We breathe in the sickness around us
Dark shadows come and surround us
We ring on the bell to give warning of hell
But the demons, they daze and confound us
Escape is not one of the choices
We seek peace amongst agonised voices
We scream out in fear and hope help is near
But the evil; it dances, rejoices.
When torture is calmly inflicted
Our breathing is strangled, constricted
With the last of our breath, we pray for quick death
But the demons are sick and addicted
I passed him by, (a young white guy – acting fly)
Blue bandana (under his cap), telling guys he’s ready to die
Middle class genetics and hallucinagenics (bad mix)
Listens to hip hop – says “I get it” (pathetic) – wants to play gangster tricks
Walked with a limp on his right side (the wrong side), slight bounce
Half a blunt in his mouth (badly rolled), bragging he can smoke an ounce
Never coughed up more than a gram, since leaving his pram (nobody knows)
Another Bill Clinton, sucks in (doesn’t inhale), then he blows.
(Finally) One night, carying his water pistol (in his pants)
Exposes the handle (looking gangster) and takes his Alpha Dog stance
Staring down his rival (geek with glasses) who took his “bitch”
Approaches him – squares up and gets the (trigger finger) itch
One bluff too many for young (and fly) white boy though
Geeky Glasses doesn’t take shit (but gangster doesn’t know)
Underneath the English books, he holds a blade (a bowie knife)
Always did (who would have thought?), Geek ready to defend his life
Geek throws down his hardbacks and flashes his blade
Blue Bandana boy (turns yellow), eyes kinda wide – staring – afraid
Middle class instinct kicks in – (not quite ready to die)
Geek walks on (like a real man should) – Pretty fly (for a white guy).
cobble stones and granite walls
and mining pits and big brass balls
and pounds for pints and black and whites
and people love their sir john hall’s
river sides make rivalries
and claims to fame for histories
and gi’ em to mackem and tic and tack em
and pass ’em doon to Geordie quays
Lambton worms/local stories
and socialists and cast oot tories
and northern runs in vests for fun
and viz mag with anomolies
A Geordie poet will read this…
will know my thoughts and understand
ye me marra, keep on the narra
For great is where ye roam the land!
* This was a piece dedicated to a north-eastern poet who I’m a fan of.
I think a few Geordies might find nostalgia or reference to it though.
Awaken, if you will, to the glory of the rising Sun
That star, as through all of life, it rose upon us all
From days of fear, loss and childhood fun
Through winter, spring, summer, fall…
Give thanks, that you may have any memory
For it is yours alone, a gift of divine grace
Let your heart forgive.., even your enemy
For what will you gain now, in saving face?
See the colours of the fields, even under grey skies
Hear the birds sing, through the rolling thunder
See the moon’s majesty with wide open eyes
And be amazed at the universe we stand under
Sleep my friend, and become a part of your dream
You held the entire world, in just a single day
Drift into the ocean from your well travelled stream
Rest your mind in comfort, wherever you might lay.
How many millennia beneath my feet?
Grass mown down, houses constructed
4 billion years in my very own street
Where lava once cooled where the land erupted
A new shopping outlet – fulfil my addiction
Lay down cement, lay down stones..,
A war fought here once with great affliction
I’m walking on skulls, walking on bones
Move into the future, our digital souls
Burn all the books, no need for shelves
Throw all the history upon the roasting coals
Hide your shame in fire, forget about yourselves…
“Seagulls soar above the seas”
A silly song to sing at schools
We all know seagulls can’t use saws
They have no hands – they can’t use tools
I thought the wind had died today
I felt just calm, right where I lay
But calm won’t last when lain like I
Beneath a dark and deep grey sky
Dreams are fleeting, nightmares rein
Amidst a snow cold winter’s pain
No rest is gained, nor hope restored
This summer sky, the Sun ignored
Weather beaten, season shy
Lay not to rest, but lay to die
No spring is here, nor summer day
The wind blows cold here where I lay
Beyond Valentine’s day commercial dealings
Hollywood scripts and fuzzy feelings;
You may find Love within its natural state
The films you watch and songs you sing
They miss the point with everything;
Dreams you can’t achieve, then learn to hate.
So what is Love if that’s not true
With all the shit they sell to you;
Is Love a myth, or is it true at all?
Well, Love is Truth and Truth is Love
It comes by choice, not from above;
So make it – don’t just wait for it to fall
See how quick we passed them by
Traveling fast; we had no brakes
So long since our first lullaby
Turned into gambling with high stakes
But as we grew and we declared
“We hate these years; we hate them bad”
Then as we left them, we grew scared
Those years were all we ever had
For all the pains and things we learned
Came at a cost, came at a price
And how our hearts they truly burned –
We wish we could have lived them twice
“Where is my pen and where is my paper?
I must write now – I’ll forget this later”
He looked at the white (of the page) on the table
And jotted down words of all he was able.
So scribbled he did and sentences made
He finished them off but felt so afraid
For what if the thoughts and the knowledge he had
Weren’t written so well on his new writing pad?
The yearning for truth that ran through his veins
Screamed out through his fingers and filled him with pains
But pain pushed aside, he pressed down his pen
Created those words, again.., and again.
Of all that he had, stored deep in his heart
It made him so sad but this was his art
And suffering quietly – his life filled with shame
Writing was all that he had to his name.
Cheap whisky bottles lay empty, alone
They helped his old heart turn into old stone
Though cold in the heart – his words retained heat
So just for tonight; death slept at his feet.