+Just Masturbating Monkeys
What will this world have me do?
When it’s ripped off my skin,
left me standing naked in the night.
Watching monochrome moments,
In free fall
As I spin towards infinity
Rejecting a man I see only on reflection.
When all I have to show for a life spent dreaming
Are liver spot on back of hand
Black spots rampantly surfacing
When conflicted thoughts come to running once more.
A motley parade of mimicry
Behind blanket walls of tear
What will this world have me do?
When we’ve locked all hopes of solution
In that black plasma box
Adorning my bed room, adorning my heart
Swallowing down the key, whilst most bent in knee
As they take away my vanity
Pumping hard from behind
When if all it really comes down to
Is a cheapened version of sanity
Credit card solutions for greeting card holidays
Nothing more
Or these than
a 21st century one world state
Punching feed bars for pellets in suburban shopping malls
What will this world have me do?
When sometimes I think they’ve got it right
Those terrorists freedom birds,
Standing, to put up a fight
Giving us back the same hardship we gave them first
Screaming god will save us
As we burst forth our superior fighting force
And blow the skins of children playing football in the park.
When opinion is no longer counted
No one stands up
When no one starts shouting
We all just sit silent, gag mouthed in solitude
Because we simply don’t want to rock the boat
Shake the tree, say anything too allude
To our true feelings
What will this world have me do?
But write a few words down for preachers corner audiences
On a Monday, just before noon
When all the people that should be listening
Are locked up in cattle cars
Whoring their lives
So a fat men, may grows fatter
When the only advice I could give,
My unborn child right now,
Is,
Don’t shave your beard when you’re stoned
Don’t phone women you fancy, when drunk
Don’t rewind past love
And never underestimate the power of complacency.
What will this world have me do?
When everyday is a question of motivation,
Of relevant ambition
So closed to what we really want to be.
we walk, face to the floor
Listening intently to successes
rehashing other peoples fantastic experiences.
When the alternative generation
Hides in bog standard impressions,
those individual expressions,
coming from H&M with a receipt.
Or a name on your feet,
A brand stamped across your heart.
What will this world have me do?
When all I can hope is that a word or two seep in
A rhyme hits land
On a shore
So far from where we really should be
That the concept of normality is lost.
What will the world have me do?
But stop and question why.
+ Smoke stacks
It’s one of those times,
when you know all is well in the world.
All is getting comfortably to where it really should be.
Sitting on a bottom bunk
Half stoned, mind going crazy on sugar!!
Wondering what the rest of the week will hold.
Only to have those thoughts
retarded by the conflictions of cliché.
These quiet moments savoured yet held contorted,
left unanswered in the mind of many genuine fools.
As they sit on a thousand bunk bottoms, thinking in third person
Considering life,
waiting to make things return and move forward at the same time.
Waiting until then is now.
Smoke bellowing from a lonely chimney
Grey and crumbling as if to mean
Different reflections
All saying
Differing yet similar opinions.
fellow room mates
From another thousand bunk beds
Hold their secrets open handed,
confined to their own smoke stacks.
Their very own adjudged mistakes,
so colluded that relationships seam forgotten,
on the spit second…of orgasm.
Friendships and loyalty are left to fester in posed photographs.
In posed interpretations of who or how we really should be.
Acting out mimes of nobility,
on a stage left vacant by reason,
half lit and striding towards the insurrection of trust
with cotton ball mouths and winks,
we smile pointless projections of the truth,
that we are happy and just… in our actions.
Never thinking for a second,
that those actions are unfounded
What’s the point? They all think,
So anxious to look so cool,
yet not bringing ourselves to get away from those bunk beds,
miles from home.
Wondering if we should ever return home,
Can we quit this vanilla version of friendship? Return to hazy days,
Mind on automatic, heart in free fall
For here we can’t seam to stand tall,
Not independent
Just Smoke…stacked!
crumbling.
as our chests fade to bravado.
+ The inevitability of coffee
He sits
Like most mornings, alone but for a pen and a clean white page
Thinking why and how, even sometimes when.
Of what happens, when all has already happened
Evolution, revolution yet still waiting for communication
For honest fruition of rational understanding
Next,
A baby cries
Coffee cups are dropped
and bedlam ensues
In the opposite side of a coffee house
On the corner Hufeland and Esmarch strasse.
An engaging look comes his way, a wink, whisper.
Enter a dog,
enter a second time mother,
enter expressions of frustration,
on the face of a child.
an enticing leg cross comes his way,
followed by a glance
enter the past chapter he thinks and smokes,
for that avenue is happily closed
turn away, look away!
Sip your coffee!
And smirk
A head turn and a cough follows
Seeing a mirror out side,
showing a man with a guitar and a note book in hand
frustrated with the air for words just won’t come,
pouting incessantly in the mid morning sun
He soon realises that time will always move on,
people will always grow slightly older
Mothers will always give birth! Apart from when they don’t.
Coffee cups will always be dropped
Arguments always ensue
he finally sees,
in his morning cacophony
that life is no more than a procession forward
toward the inevitability of questions
to the end of coffee mornings
the outing of lies
he finally sees the world through every persons eyes
then sits to think
returning to his original thoughts
enlightened by symmetry
and cheeky female retorts.
+ Broken teeth
He sits alone in a bar
With nothing to do, bare the 30 pending nonsense’s.
His mind is vacant of all Spanish song.
His heart left vacant so long now time past.
He wonders,
“What would happen if I just stood up and made a loud noise?”
“What would happen if I just walked over to that, uber cool, bar tender and punched her squarely in the face?”
Then just sit back, and watch her spit out her teeth.
Followed by
“What would happen if my imagination just got away with me?”
Then he realised that there was no one else was around him,
He was alone on his couch,
Not in a bar at all.
The female bar tender, being a reflection in the salt shaker on the table.
Her teeth being his,
Spat out over years of self abuse.
He ponders,
“what would happen if, with gods good grace, and all things being equal. I am half the man I know me to be”
but for right now, this present history.
He’s just happy to sit in an imaginary bar,
Mulling life, in-eloquently.
