyone loves a fascist
They tell you what you want to hear.
They tell you of a new world
Where there is nothing to fear.

Oh and how silly it all is
Politics is such a spoiled mess
Edible only to the man who seeks power
And money and a place to build his fortress.

This trepidation, this army of tyrants
All wonder about aimlessly
Yet we cower before their spiteful words
By the blood they spill so shamelessly.

A gentle heart
Corroded in the back of a windowless cell
Corroded to a little red icicle
To a jar of whistles with a brass heavy bell.

Yes everyone loves a fascist
When all they do is kill
And pay-out to corporate businesses
Who eat up our free will.

People That Never Were

Look down on my world
cherish a look
on a poverty nation.
the working class slave
and work hard labour
the middle class tell em what to do
and the higher
don't do us any favour.
3rd world countries
young children dieing
waters polluted
and the population is cryin'
lookin for a way out
while i'm lookin for a way in.
Seems like we don't know much
just walking along
we see down our street
we don't see past this song.
The charities tell us to help
but what do we do
spend our money on cars
and shout out our biased view

We're hearing voices
and seeing ghosts
or maybe it's just us
maybe it's our forgotten boasts
or plans that never concur
and people that never were.

We stand alone
like the world that's turned to stone
no more blood in it
no more flesh.
humans don't exist
we're a type of monster
we make all the lists.
Who lives who dies
who's naughty or nice
I have the power
I can't lose
and it's my freedom, my duty to choose.

We're hearing voices
and seeing ghosts
or maybe it's just us
maybe it's our forgotten boasts
or plans that never concur
and people that never were.

don't hurt me
don't hurt yourself
but you can hurt everybody else.
You see it's all for oil
the wars and all the worlds spoils.
Everyone thinks
everyone knows
maybe this isn't right
maybe we're just too low
absorbed in ourselves
to notice
We're hearing voices
and seeing ghosts
or maybe it's just us
maybe it's our forgotten boasts
or plans that never concur
and people that never were.

Times We Share

The times we share
don't have to go anywhere
but the days we waste
don't run our pace.
we're just kids
we don't know anything
we're just kids
we don't know how to sing.
we're young and naive
we want more
we want nothing.

Is there ever too much

or is it such
a fellon to hide
the rules we abide.
I once knew
a man who couldn't hide
he told me about this world
and the ways it turned
how we all thought
It made us
but instead we evolved
to make the earth we stand on.
The life we live
we went wrong
made up some rules
legalised and illegalised
the 'good' and the 'bad.'
But it's early
so we can't just talk
Instead we sing
and praise ourselves
or turn someone else
into something false.

Picking Up The Pieces

I see your beauty
And I see your smile
But I also see the pain
You've been keeping for a while.
Don't throw your life away
You're worth more than that
Just because you're addicted
Doesn't mean you're getting laughed at.
You might not want to care
But you're killing your spirit
You're creativity
It's not gonna repair.
And we'll pick up the pieces
The little bits of puzzle
But they wont fit together
Untill they're point blanc at each gun muzzle.
So let go of your defences
And we'll take them down
It's not your only strength
It's just a hollowed crown.
And all you have to do is smile
Not a frown on your lips
Because we know you're worth more
Than those white lined strips.