Chaos Of Entanglement

 

Image result for urban london

 

Cyrus – What’s in a name?

It was in summer that I was born and named;

A late bloomer conceived and coloured by midnight

And cradled by the moon’s grace.

By autumn, news threw leaves of vicissitude

On this pubescent nation,

Which seeded voices of confusion.

For years I was unable to name myself in the right hues,

But I endeavoured to compare my skin

Amongst all the other named colours;

I tasted them all,

But none were in season and so I thought.

Arrogance had blinded this sighted boy,

But only briefly.

And as realisation began the process

Of unfurling her bright petaled wings,

I was gifted the vision of clarity.

In the sense that I could see,

That, I too, have yet to reveal my named colours

And only through the invitation

Of spring’s celebration

Could I unveil, the shape, the colour, the fragrance

Within my name.

My mantra would be patience.

Slain in winter’s wake,

I wilted and became nameless;

Lost and buried under soil,

My voice was tapered by foul and twisted tongues.

I was never named in spring.

I remain the ‘budding boy slain: Victim 59.’

This is not my name.

 

Advertisements

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!”

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.

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 Wall

This wall is not merely bricks and mortar:
A thousand hands, flesh and bone, aches and cries, son and daughter
Reside pressed against this towering intruder.
Their fingerprints mark like signatures
Embossed across his cloak in blood red torture.
Leaving traces of souls unable to penetrate his formidable armour.