Chaos Of Entanglement

Gaia – Grubby Finger Marks And Bolognese Spots.

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“If I had just got that train, would he still be here?”

I asked the wall.

 

Wall was silent,

But calm in the kitchen,

Which was greatly needed by all of the household.

Cooking endeavours always found favour

In Pollock splatterings

Along the teal coloured tiles.

The soft mint green wall,

Freshly painted only a week ago,

Had already invited grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.

 

Grubby finger marks and bolognese spots

Always caught his school boy shirt.

Tea-towels would be stuffed down his collar,

But it would still be inevitable

That stains would surface;

A pointless exercise,

But nonetheless a tradition

And always met with:

“Mum gerr off!”

And my reply in a thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead.

 

A thousand unwanted kisses on his forehead

And a thousand more hugs.

How I would give ten thousand more

And never let go.

How I would shape him now,

Like a folded piece of paper sealed into an envelope

And stuff him into my breast pocket;

My left hand clasping at my chest.

 

My left hand clasping at my chest,

My heart pounding

As hard as boxer fists.

Air tighter now.

A person should be able to just breathe.

The teal coloured tiles now shattered into a million tiny pieces.

No more grubby finger marks and bolognese spots.

 

Chaos Of Entanglement

 

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Cyrus – Part 2

I can see the wound,

Mirrored now, in my stomach;

The rivers run red

Escaping from the mountain’s summit,

Bursting out from the dams

And these hands, my hands morrooned!

Soiled in blood!

I watch in horror,

My eyes glued,

As it trickles down my fingertips

In vast vast volumes,

Like waterfalls chasing the cliff’s edge.

And all the warmth of my being evaporated;

Leaving only the heavy handed stillness of the cold,

So cold

And the sharp bite forced by the blade’s mold.

I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold.

I close my eyes to allow the darkness to unfold

And to consume the colour of my knowing;

A vain attempt to erase what has already been seen,

But I can still feel the ghost of the blade

And the blood just keeps on flowing,

It keeps on flowing.

Only it’s not me.

My body is over there!

There on the pavement!

What am I?

A reflection,

An echo?

Maybe this is my soul’s limbo?

Shit!

How will my story be told?

Any moment now

The vultures will descend

For their pound of flesh;

Pens in hands, like talons,

Scavaging with reckless abandon.

I can see it now on the news,

Like a vision

And the half masted vesseled truths

Shipped from the anchor’s puppet led tongue:

“Locals observed a group of black youths,

On the corner of Head’s Mews,

Enter into a disagreement,

Which then escalated

And resulted

In a  fatal stabbing.

Leaving the victim dead

On the concrete pavement

Near the scene of the crime.

Raising London’s death toll

From knife crime

To rise to 59.

We asked the London Mayor:

‘What has increased this surge in knife crime

Amongst black on black youths to climb?’”

I wonder, will they refrain

From mentioning my name?

Continue serving up sentences

Based on bias convictions

Because my melanin predicates

That i’m more violent towards my ‘own’ kin?

That’s how they’ll spin!

Publicising false indictments against the colour of my skin

And my name hidden behind headlines

And pictures of designer hand-bags

And erectile dysfunction adds!

Fuck me right?!

Nevermind though-

Just another lad

Mixed up in ‘gang related’ crime.

Victim 59;

A predictable faceless statistic

On a bell curve

Shaping an ambiguous graph,

To serve no purpose!

None!

“And now for the weather where you are.

How’s it looking?”

 

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.

 

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.

The angry socialist -part 1 revised draft

I walk through a cobbled town
To hear the klaxon howl the echo.
Revealing relic remnants of the old Victorian philanthropy sound,
that gave sun rise to the ideals of social responsibility,
but now a music hall hollowed out in distant memory
With Its sound system shackled
by the irons of the privatised trickle down economy,
Keeping to the beat of a one two step
Conserving the conservative dogma
Of hashtag austerity measures in check.
I wonder if there ever will be a new melody?
But nothing will ever change
whilst we all consume on our instagram selfie
And filter ourselves ‘stuffed!’
Are we missing a kind of new age Quakerism
or are we just loosing faith in our common unity,
in common people,
in common society,
in common ideas,
in common aspirations,
in common ambition,
in common revolution?
Our silent unanswered prayers
have found Faith in loosing our religion
via contactless payment on repetition.
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