The Nuclear Family

There once was a couple

Who had it all;

Money, fame and

Their own grand hall.


But their nights were restless

As they tried and tried,

But no child would come

Oh, how they both cried.


They were offered a contract

That would set them for life,

But only on one condition...

She was to become his wife.


She never believed in paper

Their love was simply enough,

But her name was changed

And she was tied to his cuff.


And thanks to science

A child was born,

Though their love had gone

And the contract was torn.


The court saw praise

And pittied them both,

No Bible was needed

No hand shake or oath.


The child grew up

He was big and strong,

Looked just like his father

And never did wrong.


But time passed by

His parents were gone,

They never were happy

Though their lives were long.


What was there left

To love in this world?

Five decades he lived

Before the lies unfurled.


He wasn't happy

He wasn't sad,

But he felt guilt

For his mum and dad.


It was his fault

They never did love again,

He reminded them too much

Of all their conflict and pain.


So he tied himself a noose

And took one last breath,

He thought of his parents

And embraced death.

Just a Suit

You stand afar
always a silhoutte
always just a suit.
I should have been proud of you
the money, the house,
the lifestyle too.
I should have been happier
as I, the flesh and offspring
born into a cocoon of your success.
Shared by blood and bone.
Now luxury is a rarety
as mind becomes eternal
and independence brakes suburban comformity.
I am just an expectation
but you will never realise
I can also be such a devestation.
I carry no beacon or ticket
no, I am inside - a screaming mute.
And my future will not be a suit
no, my future will not be a suit.

Untitled

The crisp, white blanket of gleaming envy
will embrace us in snowfall
and dress us in the finery of all the green emeralds
and all the manicured jewelles of mankind.

We will gather in mourning
for the sun has already sunk deep
into the earths hollowed crust
magma no longer burns the insides.

The clocks will tick from dawn to dusk
but no light or dark will come
but waves of pristine anger
decorated with riches and drum rolls.

How very lavish,
How very decadent they will become
and from all the corners of the world
they will build again this damaged soul.

The Mirror

A mirror infront of me, a reflection of truth
But I, the believer can lie and fake my youth
I can throw away scars and cover-up blemishes
With foundation and concealer
Even wash away the effects of alcoholic beverages.
I can breathe in, making for a perfect toned stomach
And wish away the thoughts that prove my mind havock.
My hair can be tied away, my eyes painted over
My lips only rosy with gloss, my nails pretty with artificial perks.
My legs are shapeless and will prove to be a task
Leggings and jeggings will be used as a mask.
Oh what a dreadful thing a mirror can become
You think you look so pretty and sweet
Till you realise it's all just a cheat.
I think I'll stay at home today
Who needs this reflection anyway?

The Idol

Do you smile with white, gleaming teeth?

And what about your hair... is it long and blonde?

Oh and you’ll have to be a size 4 – 6…

If not, then we can fix you up with pills and photo-shop!

Infact, we have just the job for you…

Become our puppet and we’ll hold you up with strings

But don’t worry; we can make you dance and sing!

Do you want to be a star?

Live in Hollywood and sleep in Egyptian cotton..?

Well then, why don’t you come with us!

They all do in the end…

We’ll give you a new sense of purpose

To match that new Gucci bag and Vera Wang dress

We’ll even throw in stiletto’s… how kind!

There you go… the perfect person for us!

Oh but wait, we’ve found someone else…

She’s much younger and prettier than you

I’m sorry but you won’t be back by popular demand.

The truth is… we’ve found someone new

And better still… she’s a size 2!

Sorry your trip has ended so quickly

No refund is available…

We’ll send out your résumé,

You really were helpful

Now go-on, it’s past your pay-day.

Good luck with the future

I’m sure there’ll be something,

Maybe a Panto

Or even your own reality TV show!

And we’ll have to cancel that contract

But your money will last you a lifetime…

Oh but you spent it all on that pad in LA!

Never mind, you’ll get it all back… someday…

Hare on a wire

They hunt you down

Like hare on a wire

And wear a morbid crown

Made from blood spilt on fire.

They sit back in their mansions

And watch the weather change

They think they’ve done enough

When all the fruit bares strange.

Oh how they all dress accordingly

And pull-out pocket watches of gold

But underneath that waistcoat

Bares a heart grown cold.

Those men are just a handful

It’s us that are the majority

We let them poison the air

But who says they’re the legitimate authority?

It’s time we take back the earth

And all they have bestowed.

The trees and the fields

The soil and the crops already sowed.

And beneath this land are the dead

Skeletons of pure and white

We shall use their bones to build again

And hope this time, we’ll do it right.

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.