Glass eye mounted high,
winged beauty frozen in time,
varnished beaks can't cry
*Author's notes*
A simple haiku about taxidermy.
My fifth in my collection of environmental poetry.
1. Extinct.
2. Harpoon
3. Crocodile Tears
4. The Pack
Tuesday, 27 December 2016
Tuesday, 13 December 2016
Oh Fuck it
OH FUCK IT!
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Did I just swear? Did I just curse? No, I said something even worse.
Nothing to do with innocence stolen across a sheet or desperate screams in the night.
Nothing to do with a "yes, yes, yes" or giving up a sweaty, exhausting fight.
Nothing to do with awkward encounters or becoming a man.
Nothing to do with giving up so much in such a short span.
Nothing to do with two lovers writhing in the dark or knowing your way around.
Nothing to do with becoming lost in paradise or in that sensuous sound.
Nothing to do with lips that kiss and eyes that see all.
Nothing to do with a heartbeat that can rise and fall.
But what if I had? What if that verb that drips with darkness, that verb whose innocence has been twisted and manipulated had crept, like a silent assassin, out of my mouth? Everyone would lose their shit. FUCK IT! Did I do it again?
It's not as if I was talking about the land of flames,
the eternal dark, the tortuous games.
I'm not talking about the silence who speaks too much; the black cavern,
without an echo of sound.
In hell, nobody can hear you scream.
In the void, there's the solitary beating of a solitary heart.
Whose is it? Is it yours? Did I drive you mad by saying the "h" word or the "v" word?
We don't have "h" or "v" words, but we have the "F" word. We have fuck.
Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh you cunt! Fuck it, did I do it again? Did I swear? Did I curse? No, I said something even worse. I spoke about the fallen angel.
The fallen angel with a cleft on his chin and a split in his hoof.
The fallen angel who had been exiled by our all mighty Creator.
The fallen angel with his own faith and following who resides in his underworld.
The fallen angel with a trident to match Poseidon's.
The fallen angel who exists solely on belief.
The fallen angel that was known to the ancient civilisations as Pluto, Hades and Horus. We call him Lucifer, Satan, Krop Tor, but what for? We have so many names for the evillest man in creation, yet we are allowed to say them all. We don't have a "P" word or an "L" word, but we have the "C" word. We have cunt. Oh, fuck it! Did I say it again?
Oh son of a bitch! Spare me the pitch. Is bitch so bad? Did I insult? Did I offend? Swearing is a fucking Godsend. Oh, fuck it! I said it again.
You open the paper.
You turn the page, someone has been murdered.
You turn the page, someone else has been killed.
You turn the page, someone else has died.
The papers are full of blood, but nobody reacts. Nobody complains or protests or revolts!
We don't have an "m" word or a "k" word or a "d" word. All we have is the "B" word. All we have is bitch! Oh, fuck it, did I swear again?
Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! Did I upset you? Did I make you cry? Just because I called you a child that was born out of wedlock. That's fucking archaic. Oh you bastard! I said fuck again. Now dry those tears, you little anachronism.
Cry, if I told you about genocide.
Cry, if I told you about Cambodia or Jim Jones.
Cry, if I told you about the Bosnians or the Pygmies.
Cry, if I told you about the Aboriginee abductees.
Cry, if I told you about Columbine or Sandy Hook.
Cry, if I told you about everything that they took.
Cry, if I told you about the slaves,
Cry, as you walk over every single victim's grave.
Don't you dare shed a tear when I say bastard. Oh, fuck it! I swore again.
Life is such a fucking bitch.
*Author's Notes*
For all of the overly-sensitive people who go bat crap crazy after hearing a rather minor word such as "fuck" and "cunt." Words such as murder or genocide have much worse meanings, yet they're not condemned. We're not punished if we say those words. Maybe this is more of a rant I compressed into a poem.
Saturday, 3 December 2016
The True Meaning of Christmas
It's not about that pesky snow,
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
fluttering down,
coating the ground,
spreading all around,
to become crushed,
turned into mush.
It's not about runny noses, red cheeks,
transport in chaos, for weeks after weeks,
It's about your granny knitting your sweater,
your little brother writing his letter to Santa Claus
about charades leaving you in stitches,
roast turkey making you burst your britches,
those minced pies, the mulled wine,
that stuffing so divine,
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those flashing lights,
high above,
craving love,
on repeat,
in the street
screaming for your attention,
it's not about those trees dancing for your adoration,
red, yellow in decoration,
ball ball wrapped,
tinsel trapped,
holding up the whole world by their fingertips,
with a star crowning their heads,
it's about your mum and dad,
giving you what they never had,
going through hell,
making your wishes come true,
where the priority is always you,
sure they'll play the fool, hop on one leg,
steal, borrow and beg,
dance and sing,
because you are their everything
that's what Christmas is about.
