The angry socialist – part 3 draft

Switch to channelU and I have seen in you
A lost generation.
Musing on your sacred tablets
For your 10 commandments of life hacks
To regain your lives back
From the Old Testament of youth;
That sweet sanguine confection
Found in over the counter culture where once it stood.
Do your present prophets profit you?
Is thou thus satisfied?
We are a nation of conforming ‘like’ buttons,
In a symphony of similes
Smiling painted expressions of emojis,
When in reality
our words are censored out of individuality.

Misdirection has never found such certainty
In the ocean of today’s public coliseum of celebrity.
In spite of this,
There are those among us
Who will scream, bleed and fracture every tv screen;
The war cry of the anarchist:
“We are not entertained!”

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The Angry Socialist – Part 2 draft

And who will be the renegade voice?
That voice standing in the mainstream void
Of live streaming apathetic tyranny in a culture of Netflix and cotch?
I meditate silently on the news feeds of twitter
And congratulate myself on the retweets
Of countless others who dare to inspire:
Hashtag NHS,
Hashtag State Education,
Hashtag Social Housing.
And I remember
The promise,
The dream,
The song,
The vision of a society
To raise the poorer communities.
Now watch the Tories
Sell them into antiquity
And remembered stories
Of urban legends and text book mythologies,
Cascading amidst a daydreamers vision;
A landslide of Utopian ideas
Found in alien derivative alternative dimensions.
27 years surfing rapid rapids declining local skylines
Of working class young adults.
Forced out of London’s
Mathematical formulaic enclosed price brackets.
Eclipsing our stars and the sun
And renting out Cardboard box rooms
To gaze at the moon
On pay per view.
Oh and by the way,
No free school meals for our poor kids too,
There’ll just have too watch food on YouTube
And educate their hunger to the background
Of Britain’s economic hum drum sums.
I’m not looking for charity,
I just want a new sound-system.

Earth confides to the sun – second draft

In the corridors of the four seasons’ waiting room, I have waited patiently for tomorrow’s children to arrive, But the reticent past has barred entry And continues to resume In repeating cycles of orange, red and doom. So I embarked on a nomad’s journey Through the dreamer’s escape Dodging the webs of the dream catcher’s […]

via Earth confides to the sun – second draft — Emily Havis

Earth confides to the sun – second draft

In the corridors of the four seasons’ waiting room,
I have waited patiently for tomorrow’s children to arrive,
But the reticent past has barred entry
And continues to resume
In repeating cycles of orange, red and doom.
So I embarked on a nomad’s journey
Through the dreamer’s escape
Dodging the webs of the dream catcher’s embrace
Like thieves chased by the approaching new day.
Bartering with the elements and the midnight sky,
We struck an accord and passage was supplied.

And so…
It was on calm black waters I set my ship to sail,
Slicing through the midnight abyss
Where no compass could direct my course
And where true north could not be cyphered
From the celestial goodnight kiss.
All attention converged to the fractured opening
Like a beast whose slumber is disturbed from within his dwelling;
His eye-lids reveal an unknown darkness in his cunning,
Showing the universe is torn
And in its wake a new storm is forming.
My boat is now capsizing
And the waves overthrow my body
Pulling me down down to cease my screaming.
Before my last breath I awake and realise
I was only dreaming.

New life is rooted from the sanguine seeds sown in my destruction
And death inhabits the sacred temples of my creation.
This duality that sits upon the throne of my nature
Is both the curse and the cure,
But in recent millennia
I am perturbed by the growing force
That steers my hands towards the course of absolution;
To absolve my being and enter a true and final death.

Tell me…
Tell me not to raise the final hand to close the crimson cloaked curtain.
Tell me…
Tell me not to raise one final blanket of violent silent breath.
Tell me…
Tell me not that all my light has perished into the bow of this sinking ship.
Tell me…
Tell me not that I am too far gone with the wind.

For there are labyrinths of wounded tombs
That incarcerate my womb
Speared by the Minotaur
Who holds my organs to ransom;
Castrating my lungs
And muting my sonic mutated tones from ascension;
Foot peddling with my emotions.

And yet there you stand… idle

Earth confides to the sun – first draft

New life is rooted from the sanguine seeds sown in my destruction
And death inhabits the sacred temples of my creation.
This duality that sits upon the throne of my nature
Is both the curse and the cure,
But in recent millennia
I am perturbed by the growing force
That steers my hands towards the course of absolution;
To absolve my being and enter a true and final death.

Tell me…
Tell me not to raise the final hand to close the crimson cloaked curtain.
Tell me…
Tell me not to raise one final blanket of violent silent breath.
Tell me…
Tell me not that all my light has perished into the bow of this sinking ship.
Tell me…
Tell me not that I am too far gone with the wind.

For there are labyrinths of wounded tombs
That incarcerate my womb
Speared by the Minotaur
Who holds my organs to ransom;
Castrating my lungs
And muting my sonic mutated tones from ascension;
Foot peddling with my emotions.

And yet there you stand… idle

Olivia Twist – Part One

Magic is a shamanistic rain dance
Heard on desert island disc albums
Found in our summer seasons.
Olivia and the lost children of the black night
Listen to this playlist
To find solace at Fagan’s round glass table.
Ingesting sharp stabbing snow flakes that travel
Both lanes through the flesh of the Dartford tunnel
That drip down from their throats
And land at the base of their navels.
Conversation sparks lightning rods as senses heighten
And false enlightenment forms with each inhale and exhale
From chain smoking fumes that entangle
Their tongues;
Forcing their jaws to quickly quiver and tingle:

“City Nature is the display of the polluted and blemished.”
“Man is god – creator’s image.”
“God is a mixed heritage hermaphrodite – a celestial ‘Sheman’.”
“Woman is the echo of man’s woe
And a man is just a man,
And ‘just’ men sit lawless in their towers
And build for themselves walls to separate strange nations.”
“Higher consciousness is vanity disguised
When proclaimed by celebrity gurus
Seeking engagement from public eyes.”
“Perfection is the ant-eye-climax
Seen in tv advertisements
For the female pursuit:
To be younger than their waistlines;
Asphyxiating their grey matter on art-eye-chokes”

This disjointed, loquacious discourse disbands
Leaving only the smoke filled air to circulate the room.
Horizontal bodies lay frozen
And eyes stare into the distance –
Lost in far out dimensions.
Olivia awakens scanning the seemingly lifeless crypt.
A whisper emerges and invades her ears:

“Chemical consumerisation no longer feels divine
Amidst this community of lost children
Who remain lost in the black night.”

Please sir, can I have something more?

The thief of my seasons

You have stolen all of my seasons,
My summers, my autumns, my winters, my springs;
An unshakeable force born not out of nature’s palms,
But from the wild fires of the heart.
Betraying all sense and reason
Like a magician who deceives his audience with only sleight of hand.
Melting the ice from the bastille of winter’s long lived days,
Shining love’s light to spring like a painter’s canvass
Renewed by the illuminated birth of a new sun.
I am unravelled and undone at the seams
By the the majesty and glory of you.
I am in awe.
How is it that one can be both free and yet bound to another?
Love is now my only season and you its architect,
Who orbits grand spirals of my imagination
By manifesting the alchemy of my dreams without sleeping.
Come thief!
Let us steal the night away.