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.
Self Portraits
Poems revealing sides of myself.
Just Past Midnight
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.
What’s Different About Today
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.
…Today?
It is.
It just
is.
Untitled London Poem 18/1/17
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
Thanks
Unsolicited
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.
My admission, My love
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
my admission,
My Love.
Victoria
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
underpinned
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.
Vollies Afire
My love,
my mouth once knew your name.
far from these grand walls that part us,
thier spiteful spires casting a shadow
over the life of our former other.
From my minaret
to my domain I preach:
Prowess and accomplishments
-spitting
the cinders of burnt love.
From your tower I hear calls to prayer
To drink the wine of projected Perfection.
And with my jealousy concealed,
I no longer observe your commands.
Our social empires impose motionless taunts
our worlds locked in heated stalemate
unblinking,clocking each others move.
What tore us asunder?
My library knows well its history.
I a scholar…
of the downfall
of its date
of the blame.
Between us sand blew hot,
an arid gorge we created,
the empty wind lapping at our crumbling walls.
Within Our domain we’re but void caverns
-to a stale spite.
But Seasons turned, as droughts relief drips cool air,
And our cold war ceases.
Flags, doves snow afloat
-freed… In an air without heat.
We
no longer catapulting silence,
regaling all with single sided words,
salt the earth with propaganda;
searing hearts with volleys of words afire.
We
caress with hands sowing seeds of truce
All has been freed by time
Our conflict ended by fatigue;
-a perfunctory peace.
My former love,
I still wonder at your walls
Their shadows reaching my breast,
From what did our war arise?
I still recall
but no longer feel.
J.C. FitzDerick 