It's not about those blunders,
those one-hit wonders,
blaring out the radio,
oh, God, no
not about Wizzard, Slade, or Santa coming to town,
it's about that family that will never let you down,
that will make you smile,
remind you it's all worthwhile,
where their laughter is the best music
That's what Christmas is about
It's not that laptop slashed to half-price,
that bustling crowd, roaring aloud,
for that next sale,
stampeding without fail for that 4k TV,
that blue-ray DVD,
it's about that family that makes you happy,
and yeah that sounds sappy and just a bit crappy,
but who cares?
It's a cliche,
but what else can I say?
You can't put a price on your family
That's what Christmas is about.
It's not about working to the bone,
feeling alone,
from that stress,
from that boss you're trying to impress,
for that bonus,
so you can go home as a hero,
because you already are one
to that family you're fighting for
That's what Christmas is about.
Click here to see me read out this poem
Tuesday, 15 November 2016
Revival
"It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."-Alfred Tennyson
I've been wading through too many dreams, but I've finally reached the haven of reality.
I've broken through the raw surface of emotion that had trickled into every crack and crevasse, every nook and cranny, every abyss and chasm. Your wondrous glory has burned me; left me with so many scars. I wear the wounds with pride; they've become my trophies. They're sharpened to the point of shininess; polished to perfection. I can see my reflection. Even though my love has lost, I've still won.
Your rosy petals have withered; your kaleidoscopic colours have faded into monochrome.
Your blade sharp thorns have become stepping stones; I'm immune to your cuts and stings. You're the only one in the ocean I ever wanted. Trying to catch you left me with more than just a hook in my mouth. Blood was spilling into the waters of self-pity. Sharks were swarming, surrounding me on all sides, snapping up fish which were mindlessly opening and closing their mouths. What did I do? I grew thicker scales.
Your eyes have become jaded to me; just two more stars in an already cramped sky. Mesmerised by spiralling coils of liquid gold. Your fire has been extinguished now. Mine is still blazing on; all you did was add kindling.
When buildings collapse, the rubble is swept up,
when tyres puncture, we patch up the wounds,
when ice melts, we can refreeze the fluid,
when milk is spilt, the mess is absorbed by towels,
when we cry, we dry our tears,
when muscles tear, they grow back stronger.
*author's notes*
My fourth poem based on a famous quotation. All credit to Lord Alfred Tennyson. I loved you once, but I'm over you now. This is my final act of closure. In retrospect, this seems more of a creative unleashing, rather than something of any true poetical form. You could argue this is a happy sequel to Falling Petals.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
I've been wading through too many dreams, but I've finally reached the haven of reality.
I've broken through the raw surface of emotion that had trickled into every crack and crevasse, every nook and cranny, every abyss and chasm. Your wondrous glory has burned me; left me with so many scars. I wear the wounds with pride; they've become my trophies. They're sharpened to the point of shininess; polished to perfection. I can see my reflection. Even though my love has lost, I've still won.
Your rosy petals have withered; your kaleidoscopic colours have faded into monochrome.
Your blade sharp thorns have become stepping stones; I'm immune to your cuts and stings. You're the only one in the ocean I ever wanted. Trying to catch you left me with more than just a hook in my mouth. Blood was spilling into the waters of self-pity. Sharks were swarming, surrounding me on all sides, snapping up fish which were mindlessly opening and closing their mouths. What did I do? I grew thicker scales.
Your eyes have become jaded to me; just two more stars in an already cramped sky. Mesmerised by spiralling coils of liquid gold. Your fire has been extinguished now. Mine is still blazing on; all you did was add kindling.
When buildings collapse, the rubble is swept up,
when tyres puncture, we patch up the wounds,
when ice melts, we can refreeze the fluid,
when milk is spilt, the mess is absorbed by towels,
when we cry, we dry our tears,
when muscles tear, they grow back stronger.
*author's notes*
My fourth poem based on a famous quotation. All credit to Lord Alfred Tennyson. I loved you once, but I'm over you now. This is my final act of closure. In retrospect, this seems more of a creative unleashing, rather than something of any true poetical form. You could argue this is a happy sequel to Falling Petals.
1. Left Behind
2. Shattered
3. Crystal
Tuesday, 8 November 2016
The Pack
They had been running after prey.
When had they become the hunted?
The wolves had seen happier days.
They think it's a game; time to play.
The growth of young wolves is stunted.
Stopped in every single way.
Aerial attacks sent to slay.
Their weapons are never blunted.
Wolves are less each and every day.
Their hot thermal colours betray
them. By traps they are confronted.
Diamond teeth; knives, swords, the San Mai.
Green crimes are fatally risque.
Out of guns, bullets are grunted.
Wolf coats are terribly cliche.
Lust is reflected in chrome trays.
Laughing where the wolves are shunted.
Wealth blinds them in a selfish haze.
For every single wolf, I pray.
*Author's Notes*
This is my first shot at a villanelle. I have to say I'm not a big fan of the rhyme scheme and the tentametre. It's all rather restrictive. Continuing my theme of poaching and the environment, this poem focuses around on wolves been hunted by humans. The San Mai is a type of combat knife. With thanks to my friends Louis and zayd for helping me with this.
Let me know your thoughts
When had they become the hunted?
The wolves had seen happier days.
They think it's a game; time to play.
The growth of young wolves is stunted.
