Grounded

The horse rocks like it believes it’s on water
in the heart of the gold-tinted living room;
pink and white plastic imprinting itself onto
the explosions of brown and red and beige
patterns made of itchy scratchy wool
that mother says I should not roll on
or eat from.

The brown and red and beige smells of restless feet
rustling around the room
in anxious anticipation
of its impending departure
from the comforts of the itchy scratchy sound of static
from the chunky black box in front of me.

I think of feet on asphalt,
the blistering hot tarmac
where the planes rest
before they growl and
rip through the sky,
ready to take me far
far away
from the comforts of
home sweet home.

Human Nature

Faith shattering,
sending
rippling
effects

Through Earth
it leaves shudders
like earthquakes
in our moral bones

We pray
We cry
We turn away

From problems The World can’t fix
problems
amplified through time– sixty years
of discourse

fall Silent on
Selective Ears
too afraid
to let go of privilege.

Helpless
and oceans apart
we cannot help

We cannot sleep

Our universal heart pounds to the sound
of
angry people being angry at angry people being angry at

We Sit in our seats
so Far away, so detached from problems
Reading
about foreign wars that course through our veins
like poison
straight to the brain,
We watch as hope starts to slip away

with our race
Racing to kill itself off, racing
to blame each
other racing to Hate and Kill and kill
and Kill and kill and kill and
Stop.

Take a deep breath.

There’s still air
the morning after.

There’s Still air
too Thick to Breathe.

lungs Filled with Blood –
there’s still Air –
breathing Too Loud –
There’s StiLl air
gurglinG tHrough Mud
We Can’T IgNore The ChoKIng
screams

Borderline Passive Aggression

New;
The implication of something fresh,
Alive,
Exciting.
Your heart races at New,
Implying that what you had
Was old
i.e, stale and boring.
No more: a breath of fresh air.

New is an indication of endless possibilities,
Ones you once gave up,
A reminder that maybe what’s old was a matter of perspective.

She’s new.
And New can mean two things.

It will continue being new
Or it will wither to old.
Do you maybe have a choice?

Perhaps this new provides rush
The off beat, the suspenseful, the unknown.
Never boring
while still new.

Because shiny new beats dullness any day,
Wouldn’t you say?
Wouldn’t you say it beats the monotony?
Or maybe in your words it’d give you hope for a new, un-envisioned future. Maybe that would wake you up with a smile on your face; and you would carpe the New diem.

Maybe then.
Maybe then New will remain new.
And old will cease to exist
from the tip of your tongue
from the creases of your lips.

12 June 2016

(I don’t really know how I feel about this poem I wrote but here it goes anyway):

Two worlds collide into one-
Detonate.

Into fireworks,
celebrating the holy month
While red paints the floors.
Quietly celebrate,
We are a community of quiet.
Bang!
bang!
Second one quieter than the first,
both of me silenced.

Two of my worlds collided into one
bloodied mess.
Shuddering human bodies mopped the tiles with red
As we wash away our sins this holy month.
Hands quivering, cupped, faced up.

My two worlds don’t want to collide-
External hands don’t want to let go
of our necks
don’t want to let go
of their triggers.

Hands
held stole grieved grasp relieve

And silent prayers fill the air this holy month.
We pray for forgiveness
And we pray for hope
And we pray for peace and we pray for love.

living holograms

inside a tv,
behind the screen
i sit
and i watch
and i learn
the world
behind the scenes, through coloured lenses
i learn life in 3d

i wonder what life is like outside of tv
a world with lush greenery,
waves, feet high,
four seasons
the other side,

with romances and heartbreak,
drugs and glamour, senses
pulsating with experience
of the real world –

language down,
every kiss a step closer; sex sold
ethereal experiences, closer to culture:
materialise.

living farce is in the
sun-washed eyes of the observer;
audience, primed and seated,
inside a tv