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 State Education,
Hashtag Social Housing.
And I remember
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.
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.
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
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 not to raise the final hand to close the crimson cloaked curtain.
Tell me not to raise one final blanket of violent silent breath.
Tell me not that all my light has perished into the bow of this sinking ship.
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
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.
Let us steal the night away.
via Daily Prompt: Confess
There is a woman who stares out of windows.
Her frame frail, her hands withered,
She slowly traces the lines
Reflected in the distant misty meadow;
Determined to sketch out phantom figures
And etch them onto the glass.
Her lips mimic the shapes drawn by her fingers.
Words that are mimed but no voice to confess them.
Everyday she repeats this ritual
And everyday her confession sounds no syllable.
There was a woman who stared out of windows.
Her chair sits vacant – waiting patiently for the next individual.
Living flowers I do keep presented
On thy simple stage; an alter
For mine own eyes to praise and weep
And would in thy soul be thus contented
I offer up tall arching stems; heaven’s portal
Flowering cherry blossoms in bloom on earth o’er
My mind that do shy away sweetly
Intertwined are their branching hands; cemented
Scene in nature reflected inward I capture.
Long roads I have travelled
To seek the four silent standing brothers.
Forsaking the comforts of home
In exchange for untold arduous adventures;
To peak beneath the veil
Of what may be concealed
And harness what may be revealed.
And what is there to uncover?
This question still remains
Blank on the page
Twigs break under
The weight of my heavy burden
And journey’s end
Is not without hidden dangers.
For no mortal weapons I possess
Can protect against
The will of nature.
Her white cloak drapes
This seemingly sleeping landscape
Like fine silk that moulds a curving body shape.
An inviting dream,
But for the biting breath of winter’s day,
Then hope springs as the clouds part
Shining sun’s kiss to beam
And lighten the way.
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.
Magic is a shamanistic rain dance
Heard on desert island disc albums
Found in our summer seasons.
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.