Stopped in every single way.
Aerial attacks sent to slay.
Their weapons are never blunted.
Wolves are less each and every day.
Their hot thermal colours betray
them. By traps they are confronted.
Diamond teeth; knives, swords, the San Mai.
Green crimes are fatally risque.
Out of guns, bullets are grunted.
Wolf coats are terribly cliche.
Lust is reflected in chrome trays.
Laughing where the wolves are shunted.
Wealth blinds them in a selfish haze.
For every single wolf, I pray.
*Author's Notes*
This is my first shot at a villanelle. I have to say I'm not a big fan of the rhyme scheme and the tentametre. It's all rather restrictive. Continuing my theme of poaching and the environment, this poem focuses around on wolves been hunted by humans. The San Mai is a type of combat knife. With thanks to my friends Louis and zayd for helping me with this.
Let me know your thoughts
Tuesday, 1 November 2016
Crystal
"Only in suffering do we recognise beauty." - Proust
Only in pain, do we find clarity.
Through torture, who can we truly depend?
They're all demons. Do we want charity?
Villains, foes, family, does the list end?
Angels take cover in the deep abyss.
Waiting for us to call; to see the truth.
Our guardians protect us with their kiss.
Lover's eyes are gentle beacons which sooth
temperate storms. They ignite peace in souls.
They tame the beast and pacify evils.
Lovers defend us. They fill the dead holes.
They fight our little worries-our Weevils.
Lovers hear our screams. They're our protection.
We can't fight our most welcome infection.
*author's notes*
This is my first attempt at a sonnet. Well, I say sonnet, it's not in iambic parametre, which I've never had any grasp on. I tried to stick to the rhyme scheme though. Let me know your thoughts and give me your interpretations of this poem.
Only in pain, do we find clarity.
Through torture, who can we truly depend?
They're all demons. Do we want charity?
Villains, foes, family, does the list end?
Angels take cover in the deep abyss.
Waiting for us to call; to see the truth.
Our guardians protect us with their kiss.
Lover's eyes are gentle beacons which sooth
temperate storms. They ignite peace in souls.
They tame the beast and pacify evils.
Lovers defend us. They fill the dead holes.
They fight our little worries-our Weevils.
Lovers hear our screams. They're our protection.
We can't fight our most welcome infection.
*author's notes*
This is my first attempt at a sonnet. Well, I say sonnet, it's not in iambic parametre, which I've never had any grasp on. I tried to stick to the rhyme scheme though. Let me know your thoughts and give me your interpretations of this poem.
Tuesday, 25 October 2016
Crocodile Tears
Centre piece. The eye of the predator has been set into the front of the handbag. Varnished. Polished to perfection. Shining in the midday sun. Having trouble shopping for the Missus? Then buy her a reptile skinned handbag. For the small sacrifice of the Nile's fiercest predator, bring home this fantastic present that will make your wife love you for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.
The accessories crash and bash in the bag. Fighting for room.
Rolling from one side to the other. Rolling from one side to the other.
Souvenirs, compacts, key rings, the odd adorable reptile hatch ling.
Not even the bourgeoisie can tame wild animals. You will not grow into it.
You rip the smile out of the crocodile. Me, you, I, him, her, we all share toothy grins.
You wear a cashmere coat of scales. It falls past your ankles. Be careful you don't trip. You cry fake tears. It lures the animal in. You blast it to oblivion.
Is it a scarf? No it's a snake. With marble smooth skin. It moves down the woman's body, as she shivers in fear and disgust. It dances away through the grass, leaving the human to lumber after it. CLIP! CLOP! CLUNK! CLUMP! STAMP! BANG!
Who had the luckier escape?
Slow and steady wins the race, unless you're a tortoise. The hunters sprint to the finish and bide their time. They endlessly wait, as the hands trudge around the face. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock! Tick TOCK! Tick TOCK! TICK TOCK! How much time do reptiles have?
Who are the real front runners?
The accessories crash and bash in the bag. Fighting for room.
Rolling from one side to the other. Rolling from one side to the other.
Souvenirs, compacts, key rings, the odd adorable reptile hatch ling.
Not even the bourgeoisie can tame wild animals. You will not grow into it.
You rip the smile out of the crocodile. Me, you, I, him, her, we all share toothy grins.
You wear a cashmere coat of scales. It falls past your ankles. Be careful you don't trip. You cry fake tears. It lures the animal in. You blast it to oblivion.
Is it a scarf? No it's a snake. With marble smooth skin. It moves down the woman's body, as she shivers in fear and disgust. It dances away through the grass, leaving the human to lumber after it. CLIP! CLOP! CLUNK! CLUMP! STAMP! BANG!
Who had the luckier escape?
Slow and steady wins the race, unless you're a tortoise. The hunters sprint to the finish and bide their time. They endlessly wait, as the hands trudge around the face. Tick Tock. Tick Tock. Tick Tock! Tick TOCK! Tick TOCK! TICK TOCK! How much time do reptiles have?
Who are the real front runners?
*Author's Notes*
A continuation of my environmental poetry, this time focusing on the Reptile trade
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