Sunday, 25 November 2018

Communication 137

Beauty is the ‘art of self’

you look painfully unnatural,
pretty isn’t perfect,
perfect isn’t pretty
true beauty needs no cheap disguise,
wipe the mascara from your eyes
learn to master the ‘art of self’,
youth can’t be purchased off the shelf,
bypass applying cosmetic distraction,
attraction can’t take place
through a painted face,
beauty can wilt
when internal balance tilts,
except your decay,
a change is underway,
you can’t turn back the clock
with the abuse of Botox,
or enhance your
with a cheek enhancement
or liposuction,
real strength sleeps within
your wreckage,
you are beautiful
never forget it,
your seasoned skin
and, ‘those same kind eyes’
is where your true beauty lies,
beauty is the ‘art of self’
it belongs to you, no one else


Tuesday, 13 November 2018

Communication 136

My Final Night

here on my final night
my one last curtain call,
I’ve come to the end of life
I hope I taught you well,
please don’t mourn for me,
I survived, I saw it through,
all I ever was beats
deep in the heart of you,
I never was a religious man
I can see a light so bright,
I can hear your mother calling me
dressed in angel white,
she’s finally in my arms again
her beauty still unchanged,
our bodies may turn to dust
but our spirits stay the same

Saturday, 10 November 2018

Communication 135

Cut The Cord

an uncertain direction,
subtracting your mind
through 5G connection,
to conquer a life, digitised
we must cut the cord
to rationalise,
we relocate our lives
to the collective hard drive
time and time again,
editing the truth
in the hope
that it will trend,
we’re imperfect beauty,
we must cut the cord
to break the habit
this technology is
of a collective need
to feel connected,
never to be rejected,
your constant hunger
for a ‘digital feed’
is so anticlimactic,
we must cut the cord
to rationalise,
we relocate our lives
to the collective hard drive,
time and time again,

Communication 134

Clockwork Toy

my wrists twist ninety degrees,
effortlessly on a natural bearing
I’m usually positioned on a miniature chair,
from the corner of the room staring,
there’s a world beyond the window,
it’s something I’ll never know
I’m calling for you to let me go,
no longer am I the fad or favourite
of what parents see wise,
I’ll have you know I was in fashion
long before you were alive,
coming a close second to the ‘chattering teeth',
my tin exterior hides
a fragile heart beneath,
ticking, beating and repeating
each time you wind me up

my mechanics are far to intricate
to be produced in a mindless factory,
I thought my days were numbered
come the alkaline battery,
I have no hardware or USB,
no A.I. intelligence, you can’t delete me,
over time, it appears I’ve been relegated,
I suppose some might accuse
this broken toy jaded,
I bare the odd bruise,
my colour might be faded,
but I still see myself as a toy for all ages,
despite my rusty springs
I house no dial or gauges,
I require no manual with
a thousand pointless pages

you can confide in me and I’ll listen,
I’ll help you to handle your own decisions,
until that fateful day
when you condemn me gone,
I guess nothing ‘old’ in this new age
ever lasts that long,
and with this comes the journey,
the part I hate the most, 
I’m tossed away like junk,
thrown from pillar to post,
it’s as if I can hear my tin heart crumble
as you sentence me to the ‘death row’ jumble,
I am a clockwork toy, a broken boy,
a resemblance of youth
that adolescence forgot,
forever resigned to the bargain bin
in your local charity shop, 
tick toc, tic toc, tic toc

Saturday, 3 November 2018

Communication 133


the depth within your heart
is removed and replaced
with a shallow form or art
that no longer relates
to the reasons why you chose
to try to create in the first place,
you can’t wipe the slate clean
once you’ve sold yourself to the dream,
your mind is no longer your own,
you’ll be squeezed
and squished like plasticine,
poked and prodded
then placed in a box,
it’s one hell of a ride
until the hype wears off
and the sales start to drop

Monday, 15 October 2018

Communication 132

death of an Englishman

decaying, the last child breathes in hollowed dust,
the death of an Englishman ripe within its tissue-paper mind,
yet to think freely, no new born deserves such malformation,
the Focke-Wulf rumbled overhead, waking a god so authoritarian
a million confessions couldn’t sway his aggression,
from land to cinder, cinder to ash, you’ll never be forgotten,
within arched soil you now rest
under the dead skin of the rose,
each petal a passenger of an uncertain wind,
once, beneath my feet, an Englishmen stood fighting,
through your death, honour and sacrifice
we give you our hearts and our lives,
Major, Lieutenant, Colonel, Cadet,
“lest we forget”
“we will never forget”
there are no hero’s left

Saturday, 13 October 2018

Communication 131

a view from the moon – a view from the earth

a view from the moon
no such concept as intercourse,
no such nonsense as the loss
of one’s virginity, 
a lost sleepless sanctuary,
drifting in the sea of tranquillity,
I resonate harmoniously, 
eclipsed by an apathy
I’ve carried with me since my inception,
a view from the moon
no ignorance in man’s physiology
no sweeping statements of pseudo philosophy
all wrapped up in an idea of me
that doesn’t explain my frailty,
a view from the moon,
no contention with vanity
no such nonsense as teenage pregnancy,
there’s no protocol or compliance
to diagnose any idea of insanity,
don’t cage your mind through Christianity,
a view from the moon,  
void of engineered systemics,
or playing god through the use of eugenics,
there’s no space to replace
the genetically sick with a master race,
a view from the moon,
no calculated genocide
no blond hair and blue eyes,
there’s no Jews left to demonize,
a view from the moon,
no such evil as bull fights,
no loop hole known as human rights,
a view from the earth,
we’re killing ourselves just to survive,
we’re boiling dogs alive,
we’re wasting our time picking sides,
whilst the pendulum’s already swung,
the young live by the knife,
and die by the gun,
our necks are in a noose,
the institutionalized child abuse,
the victims, all so conveniently muted,
persecuted, undisputed, corruption
so deeply rooted,
I just don’t know where I stand,
I’m lost amid a wasteland,
view from the earth,
it’s been this way since birth,
only now have my eyes
opened wide enough to see
we live in an infected reality,
and no one holds the key to the cure