Silence paralyses, or so it would seem to those with empty papers and momentary words.
A reprieve in a blink of summer, the drudgery of the United Klouds vacate.
I’ve rediscovered my world, as if a marital feud ceased with a glance of all its bounty.
Beauty, peace and a true love, I cry in refrain.
Is it so that once Damage is done it can never be un-felt, I hear a bell peel which may never un-toll, its tinnitus latching to the day
A social Construction’s a something that doesn’t exist, in nature, a bastardisation of the natural, a fire to the ways before and all anew, a plain to see
Is to Forgive to un-see? To release, the feculence flung, to apologise and tolerate, to sponge and expunge
and Repression’s the submission of reality to our mind’s nether, nevermind; as if out of sight it ceases to be; as when I look at you I cease to see me.
Nothing, it’s all a social construction. Nilhism comes second. I’m tired, Barnes says I’m fed up, but I’m not. I’m just lonely, lonely with a home. Home is where the criticism is. Through ether and Ash. I escape twice. I say I won’t… when my home is my own… I say… criticsm is infectious. That may be my addiction, I asked my best friend if I was a good bad friend, to improve… Ensuite anxious regret. I’ve justified paranoia. I’m right!
But I degress from the day, today. I find myself on my way. An unconscious decision aroused from a fuck it & go and an arriving tram.
When did I become a black writer?
Was it at birth with deviant skin
Or when I found my voice -mirroring my sight.
My poetry somewhere between Heaney & Rage (Against the Machine).
I hear the black only adjectives again today,
but I’m already well too aware
really that’s the only type of honesty there is.
A compliment bubbling through the lips of admiration.
un-tinged by the cynicism of self benefit.
Do I say thanks enough?
To those who do what I’ve come to expect.
To those who meet my assumptions, and fulfill my needs.
I wave a soon forgotten thanks
to those paused at the zebra crossing
allowing me to just catch the tram I would have just been late for.
My friends and family, bastions of support and love,
I see you,
even if my words do not reach your ears.
Perhaps I do not give enough meaningful thanks,
as I applaud my own hard work’s achievements.
But I’d be floored without your outstretched arms, your words
repairing my ego raising a coy smile.
Perhaps I shy away,
to give thanks is to admit a weakness, a vulnerability
healed by another’s words and actions,
a naked appreciation masked in a mini shame.
And so I’d like to thank you Ashley,
for all you’ve done
doing nothing special at all.
The air is voilent today,
and I reflect on the too long it’s been
since I’ve written to you;
about how my fingers trace the subtle valleys of your back.
How my eyes bat away your tangling tresses
as I whisper kisses behind your ear.
Since I’ve used far too many words to deliver a message I tell you daily.
But my live performance is never as eloquent as my literary self.
My three word admission my gun, bullet, my entire arsenal.
I worry if it is enough. Perhaps…
To offer a humble love in its raw form.
But if you wished
I’d gather the words of love from all languages,
to uniquely submit to you each day
I catch you just as you slyly slink away,
the hideously trendy homme across, next
to you – peering to our volly of glances,
His Cos demeanor cool
by his atrocious cut chinos.
The deep rumble hurtles us along
the Victoria line -London’s blue artery,
it’s horizon a convincing night’s impression.
They were green
Or perhaps hazel
Our waltzing glances stealing covert gazes, Each a
second shy of a moment.